One
Macbeth
Iwalkintotherestroom at Mercury Slice and groan. The mirror is encircled with fake snow, ornaments hang from the ceiling, and strands of Christmas lights are draped over the stalls.
There’s no escaping Christmas in a small town—not even in the bathroom of the local pizzeria.
Shaking my head, I pull a tube of red lipstick from the back pocket of my jeans. Channeling my inner diva, I pop off the top and carefully slide it over my lips.
The toilet flushes and a moment later, a stall door swings open. I catch sight of the woman in the mirror—and she doesn’t look happy.
“Hiya, Mikki,” I say, waving to her in the mirror. “Nice antlers.”
I must confess, her commitment to the Christmas season is impressive. Even her Mercury Slice sweatshirt is holiday-themed, featuring a slice of pizza designed to look like a Christmas tree with pepperoni for ornaments, mozzarella for tinsel, and a banana pepper on top instead of a star.
She shakes her head, making the bells lining her reindeer headband jingle. Her eyebrows come together in a scowl, a look that is at complete odds with her festive Christmas attire. She shoves the sleeves of her sweatshirt up and leans across me to hold a hand beneath the automatic soap dispenser.
As she scrubs her hands and wrists, she continues to glare at me in the mirror. “Didn’t I tell you to stop hustling my customers, Beth?”
“I’m just using the restroom,” I say innocently.
“Please,” she scoffs. “I’ve known you forever, and you only wear lipstick when you’re conning men at the billiards table.”
She’s got me there.As a boat mechanic, I’m far more likely to have motor oil on my face than makeup. My best friend and sister-in-law, Holly, would never leave the house without a swipe or two of mascara on her lashes, but I don’t think I evenownmascara. If I do, it’s well past its expiration date and has dried up from years without use.
The extent of my beauty routine is to slap on sunscreen before I leave the house.Because skin cancer’s no joke.
I smile at my friend. “But you have the best food in town, Mikki. You wouldn’t want me to eat a greasy pool hall burger, would you?”
Her face softens, as it always does when someone compliments her restaurant. Mercury Slice is her baby. The only thing she loves more is her husband, Jared.
“Sausage calzone and a side of marinara?” she asks.
“You know it!” She knows the regular order of practically everyone in Mercury Ridge.It’s a good thing she uses her powers for good, not evil.
With a sigh, she spins toward the door. “I’ll put in your order—to go. No hustling!”
“A girl has to make a living,” I mutter.
There’s not much need for a boat mechanic in the dead of winter. But the landlord still expects the rent every month. So, I lean into the only other skill I possess. Raised by a single dad and four older brothers, I was a pool shark before I reached junior high.
When I leave the ladies room, it doesn’t take long to find my mark. He’s around my age, mid-to-late twenties, with out-of-town motorcycle club leathers. He’s average height and build, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. Despite the MC connection, he seems harmless enough. And if he tries anything, I’ve had self-defense training—also courtesy of my older brothers—and pepper spray, too.
He tells me his name is Big Georgie, and I can’t help but wonder how he got the nickname. By all outward appearances, he isn’t particularly big. As if reading my mind, he smirks and gestures to his cock.
I fake a giggle, widening my eyes.Oh, Georgie, not a chance in hell.
He tells me he’s just passing through Mercury Ridge for a few hours on his way to meet a group of bikers in Tennessee. And within a few minutes of chatting, he thinks I’m a trust fund kid with daddy’s money burning a hole in my pocket. When I ask ifhe’ll teach me how to play pool, his eyes light up and he eagerly agrees.
Standing behind me, he cups a hand around my hip, and leans me over the table to line up the shot. “Side pocket,” he says in my ear.
I suppress a shiver of revulsion. I hate this part of the hustle. Hate the feel of a strange man pressed against me.
There’s only one man I want to be this close with.
And sadly, there’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of Big Georgie getting lucky with me.
Big Georgie thrusts against me as the pool stick strikes the ball. The shot misses the side pocket by several inches.
