“The fuck you are,” Jones called out, standing up from his shot, which landed like a kiss in the corner pocket. She noticed the black geometric tattoo rising up the side of his neck and the black gauges in his ears.
Bo spun. “You made that?”
Jones sauntered over to his perch and picked up his drink.
“Cassidy,” Bo said, nodding in her direction, as if this passed for an introduction. “This is Jones, Gwen.”
Gwen wiggled her fingers in one of those baby waves while Jones gave her a chin lift. Then they both refocused on each other, Gwen giving a low giggle to something Jones said in her ear.
“Grab a drink and add it to my tab. Then we’ll play.”
Cassidy stood a moment longer, trying to get her feet to travel in the direction of the bar and not the door. Bo turned his back to make his next shot and finally, Cassidy was able to move.
Though beer was safer, she had already started with scotch, and Bo’s group were drinking cocktails, so she ordered the special, a Jack and Coke, but did not put it on Bo’s tab. All the way back to him, she worried that this would somehow tip him off that she was working for the FBI.
Stop, she told herself, sipping at her drink. In the back of her brain, a little alarm was starting to flare because while the drink didn’t exactly taste good, it felt powerful in her hands—steadying, even—and dangerously comforting. Drink it slowly and I’ll be okay.
Bo was racking up the balls for their game when she arrived. Gwen and Jones had moved to a table behind the neighboring pool table where they sat side by side, his hand on her thigh while she giggled demurely into her drink.
“You wanna break?” Bo asked, snapping her attention back to him.
Cassidy tried her best to remember the rules and the technique, though she’d never been very good. Most of her experience had been from the bar in Dillon, Montana, where the University of Washington held their field camp every summer and where she had been an instructor for three years during her PhD program. Those evenings where she had escaped from her duties to relax with fellow graduate students and professors hardly counted as training for this night. Bo wasted no time creaming her to a pulp.
“Let me help you this time,” he asked, racking the balls for another game.
She picked up her drink to steady herself but realized her drink was down to melted ice. I’ve got to slow down.
“Maybe,” she said.
He gave her a scoffing look. “That seems to be your MO.”
“What is?” she asked, planning her escape to order another drink.
“You’re always saying ‘maybe,’” he said. “You think too much.”
Cassidy shrugged, but her shoulders were so tight the motion took effort. “I was supposed to be leaving today,” she said as an excuse.
“Aw, did you stay for me?” he asked, moving closer to her.
Her thoughts locked up for an agonizing moment. Just try to relax and have a good time, Bruce had said. “I thought I might stay for that northwest swell,” she finally said.
He nodded, but his eyes had narrowed, as if detecting her lie.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and forced her feet to move slowly toward the bar. When she returned, Bo broke. When it was Cassidy’s turn, he moved swiftly to her side of the table, eyeing the options.
“Okay, now see that six?” he said, pointing his stick at the green six ball which to her, had no clear shot at getting into any pocket. “Hit that from here,” he continued, moving sideways down the table, “and it’ll hit the four into there.” He pointed at the opposite side pocket.
“No way am I going to make that,” Cassidy said, noticing the soft buzz that had invaded her mind. This is my last drink.
Bo beckoned her with his finger, his left eyebrow cocked.
As if being pulled by a magnet, Cassidy floated over and lined up her shot, closing her left eye.
“Nah,” Bo said.
Cassidy turned to look at him.
“Found your problem,” he said, moving to her side.
She let him widen her fingers on the stick.
“Not so tight,” he said, then tapped her shoulder. “The power comes from here.”
She tried again, focusing on incorporating his advice, when she felt his presence directly behind her, trapping her against the table. Cold terror seized her frame.
“Like this,” he said in her ear, tucking her elbow tighter against her side. “More stable.”
He stepped back to let her take the shot, but her breathing wouldn’t settle. She forced her mind to refocus, but her shot missed.
“Thinking too much again,” Bo scolded. “Am I right?”
Standing, the room swayed a little. “Guilty,” she said, the craving to run so powerful she forced her toes to curl into her sandals.
He took a shot and made it, his movements precise and purposeful. “Your brother runs a good business,” Bo said, not looking at her. “How’d he get started?”
“He was a bartender all through college,” Cassidy said. “He’s always been good with people.”
“He’s also stubborn,” Bo said, taking his next shot.
“It’s a family trait,” she said, sipping her drink.
Bo sauntered to her side of the table, his eyes steely. “I noticed,” he said. “It’s a hell of a turn on coming from you, but in your brother, it’s downright infuriating.”
A prickly flush rose up her neck.
Bo’s smile widened into a predatory look, but then it was gone. “That new hike in labor costs is gonna be painful. Quinn may not make it on his own.”
“He will,” she said, then regretted it. I’m supposed to be helping here, not putting up more roadblocks. “Why do you want to help him so much?”
Bo shrugged. “It’s a great place. I’d hate to see it go under.”
“Are you in the restaurant business?”
“My family runs several of them, so I know the challenges,” he said. “But I’d never own one myself. Too much fucking work, man. You end up married to it, and if
