Theeight-ballkissesthebumper, a soft thud of felt on wood, and drops clean into the corner pocket. The sound is a small, satisfying period at the end of a sentence I don’t want to think about. My hands move on autopilot, racking the balls again. The familiar slide and click of resin on resin, the dry scrape of chalk against the cue tip—it’s a constant rhythm to keep me moving, to keep me breathing. That’s the trick.
Across from me, Nash raises an eyebrow. It’s barely a twitch of a muscle, but from him, it’s a goddamn sonnet.
“You trying to win or work through something?”
I flash him a grin—too quick, too sharp, all teeth. He sees it. Shit. “Why not both? Got that therapist energy tonight, Nash.Should I lie down and cry about how my parents never hugged me enough?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. With his signature quietness, he walks to the table, exuding a dangerous calm. Rather than speaking threats, they seem to radiate from him.
And me? I fill the spaces he leaves behind. I talk to stay ahead of the quiet, the crushing silence that’s always waiting to swallow me whole.
“You ever think this place could use margaritas?” I ask, lounging against the edge of the table. “Salted rim, little umbrella. Really class the joint up.”
He doesn’t even glance up. “You’ll find a way to make tequila sad.”
Maybe that’s the point. Keep joking until nobody asks what’s really under it. I let out a low chuckle, but the sound feels hollow in my ears. He sinks two balls without blinking. Precision without effort.
“God, you’re fun,” I say, the words a shield. “This is why you don’t get invited to girls’ night.”
He stops, his cue resting loosely in his grip. His gaze lifts to mine. Still. Steady. Piercing in a way that makes your ribs feel too thin. “You good?”
Two words. No inflection. No judgment. Just a scalpel, pressed soft against the skin. And still, it cuts.
The air in my lungs turns thick, sticky. The clubhouse noise—the thud of boots on the worn floorboards, the sharp crack of a laugh from the corner, the slam of a shot glass on the bar—fades to a dull roar, like I’m underwater. Nash’s question hits like absolute silence, a vacuum where all that noise used to be. My heartbeat is a frantic drum against my ribs.
I blink, slow, forcing the world back into focus. My smile returns, brittle around the edges. “I’ve got a beer with my nameon it, a winning streak, and at least three women here who haven’t figured out I’m emotionally stunted. Life’s good.”
Lies. All of it. I’m a breath away from climbing out of my skin. An anxious energy has been crawling under my skin all night, a familiar ghost that only shows up when I know she’s coming. Frankie’s text from an hour ago is a hot coal in my pocket. She’s coming. Don’t fuck this up. It wasn’t a heads-up. It was a prophecy. A command. My gut twitches when she talks like that. Like the universe already knows I’m about to screw something up. And I hate that I trust her witchy bullshit more than I trust my gut.
Nash doesn’t move, but he knows I’m lying. I can see it in his eyes. I push off the table and step away before he can call me on it. He lets me go.
I cut a path through the crowd, needing the oppressive heat and the familiar press of bodies to ground me. The music thumps low and filthy, making the bass rattle through floorboards that have seen too many fights. The air smells of old sweat, spilled whiskey, and regret in a dozen different colognes. It’s a sensory assault, and I welcome it. It’s better than the quiet.
Kyle spots me, already sliding a cold bottle across the bar.Smart kid.
“What, you reading my mind now?” I ask, catching the beer mid-glide.
He grins. “Didn’t seem like the right time to ask if you wanted something fruity.”
“Careful, Prospect,” I snort. “That almost sounded like personality.”
“I’ve been practicing,” he says, wiping down the bar with a rag that’s seen better days. “Figured if I’m gonna work my way up, I should at least learn how to charm the treasurer.”
“You want charm points, start by not short-pouring the whiskey,” I say, taking a long pull from the bottle. Cold and bitter. Good.
There’s a hunger in him tonight. A wired energy under the surface, like he’s waiting to be called into something more. He wants to prove himself. Wants in. But I’ve seen that hunger before. It burns hot and fast, and if you don’t learn how to carry it, it’ll torch you from the inside out.
I look him over, really look at him. The kid’s got a good head on his shoulders, but his potential is being squandered back here. “You’re wasted back here pouring drinks,” I say, my voice a low rumble. “You know anything about a wrench?”
Kyle blinks, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “A little. My uncle had a garage.”
“A little is enough,” I say, taking another pull from my beer. I set the bottle down with a definitive clink. “Show up at the garage tomorrow at 0600. Don’t be late.”
He goes to speak again with a flicker of excitement and confusion in his eyes, then hesitates.
I glance over. “What?”
“Just… you and Nash. You’ve been at that table a while. Looked like a funeral for a minute.”
