He walks over to her, leans down, and whispers something in her ear. Takes her by the hand and leads her to the dance floor.
She threads her fingers behind his neck, presses her hips into his.
“There she goes!” Margot whoops. She slinks down in her chair, throws a leg over Jill’s empty seat, and watches Jill as if she’s watching a movie, a sly grin creeping over her face.
The cowboy pulls Jill in closer, kisses her ear. She throws her head back and his mouth moves up and down her neck. Margot motions for the waitress; she orders another round of shots and a bucket of beer.
—
I GRAB MYcell, text Graham.
Gonna be a little later than I thought. SORRY!
He doesn’t text me back. Most likely, he’s already long asleep. It’s ten thirty.
—
“WHO’S UP FORa game of pool?” Callie rises and shuffles over to the pool tables without waiting for a reply. Tina shakes her head; she’s too transfixed by Jill’s unfolding situation on the dance floor to move, but Margot springs up and follows Callie.
My eyes are burning with smoke, and exhaustion is tugging at me. Jack wakes up early, usually by six a.m. I need to get going.
The door to Rusty’s bursts open and a group of rangy, rowdy boys files in. They all look freshly showered and are wearing the same deep navy T-shirts with a golden tiger across the chest. On the back, their shirts read,tatum tigers. Looks like the football team from the next town over.
Margot racks the pool balls and lifts her hips as she leans down to aim for the cue ball. Her throaty laugh blankets the air, and the stream of boys all turn toward her.
She acts like she doesn’t notice them, but I see a satisfied line move across her mouth, as if she were expecting them. She cracks the cue, sinks a solid red ball. Leans her pool stick against the wall and watches Callie shoot.
One of the taller boys—with sandy blond hair and ice-blue eyes—walks over to Margot and sets a quarter down on the edge of the pool table.
She ignores him, grabs her pool stick, and lines up her next shot. Sinks another ball in the side pocket, dusts the chalk off on her jeans.
“I’d like to challenge the winner of this game,” the boy says, tipping his cowboy hat to her. His friends snicker behind him. They can’t be over eighteen, but the staff of Rusty’s doesn’t seem to mind.
“If you like having your ass handed to you, then be my guest,” Margot says.
The boys laugh even louder at this. Blond Boy blushes, swigs his beer.
Tina elbows me. “See? She’s a magnet.”
Margot finishes clearing the table, Callie barely manages a point, and Margot turns to face Blond Boy.
“You rack,” she says.
He does as he’s told and Callie slumps onto a barstool near the pool table. The other boys stand along the wall, watching.
—
JILL IS STILLdancing with the cowboy—Tammy Wynette is belting about standing by your man—but she notices Margot and Blond Boy.
Blond Boy shoots, sinks two balls in.
“Woo-hoo!”
“Don’t get too cocky,” Margot says.
She lines up her shot, misses. Blond Boy shoots again, sinks a corner ball.
Margot grabs her pool stick, rubs the end of it with chalk, and drapes the top half of her body across the table. Her pearl-snap shirt floats down and I can see her black lace bra. Blond Boy edges up behind her, puts his hands on her hips. She lets him. Margot shoots, sinks a ball, spins around, and throws her hands around his neck.
