Hot Shot (Last Shot), page 1
HOT SHOT
A LAST SHOT NOVEL
KELLY JAMIESON
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Kelly Jamieson
Second Edition 2023
Cover by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews
CONTENTS
1. Carrie
2. Marco
3. Carrie
4. Marco
5. Carrie
6. Carrie
7. Marco
8. Carrie
9. Marco
10. Carrie
11. Marco
12. Carrie
13. Marco
14. Marco
15. Marco
16. Marco
17. Carrie
18. Carrie
19. Carrie
20. Carrie
21. Marco
22. Carrie
23. Marco
Epilogue
Conquistadors’ Drink Recipes
Other Books by Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
1
CARRIE
“Why did you make me come to the bar at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday morning?”
Marco scowls at me, sitting on a tall stool at the bar at Conquistadors Tequila Bar. The bar he owns, which is closed and empty at this hour. He’s wearing a pair of well-worn jeans that sit low on his hips and a blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a cup of coffee sits near his elbow. “It’s a secret. We need to do this when Beck’s not around.”
This is about Beck?
I frown at the mention of Marco’s friend and business partner, who is now engaged to my best friend, Hayden. Hayden and Beck met here at Conquistadors the night Hayden and I came to a tequila-tasting event. That was also the night I met Marco. Unfortunately. The man is so annoying. He’s just so . . . stodgy. Unless he’s talking about tequila. Then he gets a little more fun. Also, he’s rude. He’s always mocking me.
“Secret.” I purse my lips. “Do you plan to enlighten me?”
He pauses, his eyes moving over my face.
What? Do I have something gross hanging out of my nose? I resist the urge to lift a hand and check.
“Of course,” he finally says, gesturing to the stool next to him. “Have a seat.”
“How long is this going to take?”
His jaw tightens.
I climb onto the stool with a huff and set my purse on the bar. “You know, there’s this thing called email. Or a phone, which you can use to text or call. If you wanted to tell me about something, all of those communication methods are quick and private, and I could have gotten another hour of sleep.”
Marco sighs. “Would you stop being such a pain in the ass? We’re trying to do something nice here.”
I grit my teeth. “Pain in the ass? Really? Well, you can just kiss my ass.”
“It would be my pleasure, belleza, as you have a very fine ass.” He gives me a brief wink along with that smile that pops cute dimples into his cheeks. Ugh.
“You’ve never seen my ass. And you never will.”
“I’ve never seen your naked ass,” he corrects. “I have seen you wearing tight jeans, however. And I did see a picture of your ass—in a tiny bikini bottom—and I maintain my claim that it is sweet.”
Oh yeah. That would be one of the ads I did for OC Swimsuits. I repress a growl of frustration. “Oh my God. I can’t believe we’re talking about my ass.”
“You’re the one who invited me to kiss it, Supermodel.”
“I’m not a supermodel,” I mutter.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
I’d kill for caffeine. My teeth grind even more. “Sure. Thanks,” I say grudgingly.
He slides off the stool and strolls around behind the bar, his stride long legged and confident, his shoulders broad, hips narrow. I can’t stop my gaze from dropping to his ass, which is . . . I close my eyes. No. I’m not checking out his ass.
He reaches for a mug under the bar, and the muscles and tendons in his lean forearm flex as he pours from the pot of coffee. He pushes it across the bar toward me. “Cream? Milk? Sugar?”
“A little milk, please.”
He surprises me by opening a fridge and removing a carton, rather than giving me a little plastic container. He does a quick pour. “White enough?”
“Yes.” It’s perfect. I pick up the spoon he lays beside the mug and give it a stir. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He returns to the stool next to me, sitting with one foot on a rung, knee bent, the other foot on the floor in a relaxed, masculine pose. “Now . . . the reason I asked you to come here is to see if you’ll help plan an engagement party for Hayden and Beck.”
I blink at him. “An engagement party?”
“Yes.” He reaches out and swivels a laptop computer on the polished wood bar. “I found this site called The Knot. They tell you everything about weddings and engagements.”
“That’s where you got the idea to host an engagement party for Hayden and Beck?”
“Yeah. See, it says here usually engagement parties are hosted by the bride’s parents. But Hayden’s parents are gone, and I don’t think her Aunt Gina and Uncle Colin are up to it, since Gina had her fall. Apparently she still isn’t as mobile as she used to be.”
My heart thaws minutely. “True.”
“The groom’s parents could also do it, but . . . well, Beck and his folks aren’t exactly close.”
I nod, sadly aware of that fact, too.
“So I thought their closest friends should do it. Namely, us.”
I sense the distaste in his tone of voice. Too bad we hate each other.
Okay that’s not strictly true. Marco annoys me. He more often than not wears a brooding scowl, although he manages to turn on the charm around customers in the bar. He clearly regards me as an airheaded blond bimbo, flirting with me but also mansplaining things to me that make me grit my teeth. Lately he seems even moodier than usual.
