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But regardless, there’s no backing out now.
“Ladies first,” Mason says, gesturing to the table. I ignore Cayden’s sudden shade of the Hulk green and take my position. He stands on the other end, watching me closely, and sweat begins to collect at the small of my back.
I can’t do this. I was stupid to think that I could. But when I raise my eyes to meet Cayden’s, and he rewards me with a wink, I push aside my reservations because I can do anything. Being here proves that I can.
Lining up the cue, I bend low and familiarize myself with the wood. It feels so natural. With that approach, I move the cue back and forth, back and forth, my eyes never wavering from Cayden’s, and then, I break.
The corner of Cayden’s lips lifts as I blink twice to ensure I’m not seeing things. I’m not. I just sunk two balls. Speaking of balls…
“Looks like you’re smalls.” Cayden’s tone is dripping with innuendo and humor as he addresses Mason, who rips off his blazer.
Shit just got real.
I sink another two balls before it’s Mason’s turn. He’s good, but it appears I’m better. When he misses, I sip my whiskey, stalking the table like prey. The ball I want is directly in front of Cayden, who knows it as well. He doesn’t move a muscle, daring me to squeeze in the space between him and the table.
Challenge accepted.
Penny, Ronnie, and Darla have joined the crowd forming around the table. Memories of her blatantly flirting with Cayden rise to the surface, stirring a different kind of competitive streak. I don’t bother with pretenses; I walk over and squeeze in front of him.
Peering over my shoulder, I smile. “You’re going to have to back up and give me a little room.” He smirks, shuffling back a few steps, giving me just enough room to take the shot.
He wants to play dirty, then so can I.
Bending low, I give him a nice view of my ass. I don’t bother trying to draw attention to it with a little jiggle or shake because I can feel his eyes surveying every inch. He wants me. And I…want him.
I focus on finishing the game because I can stew over this tonight when I’m in bed, alone. I line up the shot and am about to strike, but then I feel, smell, and taste Cayden at my side. His breath is warm along the length of my neck. “You’ve got this.” But I suddenly don’t know if it’s just the game he’s referring to this time.
He doesn’t back up to give me room. Instead, he bends low and watches me. Not the ball or the game, but me. And if that’s not the most exhilarating thrill, then I don’t know what is. Openly marking me, in a way, as his, has my stomach not only filling with butterflies but with fireworks as well.
The game is over in ten minutes with me as the victor. Mason looks like he’s been duped, and Darla’s annoyed that the attention has shifted off her. But it’s not their reactions I’m concerned with. It’s Cayden’s. He doesn’t look surprised in the slightest. It’s like he knew I would beat Mason. But not just beat. He knew I would whip his ass. He had no problem making the wager on my behalf because he knew I would win.
Which once again arouses my suspicions.
“Everyone kind of loves you right now,” I say, looking around the bar as everyone throws back their free drinks. “Except Mason.” Mason was a man of his word and paid up—literally. He and his group of friends now sit at the back of the room, nursing their free waters.
“That’s his problem for underestimating you,” Cayden replies casually. “Not my fault he’s an idiot.” I burst into laughter, sipping my drink.
I love this easiness between us, but I’m about to shatter it with my interrogation. “So…” Cayden peers at me over the edge of his glass. “How’d you know I could play pool?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows his root beer. He’s clearly uncomfortable, but tough luck. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture he does when annoyed. He seems to do that often when I’m around. “I…” I’m on the edge of my seat, but the answer will have to wait for now.
His face twists into frustration when he reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his ringing cell. When he sees the caller, he stands. “I have to take it. It’s Lacey. She’s watching Ellie.”
But there’s no need for him to explain. “Go.” I wave him off as I understand.
Before he answers, though, he lays a quick kiss on my cheek, startling me. I don’t have time to process it because he’s pushing through the thick crowd and exiting the front door to take the call.
My skin is ablaze from where his lips left a perfect kiss mark on my cheek. Without thought, I raise my hand to my face, rubbing over the spot in awe.
As I reach for my drink, I see that it’s sitting to the left of me and not the right, where I thought I’d left it. I don’t think much of it and toss it down. As I order another, I decide that I will lay all my cards on the table and tell Cayden what happened with the drug dealer. I can only hope that honesty will lead to more, and Cayden will eventually open up.
Tonight can’t be another coincidence. It can’t be.
As the bartender places a beer down in front of me, I notice the label is blurry. Squinting doesn’t help. It only seems to make it worse. I reach into my bag for my wallet, but my arms are unexpectedly heavy.
I suddenly can’t breathe.
“Sorree,” I say, but it comes out slurred. The bartender impatiently waits for me to get my shit together, but it seems to get worse. He leaves and takes the beer with him.
Nausea builds, but I don’t need to be sick. I just feel queasy. Deciding to go to the bathroom, I stand, but my legs won’t hold my weight. What the fuck is going on? After three attempts, I finally find my feet and stumble my way through the crowd.
My vision is getting blurrier, and the background noise all converges into one. I’m clearly a lot drunker than I thought. Penny and Ronnie are playing pool, and I have no idea where Darla went, not that I’d want her help. After fumbling and bumping into people, I finally make my way into the bathroom.
It’s a miracle there isn’t a line, and I slump into the first stall, not even capable of locking the door. My heart begins racing, but I suddenly am so tired. I just need to sleep. My brain is yelling at me to wake the fuck up, but as each second ticks over, I’m gradually losing control of my body.
I cradle the toilet bowl, placing my head on the closed lid and allowing sleep to overcome me. It feels nice here in a sleepy bubble where I can forget. But self-preservation kicks in. I only had three drinks. Or was it four? Either way, I shouldn’t be this wasted.
Something feels wrong.
