Hanna Martine - Long Shot

“Look at you,” he whispered, and he went to his knees.

Then he was touching those projected words, throwing them across his own fingers, mixing them together. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her skin and the words disappeared.

“I’m sorry you didn’t win today.” Her hands in his hair now. “Was it because of me?”

He laughed. “What? Didn’t you see that first hammer throw? That was a personal record. I kicked ass.” He rocked to his feet, and then walked her backward until she hit the wall, his hand behind her head. He settled into her body. “I was shit before you showed up.”

Maybe that was true in more ways than just today.

“But you won the weight for height and you didn’t know I was there watching.”

He thought about that. “Maybe some part of me knew.”

He kissed her smile, wrapping himself around her. The projector light fell across his back, and every now and then his eyelids would flicker open to see the tangle of shadows their bodies made. He was almost painfully hard and she was mostly naked, and he prayed she still had that stash of condoms in her giant purse.

Pulling her away from the wall, he spun her, turning, then pressed her onto the brand new table, shoving aside the laptop and projector. To her credit, she didn’t protest. He hoped this would be her desk someday. Every time she’d sit down at it to work, she’d remember exactly what he was about to do to her on it.

He kissed her for what seemed like forever, stopping only to whip off his shirt.

“So what exactly are we doing?” She was breathless, eyes wild, lips smudged.

He came down on top of her, skin on skin, folding her into an embrace. “We’re starting over,” he whispered into her ear. “Together.”

The New Hampshire Highland Games exist, but all other games and societies mentioned in Long Shot are fictional. Real Highland Games take place all over the world. There’s a very good chance there are games near you. If you’re interested in seeing what they’re all about, do an Internet search, pack a lawn chair, bring your family, and enjoy a bit of history.

Whiskey shouldn’t be untouchable, relegated only to a certain social level of drinker, but that’s exactly what Shea and her bottles were today, hidden away in a too-fancy tent on a small rise overlooking the heavy athletic field. An actual velvet rope kept most attendees away from the fine brown whiskey she served, and no one could enter who wasn’t wearing a one-hundred-dollar yellow wristband. Ridiculous for this kind of festival, but that’s what the organizers of this Highland Games wanted: a special place to send their VIPs, and any other attendee willing to pay for the “privilege.”

Shea just wanted to talk whiskey. Just wanted to serve what she loved.

Two couples ducked out of the bright sun and came in laughing. The taller husband, the one in a plaid, short-sleeved button-down shirt, was holding a set of stacked, empty beer cups. A Drinker, Shea pegged him, come in here chasing the buzz. The other man, the one in a blue T-shirt, headed right for Shea, nodding as though they already knew each other. He was either an Assumer—someone who thought he knew a lot about the good stuff—or a Brown Vein—someone who really did know.

Of the women, one wore a red visor that parked itself around her ears and extended far over her face. The other had a short blond ponytail. Neither looked particularly interested in why they’d come in here, though all four sported wristbands.

Shea spread her arms across the table and gave them all a welcoming smile. Didn’t matter why they came in. They were giving the drink a chance, and educating newcomers was one of her favorite parts of her job. Sometimes it was the best kind of challenge, to win over someone who’d been skeptical—a Doubter—or who had cut their teeth at age fourteen on ten-dollar bodega whiskey they’d snuck from their parents’ liquor cabinets.

“So what do these get us?” Drinker waved his yellow wrist.

Always genial, always polite. “Tastes of three amazing whiskeys and a walk-through of each, by yours truly.”

“That’s a big deal, my friend,” added the other man. To Shea he gave a small nod. “Saw you on the History Channel the other night.” He didn’t mention which special.

“Yeah? That’s always great to hear. Glad you came by.” She turned to her artful setup of bottles and swung back around holding a tray of glasses, flipping each over to slide across the white tablecloth with practiced ease. One, two, three, four—

A fifth yellow wristband appeared at the elbow of the man she was leaning toward pegging as a Brown Vein. This new wristband wrapped around an arm that was crusty with caked mud at the elbow, the fingers and palm looking like they’d tried to be wiped clean, but black still clung under the nails. Shea followed that arm, which widened out significantly at the biceps, upward to take in the newcomer’s red-and-black-striped rugby jersey. His short dark hair was sweat-damp and stuck out all over the place, his cheeks sunburned.

“Hi,” he said. “Do you remember me?”

She blinked at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the wives nudge the other.

Shea remembered regular faces, especially those who repeatedly came in to the Amber Lounge in Manhattan, but with so many tastings and events and interviews these days, transient people tended to dissipate from her memory.

Yet there was . . . something . . . familiar about him. Something about the off-center, bright-white smile against the tanned skin layered with sweat and specks of dirt. But she couldn’t place it right away, and there were four other customers who needed her attention.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.” She was careful to hold on to the genial smile.

“I’m Byrne.”

A little cocky of him, but not quite obnoxious, to assume that she’d remember him based on one name. She didn’t.

“Shea Montgomery,” she replied, using the moment to swivel back around, reset the tray, and grab the first bottle.

“Yes, I know.”

The sound of his laugh, soft and low, slid an invisible hand around the nape of her neck, took a light hold, then dragged itself down her back. A delicious shiver. This did not happen to her while she was pouring.

People laughed in her bar every day, in tones exactly like Byrne’s, and it never gave her that reaction. She shook it off and faced her tasters, holding the eighteen-year-old blend. She poured a shallow tasting amount in each glass, starting with Drinker and ending with Byrne, who pushed his glass a few inches closer.

“Last summer?” he prompted.

She made the mistake of looking up, of getting a good, long look at his eyes. An almost-powder-blue with a dark blue ring around the edges.

“Up in Gleann, New Hampshire,” he continued. “That cow took down your tent. Me and my team helped you clean it up.”

The bottle slipped from her fingers. Just a few inches, but it made a graceless clink on the table.

He had a crooked smile that layered a boyish tint over his confident, intense focus on her, and softened the way he pressed his hipbones right up against the bar.

And that was far longer a personal assessment of any taster she ever allowed herself. Time to move on.

“Oh, yeah. Now I remember.” Cool as the breeze, that was Shea.

She purposely left Byrne, stepped to the middle of her set of tasters, and poured herself her own tiny glass. “Are we ready, folks?”

Drinker held up the small, squat stemmed glass. “Why not the flat-bottom glasses? What do you call those again?”