Chapter 16

“You’re on,” I said. “Some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” He was smiling at me, happy that he got his way. We’ll see how happy he is when he loses. If I let him lose; I haven’t decided yet.

“Yeah. Keep your hands and your other bits and pieces to yourself. NO distractions.” He laughed at me. “I mean it, Jon,” I said, giving him my very best schoolmarm stare. “If you have to cheat to win, well, then you don’t deserve me.”

“That goes for you, too, you know,” he said, still chuckling.

“I don’t have to resort to such tricks to win. You might.”

“Best of three?” Jon asked.

“You got it, Jersey. “

I broke the set with a might crak! (that’s why I love the 23) and we were off. “Show me what you got,” I taunted. I didn’t even get a shot. He lined up each shot carefully, methodically, and planned where the cue should wind up. With each stroke, he stuck his ass out a little more, and it was all I could do not to pinch it. While I sat there, slack-jawed, he cleared the table. When he straightened after sinking the 8-ball, I shot a look at him as he racked up the balls for game two. He looked quite pleased with himself.

“Nervous, Brooklyn?” He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. God, I couldn’t wait to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face.

“Nah,” I said. “Anyone can clear the table after the break.”

“Oh really?” he said.

“Yes really. Break the balls. Baby.”

Jon lined up his break carefully, and swore when nothing sunk. He stood back to let me take my shots. Wanting to give as good as I got, I leaned over the table deeply, making sure my ass was sticking up a little. I leaned low over the cue, and took a couple of slow strokes before jabbing the cue with my stick. God, it even sounds naughty. I made shot after shot without stopping. I’d played this table for years, and I could get the cue to go anywhere I damn well pleased. When I lined up the 8-ball shot, I looked back over my shoulder at him. I maintained eye contact with him as I stroked with the stick again, sending the 8-ball gently home. He gaped at me. I love it when men think they’re better at something because they’re men. I winked at him and set about racking the balls.

“Last game,” he said. “Remember what happened last time? Get ready to pack.”

“I wouldn’t set about booking my flight just yet,” I countered. I bent down to examine the line up of the cue ball, shifted its position slightly, and let ‘er rip. The break sent one of the two balls in the back corners flying into the corner pocket. That’s my most favorite trick. I can do it every time.

I stood, leaned my cue on the table, and stretched out my arms, linking my fingers and cracking my knuckles. “Don’t you know better than to try to hustle a shark at her own table?” I sunk each of my balls in turn, taking care before each stroke. With every sunken ball, Jon was getting more agitated. I’ll admit, I was too. The 8-ball was all I had left to sink, and I’d win. It was a sweet shot, straight line to the side pocket. One powerful slam of the cue, with just a little backward English, and I’ll have won. A gentle kiss of the cue, and there was the danger it would follow the 8 into the pocket, and I’d lose. Pucker time. What was I going to do?

Did I really want to win this game?

Jon was pacing.

“What’s the matter, baby?” I asked, stopping and straightening up, resting my cue against the table.

“I don’t like to lose,” he said, sulking like a little kid. “Especially when there’s so much at stake.”

“I don’t either,” I countered, “but you haven’t lost yet.”

“True, but it doesn’t look good for me.”

I reached up to kiss him sweetly on the lips. He held me close, and I could see regret and sorrow in his eyes when I finally pulled away.

I grabbed my cue and lined up for the final shot.