Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Excuse me.”
I follow the voice and find a pretty, blue-eyed redhead attempting to work her way off the car without much luck. I stare into the innocence of her eyes for a second longer than what’s considered polite before I scoot out of her way and apologize for blocking her. “No, I’m sorry.”
I hope removing myself from her path assists in creating an opening for her to exit, although all of my instincts direct me to do the opposite, to keep her here. After hesitating for a second, I continue my mission to find a seat and let her go. There’s nowhere to sit back here, so I decide to move to another train car. I head toward the front, hoping to find a seat up there.
I make it home with food intact and eat while flicking through the television stations. Nothing’s on, though, and I’m supposed to meet Justin in thirty. I turn the television off and get ready. A fresh shave and a change of clothes later, I grab my keys and am out the door right on time.
Walking in just past eight, I head straight to the back where Justin always reserves a table. I’m greeted with the usual round of handshakes and hollers from the regulars.
“Grab a glass, my friend. The pitcher’s over there.” Justin points at the corner shelf as I search through the rows of sticks on the wall, looking for Lynda. “Who’s the lucky lady tonight?” Justin asks.
I find my favorite pool stick and chalk the tip. “Gentlemen, behold Lynda.” I laugh, holding up the cue, knowing how they eat up the dramatics. I jokingly name the sticks after ladies I’ve spent time with.
“Now which one was Lynda again?” Bruce asks.
“I’ve got this one.” Justin steps in to explain. “Lynda was the one in those little hot pants who strolled in one evening asking if we’d seen her friend.” He makes a sad face. “Her friend stood her up, but Chuck here lent a shoulder to cry on all night—figuratively speaking.” He looks at me and asks, “Did I do her justice?”
I don’t like to brag about my dates, but he was a witness and loves to boast, even if it’s for me. “We went out a few times until—”
“She went nuts over the boy,” Bruce spews out. “I remember now. Dark hair, hot body, and big boobs.”
“Well, to be clear, she didn’t go nuts over me. She was already deemed clinically insane before we met.” I correct his take on the situation, ignoring the rest.
I walk back over to the wall and grab any old stick, not quite feeling the same desire to use Lucky Lynda anymore. Was I seriously that much of a pig back then? Some of my old habits tagged along into my new life but have since been kicked to the curb.
“You can break,” Bruce announces. Justin grabs a stool to watch our game.
After a few pitchers, Bruce takes off, and Justin stands, ready to leave. “Let’s go. A bar around the corner gets some good-looking girls in there.” I follow without question. I’m tired of playing pool anyway.
We walk in, and I search to figure out the vibe in here. It’s part professionals still partying after happy hour and part locals. I dig the relaxed atmosphere. I buy the first round and pay more for those two whiskeys than three pitchers of beer cost at the pool hall.
Justin is already working his charms on two women. Not interested in playing the get-to-know-you-game yet, I hand him his drink and return to the bar to chill. He seems to be doing well for this early in the evening. Usually it takes a few drinks and several hours mixed with a hint of desperation for a girl to give my most obnoxious buddy this much attention.
Bored with watching Justin, I’ve been staring into my drink now for a while. I look out and survey the crowd that’s changed in the last hour. The clubbers, the nighttime partiers, have arrived.
A red dress catches my eye, and I notice, along with half the men in the bar, the pretty owner wearing it—dark hair, dark eyes, and a bright smile. She’s quite stunning. I’ve encountered her type too many times to recall. I’ve dubbed them the “Unapproachable Approachable.” She’s wearing red to get the attention, but she’s looking, too. If a man she’s not interested in comes up to her, it’s a quick rejection. But if a man she’s eyeing comes over to talk, she welcomes him. She’s looking for a husband, but it will end up more like a match made in one-night-stand heaven.
Yeah, she’s stunning, all right, but not my type.
The girl with her, the one in black, not only catches my attention but holds it. She’s pretty and cute at the same time—familiar. A memory flashes as I watch her talking with her friend. It can’t be. Can it? Sitting up a little straighter, I’m shocked. This is quite the coincidence. I think she’s the hot little redhead from the subway this afternoon. She’s very attractive, even more so than I thought on the train. I wonder if she lives in the area, if this is her hangout. She exited the subway not too far from here, so it could be.