Perfecting the Odds

Maryland, 2008

             
“
Great
idea? This is your shittiest idea yet, Eve,” Karis Bennett said to the tiny might of a lawyer standing in the doorway of Robert’s room. Frickin’
depraved
is more like it.

“You’ve been at this hospital for two weeks straight, not counting all the stays over the last few months.
You need to get out of here for a few hours.”

“
Drop it,” Karis grated as she gave a reassuring squeeze to Robert’s cold hand beneath the sheets. It wasn’t as if he could hear Eve’s debauched plan. Riddled with countless tubes jutting from his arms, mouth, and nose, the figure that had once been a strong, virile man had literally shriveled into a miniature, pallid version of itself. But, hell, if Robert could respond, he’d probably tell her to go too.  Just the air in his hospital room…
god
, the air was so hygienic, burning her nostrils, gagging every dry swallow. And the rhythm of beeping machines. And the nurses shuffling in those ugly white shoes. And the gruff throat-clearing before moot updates about his condition: ‘he looks better today. Much more color in his face, don’t you think,’ they would chirp. Karis would just nod while her inner voice screamed
, no, you optimistic bastards, he looks like he’s dying because he is, in fact, dying
.  On really bad days she found herself crafting nuggets of witty cynicism:
Less gray and more of a taupe, I think.…why, yes, the cancer seems to be killing him more slowly today…boy, if I had just an ounce of energy, and he had a few more white blood cells, mmm, the things I’d do to him
.  

Fucking optimists.
Most were just plain liars. All were damn annoying.

So a
ll of that--every smell, every sound, every lie—were guilty fucking reminders, of why she was imprisoned to that chair for twelve hours every single day, and why the hell she needed to escape. But how selfish was that? What kind of wife needed a break from her dying husband?

              “It’s just not…right,” Karis retorted in a less-than-convincing tone. Eve crossed her arms and launched sapphire daggers into Karis’s weak resolve. Karis took one look at those blue eyes and…yep, here it comes. Eve leaned a shoulder against the door frame, her fierce expression slowly smoothed to impassivity.

“
You need a fucking break. He’ll
still
be dying tomorrow morning.” Karis squeezed her eyes shut. Bitch. If anyone else had uttered those words, Karis would have given a tongue-lashing leaving only a carcass of guilt with no chance of redemption. But Evelyn Quinn wasn’t just anyone. No, Eve kept her venom hidden beneath Pantene-perfect blonde hair, coveted curves, and the face of a goddess. She was the oleander personified. One unsolicited comment, and men and women alike found themselves helpless against the poison released as she saw fit. Simply put, Eve was pretty bitch with shrewd intellect. But above all, Eve was Karis’s constant—her best friend—and not the kind of best friend easily shrunk down to a lazy acronym either. Eve played nearly every female role in Karis’s life: the sister she never had, the mother after Karis’s had passed, the birth partner during Robert’s deployments, and the counselor when learning of his cancer.

And
, damn it to hell
, Eve was right. She felt her shoulders slump in surrender.

“The cab will be here in thirty minutes. Shower now.
” Eve wrinkled her nose before reaching for the toiletry bag in the chair beside her. “On second thought,take two shower
s
. Yo
u
look like twice-baked shit and smell worse.”

R
age and relief whirled in Karis’s head for a moment. She freed the stale air in her lungs and pressed a kiss to Robert’s forehead.
You’ll be back in the morning
, her subconscious placated. Turning toward Eve, Karis narrowed her eyes, but knew the glimmer of appreciation belied the anger. Eve lifted her chin. Karis ripped the bag of clothing and toiletries from her hand and headed toward the room’s private shower.

***

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me!
”
Her voice briefly rolled around in Michael’s head before the raspy undertones peaked his interest and sent his blood rushing southward. He narrowed in on the clamorous pair of feminine silhouettes lingering within the billowy smoke atop the narrow staircase of the Underground Tavern.

“I mean, what sort of careless
idiot
--,” she continued with that sultry voice, prompting another surprising cocktwitch against the zipper of his jeans. Slender hands shot out next, frantically waving in front of her face. A nude patent-leather shoe poked out next, maneuvering itself onto the next step.

“Seriously.
Do you want my children to end up wards of state? Frickin’ death stairs, Eve!” He chuckled quietly at the muttering mystery. They had at least one thing in common already. The fucking moron who decided a basement tavern was clever didn’t account for how the inebriated masses would climb the stairs without injuring themselves
.
Th
e
Underground Tavern, a.k.a The Shittiest Drinking Establishment north of Baltimore City, shouldered an old beer refinery on the east and a series of three-story apartment buildings to the west. Its façade displayed “ye ol'” embellishments, but the place lacked charm, tradition, or architectural appeal. Case in point: the “death stairs.”

Hoping to pilfer glimpses of
her God-I-hope-so curvy figure, Michael leaned forward on his usual stool at the corner of the bar and waited. And then, almost numinously, the smoke pulled behind her, the ambiguous lines of her figure became distinct. She was revealed.

Sweet Jesus
.

Fearing the smoke may steal her again, Michael mentally logged her gorgeous figure. M
ade-for-rough-sex hips. Ample breasts barely concealed beneath a black blouse dipping low like an arrow of invitation. Long, denim-covered legs. Okay, so they had two things in common. She had long legs, and he happened to love fucking a woman with long legs, especially when they locked around his waist as he drove into her hard and fast then slow and shallow. Hell, both felt fucking fantastic. Her eyes trained on the next step, her pert little mouth curling as she continued to spout indescribables. True, she was gorgeous, but more importantly, how she challenged those stairs like she was toe-to-toe with her nemesis had his heart racing in his chest. 

