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Tate sucks in a sharp breath. “What the hell? Why are we leaving the cop behind when she could be helping us get out of this?”
“Because they’ve threatened her too, Tate.”
By the time we reach the corner table the bikers have infested like creepy cockroaches, me and Tate have our game faces on. Red Beard, or Bozo, I presume, starts racking the balls.
“We flip for break,” Prez states, fishing a coin out of his pocket. “Heads or tails?”
“Heads,” I grunt out.
Prez flicks the silver coin into the air with practiced precision and catches it swiftly before slapping it down onto his tattooed forearm.
Tails.
Fuck.
He grins at me before pocketing the coin. “Me and the kid’ll go first round. Bozo wants the princess for round two. Any problems?”
Tate raises his hand. “It’s Prince. Not princess.”
“My apologies, your highness,” Prez sneers as he chalks up the tip of his stick. Then, to me, he says, “Watch how it’s done, you little shit.”
Prez leans across the table to line up his first shot. His initial shot scatters the balls in all different directions. He lands a solid in the side pocket with the break, earning cheers from his group of Neanderthals.
Then, like the arrogant prick he is, Prez starts calling his shots before dropping them in easily one by one. I begin to lose hope when I realize this game will be a run out. He’s going to bag a win without ever giving me a chance to play.
“Game,” Bozo calls out cheerfully when Prez drops the last one. “Aww, the toddler looks like he might cry.”
Tate starts pulling balls out of the pockets and then racks them for the next game. Bozo looms over him, muttering harassing shit at him, but Tate remains focused. He starts their game with a skilled break that sinks three solids. The next several go in easily, but when he tries a trickier move, he scratches.
“Good run,” I tell him, squeezing his shoulder when he comes to stand beside me.
Bozo makes a combination shot, but his hand slips when he goes for his next shot. He curses and slams the butt of his stick hard on the floor. Tate circles the table, calculating each and every angle before setting himself up for his shot. He smoothly knocks in another ball, repeating his actions until he wins the match.
One to one. Tie.
Prez makes a gesture at the table, smirking at me. I fish out all the balls and rack them. My mind is reeling over all the stupid shit he said. I may have agreed to this, but if we lose, I’ll fight my way out of this. I’ll be damned if Gemma is going anywhere on the back of his bike.
My hands shake with rage. I’m in no shape to play such a high-stakes game, yet here I am.
Focus.
Breathe.
I close my eyes for a second and then break. Tuning out everyone around me, I easily sink the balls as I run out the table.
Take that, asshole.
Prez’s arrogant expression is gone. His eyes flicker with anger. Good. I’m not some stupid, useless kid. And I’m sure as hell not going to let them fuck with Gemma or Sloane.
Two to one, our favor.
Bozo breaks and carries on making shot after shot but misses the last one. He cracks his neck, clearly pissed at not taking the win. Tate effortlessly runs the table but misses when he sneezes mid-shot.
Unbelievable.
Bozo barks out a laugh and then pops his last shot in.
Two to two. Tie.
