Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I push the green beans around my plate, my appetite gone. Across the table, Reeves shovels food into his mouth while Liam plays with his. The kitchen feels too warm, too small, like the walls are closing in on me.
"So next week’s the last session with Mr. Moneybags, right?" Reeves asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
"Yeah," I mumble. “Just one more.”
The memory of Caine's lips on mine burns through my body.
I can still feel his breath on my neck, his fingers...
I gulp water, trying to drown the guilt rising in my throat.
I lost control, and I hate myself for it.
It was just… when I found out what Reeves did to the poor man, I was livid.
The whole thing was a big 'fuck you' to Reeves.
"Good. Then we're done with him."
I set my glass down harder than intended. "Why did you lie to me about Caine?"
Reeves freezes mid-chew. "What?"
"He told me what happened. How you and Greg beat him up and put him in the hospital when he was younger."
"Is that what he told you?" Reeves laughs, but there's no humor in it. "And you believe him?"
"Did you do it or not?"
Reeves slams his palm on the table. Liam jumps, his fork clattering to the floor.
"Daddy mad," Liam whispers, eyes wide.
"It's okay, sweetie,” I soothe, reaching for his hand. To Reeves, I hiss, "You're scaring him."
Reeves takes a deep breath. "Look, you don't know what you're talking about. Whatever happened back then, you weren't there."
"So you did hurt him.”
"He was hustling us! Taking our money! Acting all superior with his fancy clothes and his 'natural talent.'" He makes air quotes, his face reddening. "And now what? You think he cares about you? Wake up, Jenna! He's playing you."
"You don't know that."
"The guy's a multi-millionaire, for Christ's sake! He could have any woman he wants. Models, actresses—you name it. You think he's interested in a small-town bartender with a kid? He's using you to get back at me."
His words cut deep, echoing my insecurities. What if Reeves is right? What if I am just a pawn in Caine's revenge game? What if Caine’s sweet words were just all part of it?
“It’s not like that," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"You've known him for what, a few weeks? I've known him for years. He's a narcissist who gets off on manipulating people."
I stare at my plate, doubt creeping in. The connection I felt with Caine seemed so real, but maybe I'm just another conquest to him. Maybe I've risked everything for nothing. Maybe I’m just a fool.
Reeves is probably right. I'm so naive. Well, fuck Reeves and fuck Caine. I'm not letting either one of them get to me.
I collapse onto the couch, kicking off my shoes. My feet ache, my back hurts, and my brain feels like mush. Three days of juggling the pool hall and Liam while Reeves is at some tournament in Boston have left me drained.
Thank God for Clara and her boy, who’ve been around to help and distract us. And Liza too.
"God, I needed this," Liza says, sinking into the armchair across from me. She raises her margarita glass. "To escaping work early and leaving Greg to deal with all the shit."
I laugh. "He's kind of an asshole, but he's a good employee—hate to admit it,” I explain to Clara, who seems intrigued by our drama.
I clink my glass against Liza’s. "To Greg."
"Please. That man gets paid to stand around looking intimidating most nights anyway."
"So," Liza leans forward, her eyes full of mischief. "Are you going to tell me what's going on with Mr. Hot Stuff? You've been weird all weekend."
I take another gulp of my drink, debating whether to spill the tea or not.
But it's Liza and Clara, so of course I will.
I've been dying to tell someone, to free myself of the guilt.
If anyone would understand, it would be them…
well, maybe not Clara. "I…" I struggle to say. "I… I’m sorry, Clara. I didn’t call or text like I promised.”
Her eyes grow wide with concern. “What did you do?”
God, I wish I could crawl under a rock. I would live there forever before admitting what I did. “I… I let him touch me," I finally manage.
"You what?" Clara nearly spits out her margarita.
"Under my skirt. I let him... and I liked it." The confession rushes out of me.
They both stare at me, wide-eyed and completely speechless.
"See…" I rush to explain. "I'd just found out Reeves and Greg beat him up years ago and put him in the hospital."
"Holy shit." Liza's eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets. "That's... crazy."
"I know. It's terrible… anyway, I was pissed at Reeves, and I guess I used that as justification to let things get out of hand."
Liza smirks. "Out of hand, they certainly did. How did he touch you exactly? Like, did he just briefly touch you? Or did he make you come, girl?"
I close my eyes, remembering the way his fingers found their way under the hem of my skirt, the warmth of his touch searing into my skin. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, and I can't help but squirm a little in my seat, the sensation still vivid in my mind.
It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment fueled by anger and a desperate need for some form of release from the relentless pressures of my life. But oh, how those skilled hands made me feel alive, desired, and for a fleeting moment, free from the shackles of my reality.
