Tiebreaker Page 7

  His girlfriend, I’m assuming. She’s living in his house so she must be. I guess she works for him too. Super uncool but whatever. Add unprofessional to the long list of his fine attributes.

  She pats his chest and it suddenly feels like the air in my lungs is being held hostage. Bebe grabs my arm and we scoot into a booth recently vacated by a bunch of OU students. A cocktail waitress, young and pretty, wipes the table down and asks us what we want to drink.

  My eyes return to Noah and find him talking to his girlfriend. I see the look on his face, the absolute focus with which he watches her, and my mood executes a perfect swan dive into the burning pits of hell. Because I know that look. For years I owned that look. It’s the same way he used to look at me.

  “Tequila,” I bark, slapping my palm on the wood table. I need to drown out every bad thought I’m having and I’m willing to do whatever it takes. “We’ll start with two shots of your best dang tequila and two Dos Equis, please.”

  “How about Patron?” the waitress suggests with a conspiratorial smile.

  “Is it tequila?”

  “Yep.” Her expression says she’s happy to play accomplice to this plan which has major disaster scribbled all over it.

  “Then bring us the Patron.”

  My sister looks confused. “You don’t drink, Mare. And you definitely don’t drink tequila.”

  She’s right, but all bets are off tonight. Figures that the one night I want to throw caution to the wind would be the night Bebe grabs her pearls.

  “I do tonight.”

  * * *

  Noah

  “Wooohoooo. Fis is my jaaaam! They’re playin’ my jam, Beebs!!”

  Loud enough to be heard over the live music, Maren’s shout reaches me at the bar. A deep chuckle comes from my right. My gaze slides there. Standing behind the bar, Knox presses his lips together, curtailing the full-blown laughter I see wanting to come out of him.

  “Laugh it up, dickhead.”

  He refills my glass with club soda and slides it down to me. “That her?” he inquires a bit too innocently.

  I drag a hand over my beard and sigh. “That’s her.”

  “I can see the appeal.” Knox hides a smirk down and away as he wipes the copper-topped bar.

  “No, you can’t, motherfucker, and don’t even try.”

  This time he outright laughs. “You gonna go get her off the table or should I?”

  Knox looks like one mean sonovabitch, one of the reasons he always works the busiest nights. At six-seven, tats up his neck, and piercings everywhere no one’s gonna start trouble with him behind the bar. He has plenty of experience peeling drunk women off bars and tabletops around here. I draw the line at having him clean up my personal messes though.

  Maren doesn’t even drink. I don’t want to believe things have changed that much. That would imply I really don’t know her anymore. That we are the strangers we once vowed never to become.

  I held off, thinking if I went over there she was going to pick the fight I know she’s spoiling to have. I watched her throw back four shots telling myself she’s gonna stop any minute now. That was three hours go. Big fucking mistake. Looks like I’m full of them lately. Especially when it comes to the woman standing on the table.

  I’ve written about a million versions in my head of how it would go when she finally came back, and none of them looked even remotely like this. Back at the house, I saw the indifference on her face, telling me she wouldn’t waste her time on a loser like me and something within me snapped.

  That something took over my mouth and before I knew what I was doing, I was saying shit just to get a rise out of her ’cause one thing is for damn sure, I’d rather endure her wrath than have her look at me like I don’t rate higher than a goddamn weevil.

  “I’ll do it.” I push off the bar. “I’m takin’ her home. Tell Jana to stay on the floor and keep a close eye on things.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Halfway there I bump into Vicky, their waitress. “Close out their bill and put it on my tab.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “And, Vic, add twenty for yourself.”

  She looks over her shoulder. “Thanks, Mr. Callahan.”

  Mr. Callahan. Every time one of my employees calls me that it makes me think of my father. They say time cures all. What a crock of horseshit that is. Missing someone you love doesn’t come with an expiration date. Case in point, Maren.

  By the time I make my way through the crowd surrounding her table, things have gone from bad to worse.

