"Jesus," Malachi mutters, half a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. The cue rests against his shoulder, his posture loose, eyes sharp. The room rearranges around him even when he's doing nothing.
East lifts both hands. "That table's crooked."
"The table's not crooked." Nash's voice is flat and deadly calm. He's at the dartboard, throwing as though he's trying to pin a target to the wall and call it therapy. "You're just trash."
"I am not trash. I'm art."
"You're a cautionary tale," James murmurs as if he's reading a weather report.
Rider stands near the wall, arms folded. He looks relaxed until you know how to read men his kind. Eyes tracking exits, body positioned to move fast if anything shifts.
Kyle hovers near the table, holding the cue as though it might explode. Still carries that nervous, hungry edge of a man who thinks he has to keep proving he deserves to breathe in the same room as the rest of us.
I set my beer on the rail and rack the balls. My left side pulls when I lean, the bruise Sloane treated still tender under my shirt, but the ache has dulled enough to ignore. The sound of solid clacks is satisfying. For a second, it feels as though I have control.
"Relax," East tells Kyle, chalking his cue with exaggerated patience. "It's just pool."
Kyle looks up. "Last time I played pool with you, you bet me I couldn't sink a ball, then moved the cue ball when I wasn't looking."
"That is called strategy. And you learned a valuable lesson."
Kyle stares at him. "To not trust you."
"Exactly." Pleased. "Look at you growing."
Nash throws a dart. Bullseye. He lets the point sink deep. Takes a drink, reminding the room he's capable of precision.
"Show-off," East says.
Nash's mouth barely shifts. "Skill issue."
I glance toward the window.
Sloane stands now, brushing grass off her jeans. Ruby's saying something animated, hands moving as though she's directing a Broadway production titled Goat-Based Psychological Warfare. Maggie's a few steps away, arms folded, pretending disapproval while delight leaks through. Darla has her phone out, filming, body angled toward East even from outside, as if she's tethered to him.
Sloane turns her head, and even through the glass, her attention snaps to me on a frequency all our own.
Her smile is small. Razor-edged. A blade with a warm handle.
I take a drink I don't need, just to give my hands something to do besides go out there and pull her into my lap.
"Vice," Malachi says without looking at me. "If you keep staring out the window, I'm going to start charging you rent for the view."
East snorts. "He's not staring. He's stalking."
"I'm supervising."
James' low laugh rolls out. "From inside. Through glass."
Rider almost smiles. Kyle's shoulders loosen by half an inch, as if he's realizing nobody's going to bite him.
Nash's dart hits the board again. "If that goat headbutts me one more time, I'm eating it."
From outside, Ruby's voice spikes higher, as though she heard him through pure spite. Nasty Nash Jr. bleats, loud and self-satisfied, and I swear the damn thing knows his name.
East settles against the table. "Okay. New rule." Malachi arches a brow. East raises a finger, testifying. "We stop pretending our pranks landed. We got outplayed."
Nash scoffs. "We didn't get outplayed. Ruby cheated. Livestock is cheating."
