Oliver dropped a hand to his good shoulder in commiseration, but he failed to contain his laughter.
“Next time, just be happy you’ve beaten us,” Oliver instructed gently, like the sage, chastising mother he was.
“Next time? There is no next time. I’m never playing pool again! My reputation is shot all to hell!” Carlos protested angrily.
Aberlour rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics.
The bar was almost empty, not surprising considering it was mid-afternoon on a Tuesday.
“Every addict’s last words,” Marcus answered wisely.
Carlos shoved him hard enough that he nearly fell off his bar stool.
How they’d gotten themselves in this situation, Aberlour could not recall. They had five days off, then they would have to ship out to another hellhole. This was day three. They were all sunburnt from hanging out around the pool and playing in the surf. Carlos had gotten them to leave the hotel room with its heavenly AC and walk down the beach to a local bar, muttering about hot women and cold beers. Aberlour had been restless and bored, so he’d tagged along to have something to do. JD and Ghost had stayed behind, claiming they wanted to hang out at the hotel pool. As far as Aberlour was concerned, he’d had just about all the sunbathing he could take.
“Let me win it back,” Carlos pleaded with Aberlour doing a great impression of a puppy dog begging for treats.
The gargoyle was still the ongoing and coveted prize of Team Specter. No one could remember where they’d gotten it—it might have been stolen, but no one could say for certain—but they’d made it the official trophy of their competitions, and it changed hands every two or three weeks. Aberlour had the longest run at holding onto it. He’d managed to keep it for nearly two months before JD had beaten him at a beer funnel contest.
Carlos had won it about a week ago when he’d beaten Marcus at Mario Kart. He’d done pretty well defending hispossession of the gargoyle playing pool with Marcus and Oliver, but he’d pushed his luck when he’d asked Aberlour to play.
Aberlour never lost if there was something he was aiming at. Silly little Chihuahua.
“What are we playing?” Aberlour asked, crossing his arms over his chest, legs extended in front of him.
“Another round of pool,” Carlos replied.
Oliver laughed and Marcus groaned.
“The man is a martyr.” Marcus gave a discouraged sigh.
“I’m tired of kicking your ass,” Aberlour said, declining Carlos’ offer with an exceedingly smug smile.
Carlos made a frustrated sound and put both hands over his face.
“Eating contest,” Carlos said, after a moment, the cocky expression on his face baiting Aberlour.
Was Aberlour a big eater? No. But Carlos had the appetite of a Chihuahua. He was a fiery little guy, but one plate of nachos was usually all it took to do him in. JD was an entirely different story. Now,hecould eat. He was the resident hot dog champion, and no one could ever beat him.
“Call JD,” Aberlour told Oliver, with a sharp nod. He stood up and clapped his hands together in a decisive manner.
“We’re gonna need wings,” he said.
Marcus hollered “Woo-fucking-hoo!” punching the air with both fists.
Oliver shook his head, but he was already dialing.
To no one’s surprise, Carlos finished dead last.
“No!” he shouted in anguished defeat.
The rest of the team laughed and Aberlour threw his balled-up napkin at Carlos’ head.
JD was sitting back in his seat, arms crossed in complacent satisfaction, eyes sparkling with pride.
“Amateur,” JD told Carlos, shaking his head in mock reproof.
They’d moved from the pool table to a large table wide enough to hold all their baskets of wings. The waitress—to her credit—hadn’t batted an eye when they’d ordered twenty chicken wings each. Discarded bones piled up in the red baskets that got shoved to the side as they all moved on to consuming the next serving.