  “Can I get a Haaaallelujaaah, can I get an Amen,” she sings off-key, waving her hands in the air, shaking her ass.

  I press a finger to my ear, teeth grinding when she hits a particularly bad note. She always did have a god awful singing voice.

  A quick glance around tells me the asshole she’s dating hasn’t shown up. He wasn’t at the house earlier either so I’m guessing he must not have made the trip. I don’t allow the thought to sneak in, that maybe they broke up, that maybe for the first time in a decade I have a chance to repair this tear between us. I can’t afford to get my hopes up again.

  More camera flashes go off. There’s gonna be video of this too no doubt. Luckily lights are dim in the bar. Still, I gotta put a stop to it before she winds up on TMZ or worse, the evening news.

  “I loooove Maren Morris! Woooohooo! You, over there––” She stops dancing and points to some dude in the crowd who’s watching this spectacle with a hungry grin. Little does he know he’s a heartbeat away from having it knocked off his face. “Come dance wif me, darlin’!!”

  Not if I send him to the morgue first.

  I catch Annabelle’s eyes. She shakes her head at me, and mouths, “About time.”

  “Alright, folks, show’s over.” The people that know me disperse immediately, the ones that don’t I stare into leaving.

  At the table, I hold out a hand, motioning her down. She stops dancing, slams her hands on her hips, and glares.

  It reminds me of when we were kids, how she used to do that when she was mad, and it pulls a smile out of me I didn’t have to give. Then again, that was always her gift.

  “You,” drawls the beautiful, angry woman glaring down at me.

  Fuck me, I didn’t think she could get any more gorgeous but I was wrong. She looks like an enraged Nordic goddess. One I’d love to fall to my knees and worship. Even though it looks like she’d love nothing more than to kick my front teeth in.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Come on down,” I tell her with my hand hanging in the air. “You’re done.”

  “You’re a baaad man,” she pushes out through clenched teeth.

  “Are you comin’ down, or am I comin’ to get you?”

  “I’d like to see––” She hiccups, makes a face like something’s about to come up a lot faster than it went down. “––see you try.”

  My gaze cuts to Annabelle. Drumming her fingers on the tabletop, she looks like she’s had enough of babysitting her older sister.

  “You drive here?” I have to ask because the one standing on the table sure isn’t.

  “No.”

  “Get your stuff. I’m taking you home.”

  “What about the bill?”

  “Took care of it.”

  Grabbing her purse, Annabelle scoots out of the booth. “Thank the Lord,” I’m pretty sure I hear her mumble.

  “Maren, I’m only gonna tell you one more time. You’re wearing heels. You already have one broken wrist. You planning on breaking something else tonight?”

  “You can’t give me orders! You’re nuffin to me! I mean, nothin’. Whatever, you know what I mean.” She pats her cheeks. “Gosh, I can’t feel my face.”

  That one hurt. I’m man enough to admit that it hurt.

  “I wanna dance and sing! I can’t feel my face when I’m wif youuu, but I liiike it––” She cocks her head back and almost loses her balance.

  “That’s it.”

 
Moving quickly, I grab her behind the knees and throw her over my shoulder. Shrieking and flailing, she fights me. I may be 6’3” but Maren is not a small woman and packing a lot of muscle. I clamp down harder on her thighs so she can’t kick me in the nuts like she’s trying to do.

  “Put me dooowwwn!”

  “Quit it, or I’ll drop you on your head.”

  The logjam of bodies parts to make room for us as I carry her all the way out the front of the building. The guys working the door get a real show, watching her pound on my ass with her good hand.

  “Cocksuuucker! Put me down!”

  “Got a live one there, boss,” one of them says. The rest chuckle.

  “Looks that way,” I tell them as I stride out the door with my hands full. “You hit me one more time, Maren, and I’m gonna spank your ass.”

  “Don’t you dare! Ugh, I’m gonna upchuck.”