L
ifting his drink slowly, Michael took another sip of the cool, crisp liquid, hoping to settle the heat coursing through him now. Yes, the woman was what wet dreams were made of, but meeting women in bars was a nauseating amalgamation of three things: superficial attraction, lackluster fucking, and inevitably
more
. But he knew fucking her would be heaven. Problem was,
more
circled around this little siren as if it were her own fucking force field. Still, Michael was hard as granite for the woman he hadn’t even talked to yet and, damn it, actually wanted to. Well, that just scared him shitless. Only one solution. He would just drink her right the hell out of his mind, numbing the rabid beast trying to escape through the leg of his pants.

U
seless, especially if she continued to gnaw her lower lip as if it would steady her feet, mindfucking an image of her plump lips around his throbbing cock. Michael sighed and scrubbed his hands down his face. How long had it been? A few days, maybe a week?
Didn’t I fuck Janie or Jamie, whatever the hell her name was, like three days ago?
Apparently, too damn long… because in less than three minutes, this woman managed to ruthlessly taunt him into a throbbing knot of blue-ball proportions by walking down a few goddamn steps.

J
ust as he brought the glass to his mouth again, Scott McCann nudged his arm.

“
Damn it, McCann” he cursed his best friend of more than seventeen years. Michael grabbed his napkin to blot the vodka drops from his chin and shook his head.

Ignoring him,
Scott nodded toward the top of the stairs. “Look at that
fine
piece of ass, Finn.”

Michael
smirked. “I haven’t seen her ass yet.”

“
The one in the back, you miserable bastard. Man, I’d love to bend her over this bar tonight,” Scott groaned.

Michael rolled his eyes
and heaved a sigh as he placed his now half-empty drink on the bar. McCann loved this place, and after countless years, Michael couldn’t shake the need to pay him back for his camaraderie and loyalty during the hardest times in his life.  Sacrifices of both Scott’s time and career were priceless, and the dickhead knew it, too.  So if reparations included coming to this shithole, then Michael could certainly sack it up and deal with it.

Michael skimmed over Scott’s choice.
Predictable. His choices were usually petite, pretty, curvaceous, and soon outted as dumb as a rock. The Ass had most of Scott’s criteria covered; however, she had an undeniable aura of “back-the-fuck-off,” which prompted Michael’s smirk. Rule #1 in McCann-land: Women came to him. Always. And with his upfront, “I’m-gonna-fuck-you-then-leave-you” line, he had them begging for a quick screw. Maybe tonight McCann would finally have to break his ironclad rule.

Michael followed tradition
and a chance for distraction. “You’d bend her over?”

“
Damn straight, wouldn’t you?” he asked, his eyes locked on his Ass. Michael shrugged and placed his elbows back on the bar top.

“Too short. I’d be bending over more often than she would be.”

“T
he tiny ones are perfect for a good ol’ wall bang, though,” McCann added with a smirk.

Michael tilted his head.
“Good point.”

S
cott’s brows rose. “You’ve got to admit they don’t belong here. They’re…I don’t know--.”

“Different,” Michael finished
, and they both nodded slowly in agreement, their eyes drawn to the women again.

“
Mmm, the things I would do...” Scott’s detailed account of the fifty ways he’d fuck her faded as Michael’s gaze returned to his tall bit of temptation. Indeed. Way too…
different
.

S
he wrinkled her nose, directing a lethal glare at the bouncer taking his time checking each ID. Damn, she had the most perfect nose he’d ever seen. Small and slightly upturned, it created perfect symmetry with her other features. He shook his head in self-disgust just as her hand dropped from the wall and made the final step onto sticky floor of the bar. Inhaling deeply, she released the air and the tension from that near-death decent. Now seeing her standing at floor level, he guessed she was just about 5’10” or so. Perfect. His 6’2” frame was ideal to look down her cute little nose, and he wouldn’t have to fold himself in half to kiss her.

She handed her ID to the bouncer
and blushed at his response before mouthing a thank you. The man’s exaggerated wink spurred a low growl from Michael.

Okay,
enough. His throbbing dick and
that
possessive reaction nearly had him bolting for the exit. He lifted his gaze toward the ceiling in prayer, maybe a wish…who the hell knew.  It was a silent plea to settle his need to throw her over his shoulder Neanderthal-style and tie her to his bed for the night, but more so his need to kick any guy’s ass who made her blush like that again.

Jealousy
is for pansies, Finn,
his inner voice murmured his mantra. True, but he’d always been possessive of what his, may it be belongings or loved ones. That voracity stemmed more from primal instinct to protect than distrust.  Not jealously, dammit; he wanted her. Badly.  To run his fingers down her curves and revel in the softness of her skin, but more so, to know what made her beg
him
to touch her. Would she be aggressive or timid in bed? Moan or sigh when she got all worked up? Growl or scream when she came all over his dick? Should he deny himself? Let’s be fucking real. Men had two heads that made decisions. Currently, his neglected cock was all but holding up a
You better the fuck not deny that
sign and calling him a little bitch. But his mind, the skilled Marine turned highly-educated professor, that cockblocking bastard was chanting about a ball-and-chain and two-point-four kids
.