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“His storytelling is predominately set in either the old West or contemporary Texas, and he’s a damn good writer.”
    “Whatcha got?” I stretched my upper body to try and relax my stiff shoulders.
    “
Leaving Cheyenne
and
The Last Picture Show
. Both books are being made into films. Wanna read ‘em?”
    “Sure.” I blinked tired eyes. “I’ve never read anything by him.”
    “Okay, baby.” Beau seemed thrilled by my acceptance. “He’s a native Texan. I’m not, but I love the old West and always felt like I was born a hundred years too late.”
    Kat grimaced and reached behind her back with a stir straw. “Frontier stories aren’t my bag. I dig trashy romance paperbacks. Jill . . . oops I meant
Cherie,
can you reach my itch? It’s down below my shoulder blades but not quite to my butt crack.”
    “Lovely.” I made a moue. Scratching her bronzed skin reminded me of our teenage years spent lounging on Surfside beach flirting with out-of-town guys. Kat always coated me with Coppertone so I wouldn’t burn my fair skin, while her olive skin darkened without lotion. On rainy weekends we stretched across her lilac lace bedspread reading novels and sharing every dream and fantasy while others did whatever it was they did in Lake Jackson for fun. Occasionally we hitched rides to Houston with her older sister to see French films, which spiraled our desires to depart Dullsville. And here we sat. Nothing dull about this place. Except a carpet due for its weekly steam-cleaning along with the Parson chairs on Monday.
    “Okay, baby.” Beau nodded at me. “Shuffle these cards. I don’t trust Laura anymore.”
    Katie yanked the deck from his hand. “Let’s play something other than Blackjack. And no tricks this time.”
    “Cards with. . .with. . . without sleight of hand?” Beau stuttered and threw his fist against his forehead like he was having a brain hemorrhage. “There’s no damn fun in that. Hell, I might as well teach you the British version of Black Jack.”
    “You must be off your trolley to think we fancy learning a game created by those bloody awful blokes across the pond who believe all Americans are turnips,” Kat said with a fairly decent Cockney accent. “Go ahead and give us the rundown. Just don’t plan on conning this bird out of me hard earned dosh.”
    Beau grinned at her cute attempt at British slang. “It’s for two or more players with a sole aim of discarding all cards to win.”
    “Boring,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you try Tarot readings? Seems more exciting.”
    “You two girls always talk about excitement, but won’t do much about it. Just put all the suits together in this deck and verify the
Jack of Clubs
is intact.” Beau handed me the cards.
    “It’s two-thirty in the morning, Beau.” I split the deck, knowing which card would vanish about twenty seconds after it fell into his hand.
    Bam! Someone pounded the club door. Kat stiffened. “Saturday nights lead to weird Sunday mornings when drunks and people of bad intent ramble along streets and businesses looking for trouble,” she whispered.
    My belly did flipflops.
    Beau pulled his .44 Magnum from under the bar. “You and Kat stay seated and out of view,” he said quietly before walking to the locked door. “Who are you and what do you need?” Beau demanded in threatening tone.
    “It’s Wesley.”
    “Creepy jackass.” Kat scrunched her nose, making a sour face.
    “So what?” Beau broadcast, this time with less intimidation.
    “Well, I’d like to talk to Jill.” Wesley’s voice echoed through the heavy door. “Apologize. If she’ll let me.”
    Beau looked over at me. “Come back in twenty minutes.” he said to Wesley, apparently reading doubt on my face. Beau then went back behind the bar, put away his Magnum and the playing cards, allowing me quiet time to mull over my situation.
    “Whatever drew you to him, cutie?” Kat stood in her chair to stretch across the bar and retrieve her hidden