Chapter 17
The bar is still open.
It’s a college bar, but it’s the middle of summer, so the crowd is paper thin. My chest flutters with homesickness. Pieces of school pride are scattered about, reminding me of Chicago North University and the Alpha Delta Xi house.
Walking inside, Addison leads me straight toward the billiard table near the back. “I’ll rack ‘em up,” she says. “You grab us a round.”
And thus begins my first date with Addison Abbey.
I firmly delete that thought from my brain as I approach the bar and order two pints of whatever local beer they have on tap. It has no business crossing my mind at all. Addison and I are friends. Co-workers. Two musicians on tour together and, as Knox said, she doesn’t fool around with people she shares a bus with. And let’s not forget her entire I don’t date musicians thing.
No, this is just two friendly co-workers casually letting off a little steam after spending a half hour sitting at a fountain in the middle of the night talking about love.
See? Nothing to get bent out of shape about.
I approach the pool table with a pint in each hand as Addison finishes setting up the game. She’s bent over the foot of the table with both hands on the rack, focused on setting it in juuust the right spot.
Cute. I do the same thing.
“Since I won last game,” I say as I offer her a glass, “I’ll let you break.”
Addison stands tall and accepts her drink with a playful sneer. “I don’t need your pity, Moon,” she says. “You break.”
“It’s not pity,” I say. “It’s just fair.”
She takes a sip and walks to the nearest empty table off to the side, leaving me to start the game.
Okay, then.
I set down my drink and grab the other cue stick off the stand on the wall before heading to the far side of the table. Addison’s already placed the white cue ball in the perfect spot, but I tempt fate a little by moving in a half inch to the left just to see how she’ll react.
Her eyes narrow.
I smirk and lean over.
Pop!
I hit the ball hard, and it careens toward the triangle of balls at the other end. They break apart loudly; the sound carrying over the quiet hum of voices in the far corners of the bar, and bump around the table before settling into places.
The 2-ball rolls into the corner pocket.
Addison nods, her expression blank as she takes another sip of her drink.
“How’s that local brew?” I ask as I walk around.
“It’ll do,” she answers.
I chuckle. Easy pickings on the 3-ball.
I stop to get it, barely even needing to line up the shot at all before sinking it.
“Where did you learn to play?” Addison asks as I pass her table again.
“My mom,” I answer, my eyes drawing lines along the felt, searching for just the right angle to tackle that 4-ball. “She loves this game. We’ve had a table in the basement for as long as I can remember.” I bend over to line up my shot. “My stepfather hates it, though. He wanted us to get rid of it, so I played a lot to justify us keeping it. And to piss him off.”
I hit the cue ball, bouncing it off the left side to hit the 4-ball from the back. It rolls straight into the side pocket, just as I planned.
Addison nods, her smile devious. “I get the feeling you don’t like your stepdad very much.”
“He’s always been a hard ass to me,” I say. “But he’s sweet on her, so…”
“That’s love, huh?” she quips.
I shrug. “Where did you learn to play?” I ask as I round the table again.
“I grew up in Las Vegas.”
“Ah. Should have known.”
“There was a table in my high school,” she adds. “Bronson and I used to play a lot before school. And after. Didn’t have much else to do. We weren’t too big on extracurriculars.”
“Neither was I.”
I spot an opening on the 1-ball, but it’ll be tight. Unfortunately, it’s the only option I have unless I want to risk a play involving the 8-ball, which I very much do not.
I lean over and squint, sending the world beyond that bright yellow ball into a blur as I throw all my focus on it.
I can do this.
I can?—
My vision shifts. Addison comes into focus behind the 1-ball, and I realize this whole time I’ve been staring at her chest.
I quickly bend forward to line up the shot. My cheeks set ablaze, I hit the cue ball. Luckily, it hits its target, which rolls into the corner pocket.
But so does the cue ball.
“My turn,” Addison says as she hops off her stool.
Shit.
I give her the table, walking around to claim the empty stool as she circles toward the head of the table with the cue ball in hand. She places it down, her eyes flicking left, right, and all around the felt to find the best possible shot.
As much as I’d like to keep chatting with her, I say nothing as she leans over the table; her auburn hair dangling over one shoulder.
She hits. She scores. The cue ball easily sideswipes the 11-ball into a side pocket before continuing forward with enough momentum to clip the 12-ball, too. And the 12-ball plummets into the corner, just as she planned, while the cue ball comes to a stop a few inches away from the table”s edge, lining up a perfect play to knock the 13-ball in next.
