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Instead, Ashley chooses a seat at the end of the bar and Brendan sits beside her. Hmm… I don’t recall anyone inviting him to join us.
Of course, it’s his bar. His father’s anyway.
“Go talk to her,” Dad says under his breath.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“She’s with Brendan.”
“So?”
I polish off what’s left in my wineglass and shove it across the bar to Maryanne.
“Want another, Dale?” she asks.
“No. No thanks.” I rise and grab Brock’s arm. “Let’s play some pool.”
“Not in the mood,” he says.
“I’ll play you.” My cousin Henry, sitting on Brock’s other side, blond and blue-eyed like his father, stands.
“Great. Let’s go.” I head to the pool table and pick a cue stick from those mounted on the wall.
Of all my cousins, I’m probably closest to Henry. Though he’s eight years my junior, he’s nearest in age to Donny and me. Plus, we have something in common. Neither of us carries any actual Steel blood. He’s Uncle Bryce’s kid from his first and very short marriage to a Las Vegas show girl. Aunt Marjorie adopted him after she married Uncle Bryce, but he still sees his birth mother every now and then. Donny used to have a major crush on her, fake tits and all.
“Go ahead and rack,” I tell him.
Henry expertly racks the balls. “Eight ball?” he says.
“Sounds good.” I don’t give a fuck what we play, as long as it gives me something to do so I’m not trying so hard not to stare at Ashley and Brendan.
I chalk my stick. “You racked. I’ll break.”
Henry nods, and I take position to break the triangle.
“I’ll play the winner.”
My stick scuffs the felt. Ashley’s voice. Fuck.
“Nice shot,” she says sarcastically.
“Where’s your date?” I ask gruffly.
“At the bar.”
“Shouldn’t you be with him?”
“What do you think he is? My mother? I feel like some pool.”
Henry hands her his stick. “Three’s a crowd, obviously.”
Ashley shakes her head. “No, go ahead.”
“You remember my cousin Henry,” I say. “Henry, Ashley White.”
“From the pool party,” Henry says. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too.” Ashley beams a smile at him.
And I want to punch my favorite cousin’s face in.
“Tell me something. Who’s the better pool player? You or Dale?”
“We both suck,” Henry says with a wink.
Oh, yeah. I really want to punch him now. Since when is Henry such a flirt? He has a girlfriend, for God’s sake.
Henry and I don’t suck, of course. I wouldn’t try to play pool in front of Ashley if I weren’t good at it. Which pisses me off all the more. I’m gripping my stick hard enough to break it in half.
Easy, son.
Words from my father. Words he’s said to me so many times over the years.
Words I need now more than ever.
Focus, Dale. For God’s sake, focus.
I breathe in and exhale slowly. Then I push my stick against the ball at the apex of the triangle and break them expertly.
Nicely done. Thank God. Fucking up in front of Ashley isn’t a top priority at the moment.
The two ball slides into the far right corner pocket.
“Nice,” Henry says. “Looks like you’re solids.”
I nod and regard the layout of the balls on the table. I have a couple of options, one of which is a sure thing. The other isn’t, but it would be an amazing feat if I could pull it off.
Damn.
Normally I’d go for the more difficult shot. But with Ashley watching…
Fuck it.
I change for no one. Not even Ashley White. I move around the perimeter of the table, getting into position.
“So seriously, who’s the better pool player?” Ashley asks Henry again. “You or Dale?”
“We’re pretty evenly matched,” he says. “Brock’s better than both of us.”
Great. Henry had to mention Brock. Nice move to throw off my concentration.
I position my stick between my fingers, eyeballing the shot. I nudge the stick backward slightly. Then again. And I shoot—
“Brock!” Ashley calls. “I hear you’re the one to beat at pool.”
My stick grabs at the felt, and I barely touch the cue ball.
Fuck it.
Brock ambles over to the table. “Dale, man. What the fuck?”
“Can’t get them all the time,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“You could make that shot in your sleep,” Henry says. “What gives?”
“Some of you were talking,” I say. “It messed with my concentration.”
“We talk all the time when we play,” Brock says. “Nothing shakes you up.”
He’s right.
Except apparently now he’s wrong.
Ashley White shakes me up.
I set my stick against the wall. “Your shot,” I say to Henry.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashley
Dale doesn’t meet my gaze, but still, I feel the daggers he’s shooting at me. They’re bright red and full of rage, and they emit the spiky melody of a ghostly violin.
What did I do?
I called to Brock while Dale was making his shot, but Henry himself said they always talk while playing.
Or maybe it was the fact that I called to Brock, Dale’s cousin who’s shown a marked interest in me.