Plan a party with him? God, I’d rather pose naked for a billboard on the 405.
But Hayden is my best friend. And Beck makes Hayden happy. And dammit, it’s kind of cute how Marco looked up this wedding website, and it’s actually sort of thoughtful that he wants to plan a party to help our friends celebrate their engagement. Actually, it’s something I should have thought of. Which annoys me even more.
“We’re thinking of Sunday, August 6,” he continues. “We can do it here. Close down the bar for the evening.”
That does sound like a fun idea.
“We need some help from you to plan the guest list,” he says. “Obviously, we’ll invite Hayden’s aunt and uncle. But who else? Some of her coworkers? Other friends?”
I bite my lip. “Yes, I know who to invite.” I pause. “What about invitations?”
“Yeah, we’ll need those. And maybe you can handle the decorations? Cade and I will look after the food and drinks.”
Cade is his other Navy SEAL buddy and business partner at Conquistadors.
“Decorations?” I peer at the computer screen. “How do you decorate for an engagement party?”
“It says to plan a theme that’s different from the wedding.”
I shoot him a smirk. “You’re really into this, aren’t you? Doesn’t this go against your man card, or something?”
“My man card is secure,” he says, his face impassive. “But I’m willing to prove it to you anytime you want.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, thanks, but no.” I read the text on the website. “Okay, well, Hayden and Beck haven’t even started planning their wedding yet, so who knows what style it will be. If it’s up to Hayden, they’ll get married at city hall one day on her lunch break.”
“We won’t let that happen. She deserves to be a beautiful bride for one special day.”
I turn my head and give him a long look. Dammit. He cares about Hayden. That makes it harder to hate him. “You sure about that man card, Mr. Romance?”
He gives a tiny movement of his lips and chin, a nod and a smile that are so subtle yet ooze confidence and masculinity. “Keep questioning me and I’ll think you really do want me to prove it to you.”
“Ugh.” I pick up my coffee and sip. “Okay. I’ll do the decorations, the invitations, and the guest list.”
Marco reaches out to touch the track pad, his arm brushing mine. I jerk back, nearly spilling my coffee. “Also, we can play games.”
For a moment, I think he’s talking about us. Me and Marco. My jaw drops.
Then I realize he means party games. This big grouch is planning party games? “No. No games. Hayden would not go for that.”
“Hey, Beck’s little professor is loosening up. Sure, she’ll play some games. Plus, since this is a chance to introduce people to each other, friends and family of the bride and groom, games are a good way to get people talking and break the ice.”
I stare at him.
Unconcerned, he clicks to bring up a new window. “I like this one where we get pictures of Beck and Hayden, cut them in half, and give everyone half a pictu
I bite my lip. That actually sounds really fun.
“It’s better than bingo,” he adds dryly.
“I’ll give you that, Mr. Romance.”
“But I also like the newlywed game. Or in this case, almost wed. We can ask them questions about their sexual proclivities to see how well they know each other.”
I gawk at him. Who is this man? Is he appealing to my fun-loving side, hoping to get me on board by teasing me with embarrassing party games? I press my lips together. I can’t quite stop the smile, though, and it breaks free. “I kind of like that.”
“See? We’re having fun doing something nice for our friends. It’s not so bad.’
I narrow my eyes at him, but my smile lingers.
“Like, one of the questions could be how long after they met did they have, ahem, intimate relations.”
I choke. “We can’t ask that! It was, like, five minutes.”
Marco gives me an evil grin. “Heh. I know. Okay, we’ll just ask about sexual positions. Or their kinkiest fetish.”
A laugh escapes my lips and I clap a hand over my mouth. Damn. “How about this one . . .” I point at the screen. “If your first kiss could be described as a candy, what would it be: Starburst, Milky Way, Snickers, Zero, or Goobers?”
Marco laughs, and the sound is deep and smooth. It makes heat curl low in my belly. I haven’t heard Marco laugh very often. “Goobers. Christ, I hope not, for Hayden’s sake.”
“I’m pretty sure she’d answer Starburst.”
Our eyes meet, both of us smiling. And damn if I don’t feel a tiny little starburst in my chest. Whoa, whoa.
I quickly look back at the computer. “Okay, okay, a couple of games could be fun. Cheesy, but fun.”
What am I getting into? Planning a party with Marco means we’ll have to talk to each other. Possibly see each other. No, wait. I reach for my purse. “Give me your cellphone number so we can text each other about the party.” That way we won’t have to talk or see each other.
“My pleasure, belleza.” He rattles off the number and I enter it into my phone, then send him a text.
“There. Now you have mine too. So no more reasons for dragging me out of bed on a Saturday morning.”
