The next Tuesday the pool tourney started. The first afternoon was hosted by Chi Phi. Their house was smaller than the Fenton house and not as deluxe in terms of décor—deluxe being a completely relative term—but their downstairs rumpus room was rocking the pool scene. One of the tables had a way-cool Budweiser lamp hanging over it. The light part of the lamp was topped with a toy replica of a shiny red beer cart pulled by velveteen-coated mini Clydesdales. The cart and the horses were in perfect shape because they were suspended in what looked to be a twenty-pound block of Lucite.
Wyatt and I leaned against one of the three Naugahyde-covered bars surrounding the pool table area and debated the best way to blast through that much plastic. When that lively debate was over I asked him, “So how come you don’t have a fancy pool cue like your friends?” I tipped my head toward a guy who was putting together a cue that probably cost a month’s worth of tips. The guy was a Fen-man—he was playing on a Fenton team, anyway—but he hadn’t been around last Tuesday. I would have noticed him.
He was what my friend Lucy called a Play-Doh boy. His parents had shoved carefully selected material into their special Play-Doh factory and then they’d carefully turned the crank. Out oozed this guy. Pretty colors, perfectly formed shape, fun to look at, but when you poked him or hung out with him for a while, everything dried up, got misshapen or fell to pieces.
Wyatt followed my gaze and snorted. He took a swig of Sam Adams before saying, “Because all my spare cash goes toward attending this fine institution. And if I asked my mom to buy me a pool cue, she’d laugh her ass off.” He flashed me a smile. “Cuz she’d know I was joking.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. College is the first time since age fifteen that I haven’t worked a job at least thirty hours a week. I gave her half of every check for my tuition fund and any fun stuff that I wanted—phone, games, athletic shit—I had to think long and hard about before I parted with my hard-earned cash.”
“That explains why you ended up being the house’s treasurer, right? You learned how to manage cash early on.”
“Right. It’s been an interesting experience hanging with guys like Teddy over there.” He gestured toward where Play-Doh boy was chatting up a redhead with a righteous rack. “Words like budget and economizing make them frickin’ lose their shit. We get along fine until money hijacks the conversation. Different philosophies, you might say.”
“Teddy is his name?”
“Theodore Solomon, Junior,” he said in a butler-announcing-royalty tone. “His folks are gazillionaires or something.”
“Ah.” My fingers tightened on my Coke can. The name Solomon rang a few bells. The guy probably knew my dad. Or Tom. Or both of them.
“There’s a lot of those around here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Those?”
“Rich kids.”
“Oh. Yep. I’ve noticed.”
He smiled at me again, his hand coming up to grip the back of my neck in a friendly squeeze. Made me shiver. I told myself it was because his fingers were cold—the bros in this house kept their beverages arctic-chill. I set my empty Coke can down on the counter behind us and rubbed my hands vigorously against my jeans. I had a sudden urge to grab Wyatt’s hand. I wanted to…connect with him, even though I wasn’t going to confess I was one of those rich kids who ticked him off.
My motivation for keeping quiet about that part of myself might seem complicated but it was actually pretty fucking simple—I wanted Wyatt to keep liking me. I wanted him to judge me on my own questionable merits, not because of my parents’ unquestionably obnoxious bank accounts. I wanted to show him that I was sorry the Teddy Solomons of the world were dicks. Make Wyatt understand that he should never—not even for a split second—be envious or jealous or wishful about Teddy’s money.
But before I could act on my hand-holding desire, he pushed away from the bar and picked up my empty can. “Can I get you another?” He winked. “They’re free. We can both afford that, right?”
“Nah,” I said. “I’m good.”
As I watched him walk away—straight spine, broad shoulders, fine ass—I thought about definitions of bravery. And how my definition might differ from Sheriff Earp’s. Seemed as though his definition was stable—a rock that couldn’t be moved or smashed no matter how much shit got thrown at it. My definition was more fluid. Some parts of my life could withstand a lot of shit. Some parts crumbled at the first whiff of it.
The counselor they’d made me talk to when I first dropped out of Ellery thought I’d compartmentalized too many parts of my life and that all my walls were going to keep exploding and rebuilding and exploding until I learned how to be more open.
Good advice, I suppose. But whenever I thought of my sessions with the counselor I thought about the bad romance that had been part of the reason for why I ended up in counseling. I got hung up on a person who I’d thought was hung up on me. We’d met as high school seniors and when she’d stayed in New York to go to design school and I’d left to go to Ellery, I thought we had enough between us to keep a long-distance thing going. She’d been easy to fall for—a sharp-as-hell hipster, all teddy-bear tender and tragically hip. I’d trusted her, became waaaaay into her waaaaay too fast, and I’d told her about my fucked-up family and about my scary-mad aversion to being fitted into their slots or anyone else’s slots.