  I slap her ass twice and she screams. “Don’t you dare,” I warn her. My face breaks in two with a smile that refuses to stay down. I’m getting way too much pleasure from holding her like this.

  “Can y’all save the Fifty Shades cosplay for later?” Annabelle announces from somewhere behind me.

  “Where’s my truck?”

  “Over there.” Annabelle points to my baby parked at the edge of the lot.

  “Your truck?” my unwilling passenger shrieks.

  “Whose did you think it was, Rowdy’s?”

  Dead silence is all I get in return. At least that shut her up. Annabelle hits the alarm and unlocks it.

  “I’m gonna put you on your feet, Mare. Do not do anything stupid.” When I don’t get another verbal ass kicking, I do just that.

  Swaying, Maren grips my bicep for leverage and I wrap my arm around her waist to steady her. She falls against me, my chest bearing the full brunt of her dead weight and my grip tightens.

  She looks up at me through her lashes and I just about come undone. So much anger in those dark green eyes of hers. I didn’t anticipate her still being this mad at me. Hurt? Yes. Distrustful? Certainly. But not this mad.

  “You okay, winner?” I murmur. Her face inches from mine, the temptation to kiss her is almost too much. And I would if I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d end up with a black eye to show for it.

  “Winner?” Eyes narrowed, she raises her palm to my face. “You don’t get to call me vat.” I chuckle. Her eyes lose their spark, going flat, and my amusement fades. Her indifference worries me more than her anger. “You don’t get to call me anyfing ’cept someone you used to know.”

  I’ll do anything to keep the fire burning because as long as she’s mad I know I still have a chance. Once that’s gone…

  “Baby, I’ll call you anything I want.”

  “You don’t get to call me that eifer!” She pushes against my chest but I keep a steady hold on her. “Asshole!”

  “As entertaining as y’all are, I’d like to get home before this show turns X-rated, or somebody gets dead.”

  Annabelle opens the passenger side door and holds it open for me. I push Maren toward the cab of the truck, to put her inside, and she swats at my hands.

  “I can do it myself.”

  “You can barely stand.” I shove her onto the bench seat and Annabelle gets in after her. With the door shut, I round the truck, slide into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. The truck roars alive then settles into a low purr.

  “Jesus, Noah. I thought you’d cut her off quicker,” Annabelle scolds, sounding more than a little irritated with me.

  I look over to find Maren’s head tipped back on the headrest, her eyes closed. “She’s a big girl.”

  Annabelle shakes her head. “You two give me a headache.”

  By the time I pull up to the Murphy house, Maren’s asleep.

  “You got this?” Bebe asks, tipping her head at her sister. I nod and she slips out of the truck. I watch her make her way to the front door. “Thanks,” Annabelle throws over her shoulder.

  “Nothing to thank me for.”

  She gives me a look that says I should know what she means even though I haven’t a clue. Then she unlocks the door and steps inside.

  A mumble comes from the sleeping woman to my right. I pull a U-turn and head for Rowdy’s house. Her head falls onto my shoulder and she snuggles closer, wrapping her hand around my bicep.

  “So mad at you.” It’s low but distinct––and a punch to the gut. I curl my left hand around her jaw and stroke, push the hair that has fallen over her face aside.

  “I know, baby. I know.”

  A minute later I’m parking in her driveway.

  Chapter Eight

  Maren

  Why is a car parked on my head? I try to lift it. Try is the operative word because I can barely move a pinky, let alone my head. Add the ache behind my eyeballs––like they’re being pushed out from within––and you’ve got solid evidence that something went seriously squirrelly last night.

  The AC is off, the air stale. It finally clicks on and I send up a silent thank you to the AC gods for this small kindness. With the blankets drawn up to my nose, I crack an eye open then the other. As soon as I smack my lips together, I’m punished by the nasty tang of morning-after tequila now known to me as the devil’s sauce with a chaser of…tastes like vomit. I have a feeling I deserve it too.