“You look nervous,” Addison says, her voice taking on a light and playful quality that tickles my spine.
I straighten my back. “Nope,” I lie.
She chuckles and keeps going.
I sit and watch as she walks around, swiftly taking shots at the 13 and 9 balls in quick succession. She stops in front of me, her eyes on her next prize, and bends at the waist, giving me a perfect view of her perfect rear as she?—
Addison whips her head back and looks at me over her shoulder.
I flinch, but not fast enough to hide the fact that I was very much staring at her ass.
She doesn’t call me on it, though.
She knows she’s gonna walk out of this place with my balls in her guitar case.
A quick thrust of her cue and 15-ball falls into a pocket with a satisfying clap.
Addison rounds the table again, her eyes on her next target. I blink and nearly miss it as she takes another shot. The cue ball fires down the table and knocks the 10-ball toward the corner. Not hard enough to knock it in, though— no, wait.
Yup, it went in.
And the cue ball taps the 14-ball, but it doesn’t— no. Sunk that one, too.
Two balls, one shot. An apt metaphor, really.
Fuck, she’s good.
And so pretty.
Addison chuckles again, her victory well within reach. Just the 8-ball remains for her. And it’s inches away from a side pocket. An easy win… if it weren’t for my 3-ball hanging out between it and her cue.
I look into her devious eyes. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no way you pull this off.”
Addison says nothing.
She merely turns away from me and faces the table. For a moment, she lingers casually with one hand on the table, gently tapping it with her nail. Her way of extending my torment, no doubt.
It works, too. Fidgeting a little too much, I push up to stand and watch, leaning on my stick for support before she effectively kneecaps me.
But also, some hope.
There’s no way she pulls this off, right?
Right?
“8-ball,” Addison says. “Side pocket.”
She lays her stick flat, then angles it, setting up a jump shot. I hold my breath, seconds stretching longer as I wait for her to take the shot.
Pop!
The cue ball bounces over my 3-ball and hits the 8-ball, knocking it directly into the side pocket.
Addison stands tall. “And that’s game,” she says, smiling pleasantly.
“Wow,” I say. “Not bad, Abbey.”
“Thank you.”
“Best two out of three?”
She laughs. “Seriously?”
“I don’t want to go back to the hotel yet. Do you?” I ask.
“No,” she says, biting her lip. “I guess I don’t.”
I keep my eyes on her, hoping she doesn’t look away either. The noise around us fades into a gentle background hum as my pulse pounds even harder in my ears.
If there’s any time to shoot my shot, it’s now.
“But if I win…” I say. “Then you have to tell me your most embarrassing sex story.”
Addison arches a brow as her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink.
Is she… blushing?
Did I make her blush?
I totally made her blush!
Be cool, though. Just be cool…
“And if I win?” she asks.
“I’ll do the same.”
“You already told me yours.”
I chuckle. “No, I didn’t.”
Her head tilts. “You’ve done something worse than taking a snooze in some girl’s snatch?” she asks, doubtful.
“Oh, yes,” I answer, hoping she’ll take the vague-bait. “I have.”
Addison stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “All right,” she says. “I’ll play, Harvey Moon.”
Fuuuuck.
I love it when she says my name like that… or at all.
She sets her stick down. “But first,” she says. “I’m going to hit the ladies’. You rack ‘em up.”
I nod. “Will do.”
Stupidly, I let my gaze linger on her as she goes; her form disappearing into a shadowy hallway, following the glowing signs that point toward the restrooms.
Once she’s gone, I exhale hard through pursed lips.
“Goddamn,” I whisper to myself. I bounce twice on my toes and wiggle my limbs, hoping I don’t actually look as stiff and nervous as I feel.
Calm down.
Nothing’s gonna happen here tonight.
You’re just hanging out with a friend on tour.
A good friend with a great ass and pretty eyes, who plays guitar like the rock goddess of your dreams.
Keeping my expectations sewer-level where they belong, I get to work gathering the balls from the pockets and rolling them to one end of the table.
The snap of the rack touching felt makes me smile. “That was quick,” I say before looking up and… pausing.
That’s… not Addison.
A different woman stands there, one hand pushing the rack into place. She scoops up the black 8-ball and balances it on her fingertips with perfectly manicured electric blue-colored nails that match her shoulder-length hair.
“Hello, there,” she says, her lips smooth as ice. “Can I play?”
I swallow hard as Tesla Kyle smiles.