Page 76 of Go Back to December

Jesus Rex Dooley

I blink. “Oh, my God.”

“That’s what it says.”

A giggle rises from my throat. “I have so many questions.”

“Answers are a separate negotiation.” He snatches the card. “Can we fucking play already?”

I saunter back to the table, and because I have to share this news with someone, as I walk by Baz, I mouth, Jesus Rex.

His grin morphs into that genuine white lightning that twists my heart, and I am distracted.

“Melody,” Dooley warns.

It takes one round for me to figure out Dooley’s operation. A scheme he and Baz must have perfected on thousands of unsuspecting victims. With the coordination of an elite motor racing team, Dooley and Baz draft their plays so that only Alicia’s shots and my shots sink the balls into pockets.

By the second round, I’ve deciphered that Dooley and Baz can also position where Alicia and I must stand to pot our balls. Alicia is always across from Baz.

And I’m always next to him.

Dooley carries the lion’s share of the conversation, which centers mostly on the game. Baz contributes polite observations and a Sphinx smile when Alicia pockets a ball. She’s holding her own, thanks to Dooley and Baz’s machinations, and she exudes an icy sort of confidence that reminds me too much of Baz’s Bad Bastard side.

As I step back to evaluate the angle of my next shot, something tickles the back of my tights. Behind my knee, where the fabric tucks into my boots, there’s a gentle prodding.

Like a finger tracing the edge where my leg meets the leather.

I freeze. Either this hasn’t happened—and my looking back at Baz like he has horns sprouting from his head would be strange—or it has happened, and if I look at him, I can’t control what occurs next.

But I’m dead sure that Alicia wouldn’t like it.

Dooley’s saying something flirty to her, and Luiza’s attention fixes on her phone, so no one else has noticed me stuck like a mammoth in a tar pit.

The touch dances across my leg again, stoking and soothing simultaneously.

I stumble to the table, shoot sloppily, and the ball misses the pocket by a mile.

“Don’t worry, MelJo.” Dooley makes a big show of stretching his broad shoulders. “I got this.”

As he prowls around the table, he draws everyone’s attention from my haphazard retreat.

The moment I stagger back, Baz’s maddening caress resumes.

His hand moves higher up the back of my thigh. His strokes are quick and light, then long and languid. A momentary pause makes me shiver, and when his warm touch returns, I can’t stop myself from leaning into him.

No one else can observe what’s going on, particularly Luiza, who’s fuming at the fact that Alicia keeps trying to usurp Baz’s full attention with quick quips and her debutante smile.

I don’t trust myself to turn toward him while his fingers continue their delicious assault, that teasing pressure. Not knowing if or when he’ll stop touching me makes every nerve in my body stand at attention. It’s torture to grip my cue, to keep my hands to myself. I can’t decipher whether these caresses are his way of trying to assure me that there's nothing going on with Alicia. Or if I’m caught in some game they’re playing with each other.

As long as the hot brush of his fingers continues, I don’t want to find out.

Alicia smiles at Baz. “Winning shot.”

“Go for it,” he replies, a bit roughly.

Alicia shoots and misses.

She slips back from the table awkwardly, forcing the server cutting behind her to stumble and knock into my shoulder.