Turns out she’d been hung up on the parts of me that I didn’t think were the most important parts—my dad’s money and my refusal to be slotted. In the end those were the parts she used against me. When I canceled yet another trip to see her in NYC and had to confess my last argument with my dad—the one where I told him I wouldn’t take another cent from him because I was sick of trying to be who he wanted me to be—she told me it was the final straw.
I can see why you wanna keep your daddy issues a secret, Ray. Your whole persona is a mixed bag of what-the-fuck. You’re just as mixed up on the inside as you are on the outside--that’s not exactly news. And, you know, if you can’t even explain who you are, maybe you’re not really worth being with…
Wyatt approached, fresh beer in his hand. I told myself the pleasure-gurgle in my chest was due to the fact he would save me from more scary introspection.
“Bad news,” Wyatt said as he settled against the bar beside me. I watched his throat ripple as he took a deep pull from his beer.
“What?”
“I tried to get you paired up with me or Mike, but I had to play fair and enter you in the name draw.”
“Of course you did, Sheriff Earp.”
His lips quirked. “Your partner is Teddy Solomon.”
“Mm. I’ll get to find out how good he is with his fancy slick stick.” I waggled my eyebrows.
Wyatt laughed. “I guess you will.”
As it happened, I found out very soon that Teddy Solomon played pool awesomely. Not a surprise since the guy had player written all over him. I got many chances to read the writing on Teddy’s “wall” as we quickly and decisively beat three teams in a row.
I decided to call the first chapter of the Teddy book, “Hands”. This decision was made while I was crouching on the long side of the table, gripping the smooth, well-used mahogany as I squinted across the felt at a peskily placed seven ball. High risk of scratching. As I refocused on another angle, a hot, slightly moist palm covered my knuckles and the scent of expensive cologne clogged my nostrils.
“You got this, gorgeous,” a deep, DJ-worthy voice slid smoothly into my ear. The hand covering mine was big with surprisingly soft fingers. A signet ring—Jesus, who even wore those?—glinted beneath the last knuckle of his pinky, gleaming platinum and bejeweled with a red stone that reminded me of Hall’s cough drops, cherry flavor. I licked my lips, flicked a glance over my shoulder. Teddy’s eyes were slate-blue and tilted up at the outer edges with a feline slant. His smile was also cat-like as he crouched over me, showing me perfect teeth. How many bones did he have to gnaw to get them that sharp and white?
I rolled my shoulder, a standard non-verbal demand for more space. He didn’t move.
Huh. Shocking that he didn’t pick up my cues.
I’d been crouched there for a good sixty seconds and the other team was starting to give me looks. I stood and Teddy stood with me, releasing his hold on my hand only to move those long, soft fingers to my hips, steadying me in case I stumbled from my recklessly precarious (sarcasm) crouching position.
I ignored him, made the shot, and retreated gratefully to my place at the bar until the next game started. Wyatt and Mike were playing on the other side of the room. Every now and then Wyatt’s gaze would connect with mine and his smile would make me stop feeling funny about being there. Unfortunately the effect only lasted a few moments post-smile.
The Teddy book’s second chapter was called “Butt-groping”. It goes like this: the table we were playing on was a tad too close to the wall. One of our opponents set up a shot and made a jerky movement with his cue to avoid bumping the wall. The cue’s butt nearly got me in the gut and I took a sudden sideways step. My protective partner, Teddy, put his hands on my butt in another helpful attempt to keep me from falling. I know, I know, what was I thinking? A delicate flower with dainty stems like mine should never attempt dangerous feats like crouching and taking sideways steps.
“I got you, babe,” that midnight DJ voice whispered in my ear.
I sighed. Good God almighty. What was worse? His voice, his word-choice or his cologne? The butt-groping. Yeah. That was the worst.
“Sonny or Cher?” I asked him, turning toward him with a big, pageant-winner smile.
His own smile went dim. “Uh. What?”
“I got you babe?”
“Oh, like the song?” His smile brightened again.
“Got it. So who’s the foxiest of the family? Sonny, Cher…”
“Cher,” he said without pause. “Definitely.”
“Figures,” I said, rolling my eyes at him as if he was pathetic. Which he was.
“What?” His snort sounded more nervous than scoff-ish. He shifted in his fancy shoes, giving me a narrow-eyed look. That’s right, Teddy. You’ve engaged in a conversation wherein someone might be fucking with you.
“What?” he repeated, getting impatient.