  It takes me a minute to rewind to the prior night. And as pieces of it come back a little at a time, I huddle deeper under the covers in shame.

  Noah driving me home. Noah carrying me inside and up the stairs. Holding my hair as I puked everything up. Tucking me into bed. The shame shifts from embarrassment, to despair, to some heavy-duty self-loathing.

  My eyes dart to the other side of the bed. The unmistakable shape of a body is pressed into the comforter so there’s no question he slept here. My stomach starts to churn nervously and it has nothing to do with tequila. God help me if I’m not wearing any clothing.

  I lift the sheet slowly, very slowly in fear of what I might find. Dear God, please let there be clothing. And when I find I’m still wearing them the breath I’m holding hisses out.

  My phone rings, bouncing on the bedside table. I answer without checking to see who’s calling.

  “Have you seen TMZ?” a thickly accented Russian demands. No preamble necessary is Katya’s personal style, one I appreciate.

  “No.” Now or ever, I want to add but don’t. I can tell she’s already incensed and I learned a long time ago not to poke the Russian bear.

  “There is video of Maren Murphy dancing and singing very badly.”

  She pauses, most likely waiting for an explanation I don’t have. “Are you looking for me to apologize for the bad singing, or the video?”

  “Both.”

  “I had a little too much fun. You know I never do this. It won’t happen again.” The headache I’m currently suffering makes that an absolutely sincere statement. I sit up in bed and my stomach has something to say about it too.

  “Do I need to have talk about endorsements?”

  Everybody’s Darling, Maren Murphy: The WTA’s Newest Sensation.

  That was the headline of the article that launched my career. They slapped me with the label at twenty-two when I upset the number two seed at the Australian Open. I went on to play in the finals, and although I lost the tournament, the name stuck.

  At first I didn’t mind it. It was fine, I guess. In a world filled with celebrities behaving badly, it certainly helped me land some sweet endorsement deals. My parents aren’t wealthy. Before I turned pro my grandfather paid for everything, otherwise I would’ve been forced to quit.

  It takes more than skill and timing to succeed in this sport. It takes a lot of money and the endorsements went a long way for me to be able to afford it. Over the years, however, it has turned into the bane of my existence.

  Someone talks shit on the court? I answer with my trademark smile.

  Some troll on social media calls me a no-talent Barbie doll that deserves to be
run over by a car and catch MERSA on her face? I’m so grateful for all the support I receive is my stamped reply.

  Some ho writes in the comments section of an article that I’m really a dike and Oliver is my merkin? Yeah, I didn’t know what that was either, had to look it up. I sit on my hands and do not respond.

  “Never respond to comments,” were practically the first words Katya ever spoke to me when we met. “Katya Surkovska. I want to represent you. Never respond to nasty comment.”

  Do you have any idea how hard that is day in and day out? And I can’t shut my social media accounts down. They’re the life blood of sports endorsements.

  People want someone they can root for. Someone who inspires them. Unfortunately they love to witness a fall from grace even more. And that’s why Katya is so protective of me. I can’t fault her for caring.

  “No,” I grumble like a five-year-old. Katya has a knack for making me feel like a child.

  My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen. “Katya, I have to call you back. It’s Oliver. I promise, no more videos.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you all night, Maren!” I hear as soon as I switch over the call.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” My pounding head reminds me of how sorry I really am.

  After his third voicemail last night I switched my phone to vibrate. Which came after I’d texted him that I was busy with family stuff. “I…this place gets me wired and I needed to blow off some steam.”

  “Is that what you call getting wasted and making a complete fool of yourself? Have you seen the TMZ clip?”

  What the…

  I’m suddenly, irritably awake. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Do you want to wind up another Jennifer Capriati?”

  Capriati won plenty after her little meltdown. She never did win the US Open Women’s Singles however.

  “Are you done with the inquisition? Because I’d like to take a shower.”