I recall the intensity of his gaze, the way his breath hitched when he realized I wasn't going to stop him. It was as if we were the only two people in the world, caught in a whirlwind of the forbidden that neither of us could resist.
And despite the guilt that gnawed at me afterward, I couldn't deny the undeniable pleasure that coursed through my veins.
I open my eyes to find Liza and Clara still staring at me, their expressions a mix of shock and curiosity. "Jenna, girl, you've got it bad," Liza says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I know she's right, but admitting it out loud would make it all too real. Instead, I take another sip of my drink, the sharp taste of the margarita doing little to clear the fog of my thoughts.
Liza leans in closer, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "So, this little naughty rendezvous... was it just a one-time thing, or is there more to the story?"
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat.
The truth is, I don't know where this leaves me, or what it means for my marriage, my family.
All I know is that for a brief moment in that cramped, dusty room, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time—a stroke of intense passion that had long been extinguished in the daily grind of my life.
"I don't know, Liza," I finally say, my voice barely a whisper. "I just don't know."
"Did he do the job, though?" Liza is obviously very keen to know all the gory details.
I smile. "He did… he made me come so hard,” I finally admit in a whisper, ashamed of myself.
She throws her head back. "You lucky bitch."
Clara is still speechless, slack-jawed. I know she disapproves.
I bite my lip. "I'm a horrible person."
"You're human." Liza shrugs. "And he's ridiculously hot."
"But I'm married."
"To a man who hospitalized the guy you're crushing on."
I blow out a breath. This arrangement has gotten so out of control.
Liza cocks a brow. "Where did this happen anyway?"
"In the storage room," I tell her. "Greg was late coming in… he lost a wheel on his car."
She grins. "Well, thank you, Greg's crappy car."
I laugh softly. "I guess we don't pay the guy enough."
She pulls out her phone. "Have you ever watched Caine play? Like in tournaments?"
I shake my head.
"I didn't want to go there. My head is full enough with thoughts of him as it is."
"Let's look him up."
After several minutes of searching, we find quite a few YouTube videos, and we finally pick one—the 2022 US 8-ball Open final. We set it up on my Smart TV, and I make a mental note to delete it from the YouTube history as soon as we're done watching. The match is an hour and a half long.
Caine looks devastating in a tailored black golf shirt covered with logos, moving around the table with that slow, deliberate grace I've come to crave. His focus is absolute as he lines up each shot.
"Damn," Liza whispers. "The way he handles that stick should be illegal."
I can't even respond. I'm transfixed, remembering his hands on me, his breath on my neck. On screen, he sinks the winning shot and gives a small, confident smile to the crowd.
"You're in trouble, girl," Clara says, refilling our glasses.
By midnight, we're tipsy and exhausted. Liza crashes on the sofa, and I walk Clara to the guest room where her little boy is sleeping in the cozy double bed.
I stumble to my own bed, and as I drift off, I can still see Caine's hands on the cue, precise and controlled, and the problem is… I know all too well what else those hands can do.
The room is bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the partially open curtains.
I'm lying in bed, the sheets a tangled mess around my legs, my heart racing as if I've just run a marathon.
The house is silent, save for the steady tick-tock of the old clock on the dresser—a family heirloom.
I close my eyes, and there he is, Caine, his image stuck to the back of my eyelids.
The way he leans over the pool table, the intense concentration etched on his face—it's all so vivid, so captivating.
I remember the feel of his lips on mine, the taste of his kiss, the way his hands seemed to know exactly where to touch me.
Frustration bubbles up inside me, a potent cocktail of longing and guilt. I flip onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow in a futile attempt to stifle the whirlwind of emotions raging inside me.
My body aches for his touch, the memory of his hands exploring my pussy sending shivers down my spine. I can almost hear his voice, low and smooth, whispering naughty promises in my ear.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, my mind a complete mess. Reeves’s face flashes before my eyes, his easy smile, his laugh, the way he used to look at me as if I were the only woman in the world.
But those moments are few and far between these days, overshadowed by his temper and his constant need to be away. "For work," he says, but the doubt creeps in, gnawing at my insides, making it hard to breathe.
Anger simmers just below the surface. Why does he get to escape, to live a life beyond the confines of our home, while I'm left to pick up the pieces? Why does he get to leave while I'm trapped, suffocating under the weight of our life?
The ache between my legs is relentless, a pulsing need that refuses to be ignored. I hesitate, torn. My hand hovers over my stomach, the warmth of my skin seeping into my fingertips. I draw in a shaky breath and allow my hand to drift lower.
I tell myself it's just to help me sleep, to quiet the storm inside me.
Just this once, I'll allow myself this small indulgence, something I rarely do.