“I’d never drag you out of bed on a Saturday morning.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “I’d rather keep you in bed.”
Heat rushes up into my face and I hop off the stool. “And you saying things like that is why we’re going to be texting each other.”
I stride out of the bar, my heart thudding. Why does he say things like that? He’s been making comments like that since the first time we met. It irks me no end that he clearly thinks I’m a piece of meat to be ogled and drooled over just because I use my face and body in my career.
I step out into fresh morning air and glance at my watch. I have a job this afternoon, a location shoot at Oceanside Pier for a local casual clothing shop. Much as I complained about getting dragged out of bed early on a Saturday, I need to get ready for that.
I stroll to where I’d parked my car, inhaling the briny ocean scent, turning my face to the sun. Another gorgeous day in Southern California. Perfect day to lower the top on my Mustang convertible and enjoy the wind in my hair. I’ll have to wash it before I leave for the shoot anyway.
On the short drive back to my place on Taos Drive I try to let the summer breeze blow away my irritation at Marco.
I’m really not sure why he bugs me so much. I’m used to being treated like an object. But that’s starting to get to me, too.
Hell. I gust out a sigh. Marco’s not the only one grouchy lately. My job, my best friend’s preoccupation with her new fiancé, and his friends are all annoying me. Not to mention my family. Jeez, they’re stressing me out lately, too. My mom, who’s having a hard time adapting to retirement and making me crazy. My oldest sibling, Lauren, who recently shocked the family with the news that she and her husband of sixteen years were splitting up. Lauren’s fourteen-year-old daughter who’s now acting out. And Grandma Garner, who created a stir in the assisted-living facility for having an overnight guest in her apartment. Male guest.
I love my family, but what happened to the days when I was the oddball nobody else understood? They’ve always been the perfect overachievers who made me feel invisible.
Feeling invisible might be the worst feeling in the world. And it’s ironic, considering I earn my living being extremely visible. But that’s not me. That’s just the external me, the makeup and hair and clothes I display for the world to see. The real me is inside. The real me is the one people don’t see.
Except for Hayden. Best friends since middle school, we bonded as misfits, rejected by the other girls for not conforming to their standards of dress, makeup, and boy craziness. We were never good at sports, preferring to hang out in the library or local bookstore, or the animal shelter where we volunteered. Despite our differences—Hayden is extremely logical and sensible, whereas I’m emotional and impulsive; Hayden is quiet and introverted, while I’m extroverted and talkative—we understand each other. Hayden keeps me focused, and I keep Hayden from becoming a hermit.
And Grandma Garner. Grandma is the other oddball in the family, the one who understands me better than anyone else. As Grandma says, we’re “kindred spirits.”
I turn into the parking lot behind my condo complex, park, and enter my little place. It’s big enough for me. I like the wall of windows leading onto a balcony that overlooks the center courtyard full of palm trees and flowers, and the location is great. But it’s not the kind of place I see myself living in forever. I’ve been keeping an eye out for a property I could move up to, now my money situation is pretty comfortable. Of course, since I impulsively applied for that scholarship to study photography in Spain and shockingly got accepted, I’ll have to put that on hold.
I’d like a house, something with character that I can make my own. Not that I haven’t made this condo my own, but there are limits to what I can do with it.
I drop my big purse on the granite counter separating my tiny kitchen from the living/dining area and head to my bedroom. I didn’t even shower after rolling out of bed to answer Marco’s summons to Conquistadors.
I like “kindred spirits,” the people you relate to without any effort. Too bad Marco isn’t a little more kindred.
Except . . . there’s something about him that I do feel a sense of connection with. His typical look is a broody scowl, though he smiles and flirts with customers. But the smiles never really dispel the faint shadows in those dark eyes, hints of pain and sadness that tug at something inside me. I know what it’s like to be hurt, but I have a feeling Marco’s wounds are much darker and deeper than the ones I’ve experienced.
And that is all in my past. I’ve moved on from all that. Now I’m a successful model many people admire. If I felt a teensy bit dissatisfied with that, well, I’ve been at this a while and it’s bound to get old. Unfortunately, I’m also getting old, and the jobs I’m being offered are getting fewer and further between. Less glamorous. There are hundreds of young girls people would rather hire.
I can’t complain about this stuff to anyone, because people look at me and think I can’t possibly have problems. Bitching about my modeling career? Oh, too bad, so sad. And I am grateful for the success I’ve had, truly. But sometimes I feel like my life doesn’t mean anything. Like I’ll never do anything that makes a real difference in the world.
My best friend is trying to find a cure for cancer. My entire family is successful in the business world. And I… I get my picture taken for advertisements.
I quickly shower and wash my hair. I had my regular waxing appointment the other day so I’m good to go. I leave my hair damp, knowing it’ll air dry on the way to the pier.
