“Sure, what do you want to bet?”
“My freedom back.”
Andrew frowns. But then his delicious lips turn upward again once he realizes that I apparently don’t know how to play pool.
“Well, I’m a little hurt you would want it back,” he says, switching the stick back and forth between his hands with one end of it standing against the floor, “but sure, I’ll take that bet.”
Just when I think the agreement has been made he adds, putting up one finger: “However, if I win, I get to take that do-whatever-I-say to a whole new level.”
It’s my turn to raise a brow.
“A whole new level how?” I ask in a leery, sidelong glance.
Andrew rests his stick against the table and props his hands on the edge, leaning into view of the light. His deep-set grin, just the sheer intent behind it, sends a shiver up my back.
“Is it a bet, or not?” he asks.
I’m pretty sure I can beat him, but now he kind of has me scared shitless. What if he’s better than me and I lose this bet and end up eating those bugs or hanging my bare ass out of the moving car? Those were the types of things I wanted to keep him from eventually trying to force me to do—I never did forget that he said: we’ll get to that. Sure, I could refuse anything he told me; he assured me of that before we left Wyoming, but not having to go through all that in the first place is all I wanted.
Or … wait … what if it’s sexual in nature?
Oh, it’s on now … I almost hope that he does win.
“It’s a deal.”
He smiles wickedly and pulls away from the table, taking his stick with him.
A small group of guys and two girls just finished their game at the table next to ours and a few of them have started watching us.
I lean over the table, position my stick much the same way Andrew had, slide it back and forth through my fingers a few times and smack the cue ball dead-center. 11 smacks into 15 and 15 smacks into 10, sinking both of them into a corner pocket.
Andrew just looks at me, his pool stick resting vertically between his fingers in front of him.
He raises a brow. “Was that beginner’s luck, or am I being hustled?”
I grin and walk around to the other side of the table to gauge my next shot. I don’t answer. I just smile faintly and keep my eyes on the table. Purposely taking the shot closest to Andrew, I bend over the table in front of him (covertly glancing down to make sure my boobs aren’t in full view of the guys watching directly across from me) and measure my shot before hitting the 9 hard into the side pocket.
“I’m being hustled,” Andrew says behind me, “and teased.”
I rise up and skim my grinning eyes across his as I make my way to the end of the table.
I miss this shot on purpose. The table is set almost perfectly and I might actually be able to pull off an easy win, but I don’t want it to be easy.
“Ah, hell no, babe,” he says stepping up, “none of that pity-shot bullshit—you could’ve sank the 13 easily.”
“My finger slipped.” I look at him coyly.
He shakes his beautiful head at me and narrows his eyes, knowing full-well I’m lying.
Finally, we just go at it: he sinks three balls flawlessly, one turn after the next, before missing the 7. I sink another one. Then he sinks one. And we do this back and forth, taking our time with each shot, but both of us missing every now and then to keep the game going.
Now it’s down to business. It’s my turn and the only balls left on the table are his 4, the cue and the 8. The 8 is six inches too far from a perfect corner shot in either direction, but I know I can bank it on one side of the table and let it come back to this side and sink it in the left.
Two more guys have started watching, no doubt because of the way I’m dressed (I’ve been listening to their quiet comments about my ‘t-n-a’ the whole time, especially when I bend over to take a shot), but I don’t let them distract me. Though, I’ve noticed Andrew’s eyes on them a lot and it excites me that he’s at all jealous.
I point my stick at the table and call it, “Left pocket.”
I move around to the side and crouch down at eye-level with the table to see if my lining is off. I stand back up and check the lining of the cue and the 8 again from another perspective and then lean over the table. One. Two. Three. On the fourth slide-back, I smack the cue gently and it hits the 8 at just the right angle, sending it against the right side of the table where it bounces back a few inches over and sinks flawlessly into the left pocket.
The few guys watching on the other side of me make various noises of tamed excitement as if I can’t hear them.
Andrew is on the other side of the table grinning wide at me.
“You’re good, babe,” he says racking the balls again. “I guess you’re free now.”
I can’t help but notice that he seems a little sad about that fact. His face may be smiling, but he can’t hide the disappointment in his eyes.
“Nah,” I say, “I don’t want that freedom unless it comes to eating bugs or hanging my ass out the car window—I kind of like you being in control of the rest.”
Andrew smiles.
We play another game, which he wins fairly, and afterwards I decide to sit back down at our table before these new shoes start rubbing blisters on my feet. I’m on my second Heineken and still am only feeling it in my toes and the bottom of my stomach. It’ll take another one to get me a good buzz.
“Want a game, man?” a guy asks stepping up to Andrew just as he starts to sit down with me.
Andrew looks over and I wave him on.
“Go on, I’m fine—gonna check my messages and rest my feet for a while.”
“Alright, babe,” he says, “just let me know if you’re ready to go before I’m done and we’ll go.”
“I’m good,” I say, urging him, “go on and play.”
He smiles in at me and walks back over to the table not more than fifteen feet away. I get my purse from underneath the table and set it in front of me, rummaging inside in search of my phone.
Just as I suspected: Natalie has blown my phone up with text messages, sixteen in all, but at least she hasn’t tried to call. My mom hasn’t called, either, but I remember she was going on that cruise with her new boyfriend this weekend. I hope she’s having a great time. I hope she’s having as great a time as I am.
A new song starts funneling through the speakers in the ceiling and I notice the amount of people inside the bar has tripled since we got here. Even though Andrew isn’t that far away, I can only see his lips moving when he says anything to the guy he’s shooting pool with. The waitress comes back and I ask for another beer and she goes off to get it, leaving me to the Text Message Queen. Natalie and I go back and forth a few times about what she did today and where she’s going tonight, but I know it’s all just filler-conversation, taking the place of what she’s dying to know more about: me in New Orleans with this ‘mystery guy’, who he looks like (not ‘what’ because she always compares guys to famous people) and if I’ve ‘bent over for him’ yet. I keep everything vague just to torture her. She still deserves it, after all. Besides, I’m still not ready to go into Andrew with her. Or with anyone, really. It’s like if I talk about him at all, even just to confirm he