Cassie lined up again, eyes flicking toward him.With a slow, deliberate motion, she sank one more ball—dead center—then straightened, resting her cue loosely in her hands.
“Looks like I’m the only one here who knows how to finish a stroke.”
The boys howled, someone yelling, “She’s got you limp, Crush!”
“Fuck you,” Crusher shouted back.“I stay ready—ask your sister!”
“Joke’s on you,” they barked, “she’s your cousin!”
Another voice cut through the laughter: “Crusher’d fuck a tailpipe if it had lipstick on!”
Crusher pressed a hand over his heart, grinning wide.“Now, wait a goddamn minute—I ain’t as freaky as Rook!”
Rook just lifted his beer.“Ain’t hearin’ a no, though.”
That did it—Cassie’s laughter spilled out.She folded around her cue, shoulders shaking.“Y’all are goddamn animals,” she gasped.“Every last one of—”
As she straightened, still wheezing, she went still.In Crusher’s place now stood Nash, rolling the cue between his palms with that slow, practiced ease that had always meant trouble.
“What’re we playin’ for?”he asked, eyes locked on hers.
Cassie glanced toward Crusher, who shrugged.“I ain’t fightin’ for a game I was already losin’.”
“Chicken,” she muttered.
“A chicken with his dignity intact,” Crusher replied with a smack of his lips.
Nash leaned forward over the table, sweeping the balls into the pockets one by one.“New game,” he said.“You and me.”
Cassie folded her arms across her chest.“Who said we’re playing?”
“You’re holdin’ a cue,” he drawled.“I’m holdin’ a cue.Looks like a game to me.”
A few hoots rose from the onlookers; more bodies drifted in, drawn by the sight of Nash stepping up to the table.A dollar slapped the rail, then another, a crowd forming around them.
“I’m shootin’ pool, not puttin’ on a show,” she tossed back.
Nash gave her a long, lazy look as he set the rack in place.“You sure about that?The girl I remember always loved puttin’ on a show.”
Despite the uptick in her pulse, Cassie shrugged.“You want a show—fine.”She glanced at the growing crowd of leather cuts.“Get ready to watch your president lose his shirt.”
As a ripple of “oooohs” rolled through the room, Nash gestured toward the table.“Ladies first.”
Rolling her eyes, Cassie bent and broke hard.The crack tore through the noise, balls scattered, three dropping fast.
“Oh, fuck yeah!”Crusher shouted.“Mop the floor with him, Cas!”
Click—another solid dropped, then another.She lined up her next shot, breathed, struck.The cue kissed the target, sent it rolling, teetering—then falling clean.
When only the eight remained, the bar quieted beneath the jukebox’s slow beat.Cassie chalked the cue, bent low, and took the shot.The eight dropped with a soft, perfect thud, the crowd exploding in cheers and laughter.
“Goddamn, she wiped that table clean!”
“Hey Prez—that what you meant by ‘ladies first’?”
Cassie straightened slowly, laughter bubbling with adrenaline.Across the table Nash was wearing that look again—the same heated one he’d given her at the bar.
“Another?”he asked, voice rougher than before, something raw flickering beneath it.
