Rigley’s smelled the same; cigarette smoke, worn out leather, and the cologne samples they kept in the men’s restroom. The pool tables in the corner had a bit more wear and tear, except for the one in the back most corner. It was brand new. Birdie wished Bret, the owner of Rigley’s hadn’t replaced it. She had fond memories of that pool table; sitting on the edge of it, Luke kissing her, his lips traveling around to her ear and him whispering those magic words. “Wanna go have s*x in the truck?” She smiled at the memory.
There were other memories with that pool table too, most of them hazy wisps of whiskey fueled antics.
“Remember when you danced on the table?” Luke pointed over his shoulder and grinned.
“Vaguely,” said Birdie, nursing her Jim Beam.
Tucker looked at her, an expression of
