Witch Is The New Black (Paris, Texas Romance #3)

“O-seventy-two!”


“Bingooo!” both Violet and Gus shouted simultaneously, jumping up from their chairs.

Hoo, shit. No way was Gus gonna let Violet win. There was a two-hundred-dollar booty at stake, and he wouldn’t like splitting it with the likes of her. That kind of money could buy a guy like Gus a lot of beer and Fritos, his favorite snacks.

But likely, Violet wasn’t going to split with Gus, either.

Violet stomped over to Gus’ table, her long legs eating up the space between them. “I called it first!”

Gus’ wrinkled face scrunched up when he held his bingo card under Violet’s nose. “The hell you did, Fancy Pants. I called it first.”

Violet held up her own card and shoved it right back at Gus. “Put your hearing aids in, old man. I called it first!”

Bernie tapped the mic, making it squawk. “Please take your seats! Now, the rules say in the event of a tie—”

“I don’t care about the rules for a dang tie!” Gus yelped, holding his card up. “I said it first and anyone with ears heard it!”

Ridge rose from his seat, feeling the change in the vibe of the room. He strode over to Violet and cocked his head, taking his Stetson off. “C’mon, Violet. What’s the harm in letting him have this? What are you going to do with two hundred bucks? That doesn’t even cover the cost of one hair salon visit.”

“It’s not the money; it’s the principal of it all. I won, fair and square. And that’s that,” she retorted, her mouth an angry line.

He leaned in low and murmured, “What’s your issue with these people? They’re harmless seniors, out for a night of fun. You don’t even like bingo. Which brings to mind the question, why are you here, harassing your elders?”

Violet bristled. Likely because no one ever told Octopussy no. “You don’t own this town, Ridge Donovan. I can do whatever the hell I please, and if I want to play bingo, I’ll damn well play bingo. It’s open to the public, as I recall. I’m the public.”

Okay, fangs out and ready to bite his head off. He decided maybe appealing to Gus was his better bet.

He turned to Gus and put a hand on his back. “It’s all good, Gus, my man. C’mon, let’s go get some lemonade and cook—”

“Gussie said it first,” Henry blustered, popping upright in his chair where he’d been happily napping.

Perfect. The Peanut Gallery was awake. If there was anything you could count on with this bunch, no matter how much infighting went on, they stuck together like flies on flypaper.

Violet’s beautiful face went sour fast when she whipped around to assess Henry. “How would you know? You were over there snoring like you were vying for first place in the lumberjack two thousand.”

Flora rose from her seat and climbed on top of the metal chair, crossing her arms over her chest and shooting Violet a narrowed gaze. “Gus absolutely said it first, Violet Hammond.”

Ridge looked around the room as all the seniors followed Flora’s lead and got up on their chairs and began stomping their feet to the chant “Gus! Gus! Gus!”

Bernie tapped the mic again to get everyone’s attention, but Calla swiftly intervened. “Guys? Take your seats, please, and we’ll get this sorted out.”

But the seniors weren’t having it, and Violet was growing angry—he knew that look on her face. It was just like the one she’d had when he’d told her he didn’t want to date her that night at the party.

There was a breeze, a slight but noticeable shift in the air at the center, which meant shit was about to get real. He smelled the magic before he was able to capture it, felt that racing sizzle of energy he always experienced running up and down his spine.

Violet’s eyes flashed as her hair lifted from her neck and her nostrils flared.

Yeah. It was gonna get hairy.

Rushing for Flora, Ridge ran across the room and grabbed her around the waist, setting her on the floor. “I’m going to ask you kindly to stop antagonizing, Miss Flora. No broken hips on my watch,” he said before turning to see Gus winding up a fireball.

Aw, Jesus. Gus liked to think he still had his magic under control. Worse, he liked to think he could have played the majors back in the day, but his aim stunk.

The last time he’d shot a fireball in the bowling alley at someone, the hot dog machine in the kitchen blew up, and he’d actually been aiming at Morris Walthrup—positioned at the end of the alley completely opposite the kitchen.

“Gus!” he roared as the wind picked up, scattering bingo cards everywhere. “You put that arm down right now!”

Just as he caught Gus’ attention, Violet began to shake, her anger taking on a new, almost physical form in the way of smoky colors of red and purple. Sparks flew from her fingers and her eyes glazed over.

The lights flickered then turned off completely.