Page 196 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

lining up his shot, cue to the eight.

His veins jump in his forearm.

He slides once⁠—

“Gotta call it,” I say.

He flinches, head tilting up.

“Side,” he mutters,

settling back into position.

He draws back.

The clack echoes.

The eight ball spins,

kisses the lip near the pocket,

slows,

then dies.

Right there on the edge.

I tip my drink toward the pocket.

“Oof. Damn, Drew.

“That fuckin’ suuucks.”

His laugh’s a humorless thing. “Yeah, head’s pretty fuckin’ busy right now,” he taps his temple as he circles to the other side, “with you on your knees for once.”

He watches me from across the table, hands braced against the edge, fingers drumming on the grain, his cue stick abandoned against the wall.

The angle’s garbage.

Eight’s tucked up near the rail.

Cue’s parked at the opposite end,

wanting nothing to do with it.

“This is it,” I say, eyeing the two balls.

He flashes a wicked grin. “No rematch.”

“I don’t lose,” I say,

seeing all the ways I could lose.

“Nervous?” he asks.

I avoid his gaze. “Are you?”

He blows out a small chuckle.