“And what is your ask?” He leans over the table and swivels his stick into position, gliding it across his knuckles. I’ll admit, he looks comfortable at the head of the table. This might not go the way I want. It’s that emphasis on might, though, that prompts me to speak up.
“If I win, you have to let Zack know you went easy on him.”
And there it is. I did it; said it. Put the challenge on the table. I thought I’d feel better about backing him into this corner, but now that I see the blood leave his cheeks and the corners of his mouth turn down as he slowly stands upright, this doesn’t feel like winning at all.
I manage to hold my position despite his look of betrayal. What do I owe his cousin? Nothing! That fucker disparaged me in front of my peers. No, he sexually harassed me. He crossed a line, physically, to purposely demean me because he felt small. I owe Zack absolutely nothing, and he deserves to know that his big achievement at practice today wasn’t very big at all. All it was is one big, fat gift he doesn’t deserve.
My mouth curves the opposite way, a forced smirk inching up into my cheeks and working against the sourness I’m feeling from my neck down to the bottom of my guts. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hug my stick and jut one hip out in a challenge.
“Well?” I lift a brow.
His stare is decisive. No more blinking lashes to lull me into submission. I’m being dissected solely by the dominant glow of his swimming-pool blue eyes. His nose is pink from being out in today’s sun and reflective clouds. His wet hair is drying right before my eyes into touchable waves that I imagine in my fingers. I’m thankful my arms are crossed to hide them because I can feel them twitch.
“Fine.”
I flinch at his sudden acquiescence, most of me prepared for him to bail on this little wager. By the way he rounds the table and motions for me to step back, I tremble at the knees. Cue ball palmed in his left hand, stick grasped in his right, he steps into the space between me and the table and comes close enough that I can feel the warmth of the breath he exhales from his nose.
“Pardon,” he says, and I step back several feet to lean against a pub table.
Cannon positions the ball a little off-center then dabs one more dusting of chalk on the end of his cue, blowing the excess away while he looks at me, his eyes focused away from the tip of the stick and onto my gaze. His mouth quirks on one side, and it’s in that small look that I know I’m done. I’m so fucking screwed.
He leans over the table in a smooth pivot, drawing the stick back and getting the feel of the slide before letting it rip, knocking the balls in all directions and immediately sinking one of each—a solid and a stripe. His eyes centered on the table, he rounds it, his tongue sticking out the way Michael Jordan’s always did when he was deciding whether to put the game away with a dunk or a little fadeaway from the top of the key.
“You got a preference?” he asks.
“I . . . well . . .” I stumble on my words, his sudden confidence nailing me to the floor.
He chuckles then bends down, lining up a shot at a solid.
“It’s all right,” he says, leaning his head to one side to glance up at me and wink. “It won’t matter.”
And it doesn’t. He proceeds to sink his initial target, and then every other solid ball on the table, sometimes two at a time. I half expect him to drain the eight-ball without even looking. He has to work at it a little, though, what with so many of my balls still on the table and in his way. He calls the side pocket and when the ball falls in easily, I breathe out heavily enough to flap my lips, then I drop my stick.
“Two out of three?” I scrunch my lips up with my pathetic attempt to regain my edge.
“You think it will matter?” He lays his stick on the table and saunters toward me.
My nervous knee twitches, and I find myself rocking where I stand to keep my legs busy and my blood flowing. Cannon stops about a foot away from me, and looks down at the floor as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I draw in his scent, letting it numb my nerves like the venom of a scorpion. I got sloppy, arrogant even. And that trust I felt so sure of wanes a little now that he’s calling in his bet. I gave him a free pass to surprise me, to ask something of me or dare me or— That’s the thing. It’s the unknown; I did that. I did that!
My hands balled into fists at my sides, I roll my shoulders back and lift my chin, determined not to let my worry shine through.
“Bet’s a bet,” I say, shaking my head with tight lips. I had no idea I was going up against a pool shark.
“That it is,” he says, glancing up while keeping his head low. The way he peers at me through the strands of his hair that now shadow his eyes is both ominous and so freaking enticing.
“Five a.m., Saint Peter’s Gulch. Tomorrow.” He leans in and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he pauses while forward on his toes. “I’ll let you know what you owe there and then.”
I swallow and he sees it, his eyes darting to that place on my throat that betrays my bravado.
“Fine,” I gurgle out.
He laughs lightly and falls back to give