“Oh, nothing really…” I didn’t have an agenda for fucking with him, I just wanted to poke at him, see what he’d do. His eyes flashed and his pretty teeth disappeared altogether. Yup. Teddy didn’t appreciate being fucked with.
He made another nervous snorting sound. “I suppose you’d go for that fat-ass, Chaz, right?”
The typical, tired crap I blurted in such situations rose in my throat. But Teddy would beat me at any game involving typical or tired talents, so I left his question hanging there in the dank, beer-scented air. Hanging was better than it deserved, really.
After the third game—during which Teddy missed a few shots and then shot me with sullen and what he likely thought of as smoldering looks—I beat feet to the restroom. I had to pee, but I also had a raging need to wash my hands. Teddy grabbed my elbow as I walked down the short, dark hallway that led to the john. His grip wasn’t hard or painful but I turned to face him warily. Working the alpha-cat moves, he stepped into my space with a feral grin. My shoulder blades bumped against the paneled wall.
I wasn’t an alpha by a long stretch but, like a lot of creatures who’d been attacked before, I knew how to bare my teeth and snarl. “Don’t fuck with me, man,” I warned, fully prepared to knee him in the balls, thumb him in the eyeball, break his precious cue over his head.
“Oh, babe, you got it wrong.” He smiled, bracing his hands on either side of my shoulders. “It’s not like that. I want you to fuck me.”
“Not interested,” I said, too mad to get creative with my rejection. I’d exhausted my urge with the Sonny and Cher bit.
“You will be…” He leaned in. His breath smelled like vodka and pickles.
I stomped on his instep. My Red Wings weighed about eighty pounds and he was wearing some kind of high-tech, super-thin kicks. He screamed. Loudly. I took advantage of his surprise and booked out of the hallway, the need to piss and wash up forgotten.
“Fuck! Goddamn! That fucking hurt!”
My eyes skittered across the room, seeking the exit…or Wyatt, something or someone to help my flight or help me fight. Teddy outweighed me and probably more importantly, he out-angered me.
Didn’t move fast enough. His hand came down on my shoulder, biting painfully into bone and muscle, spinning me around.
“You fucking bitch—”
“Hey, hey! What’s going on?”
Did it make me seem silly or stupid or damsel-in-distressish that I went weak-kneed with relief at the sound of Wyatt’s familiar voice?
“Thank Christ,” I breathed when Teddy dropped his hands.
“What the fuck?” Wyatt’s eyebrows zigged and zagged like lightning bolts as his gaze bounced from me to Teddy and back.
I licked my lips. Bullshit or truth?
Before I could decide, Teddy changed channels. Freaked me out because it was literally as if an invisible dude had joined our little circle and he whipped out a remote control, pointed it at Teddy’s head and pressed the channel button.
Teddy laughed, a cheerful, gurgling sound, and shook his gleaming curls exuberantly—the kind of shake you’d give if you’d been doused with confetti. “Damn,” he said, smiling. He clasped the back of his neck and rubbed vigorously. “Don’t know what came over me. Heat of the moment, I guess.”
He met my gaze steady-on, no guilt, no shame. Then he winked. Fucking winked.
“Sorry,” he said, twisting his lips into a rueful smile. “Sometimes I read signals wrong.”
My eyes went wide. “Do you hear words wrong too? Oral dyslexia?”
“What the hell happened?” Sheriff Earp was sounding frustrated.
“What can I say?” Teddy said, spreading his hands wide. The I’m innocent gesture was kinda wrecked by how his hard-candy signet ring glinted in the orangey light. His eyes flickered over my body. “Sometimes mixed signals mix me up.”
I snorted. “Yeah. You’re the victim here.”
“Can I get you a beer or a drink?” Teddy offered, gazing at me with a slow blink, as schmoozey as an insurance guy at a country club cocktail party. “And we can maybe shake hands and move on? I’ll forgive you for mashing my foot.” His smile was schmoozey too. Ugh.
I shot him a you’ve-gotta-be-fucking-kidding-me look.
Wyatt fixed his eyes on me. “Let’s try to fix this, okay?” He gestured toward one of the tables. “Mike and I are still playing. Maybe we can all have a drink and chill after.”
Wyatt was the kind of guy who respected good sportsmanship. Yeah, I suppose I could shake Teddy’s soft, icky hand, forgive and forget, blah, blah, rah, rah. But mashing people in dark hallways wasn’t a sport, was it? And technically I was the one who’d done the mashing. All Teddy had done was to say stupid shit and get too close to me. Was it his fault his mere presence made me want to grab his balls and twist?
I sighed. Was this what happened when you hung at a frat house for more than a few hours? Your moral compass slowly degraded until all parts pointed south?
Fuck it. I’d give this lame battle a lame parting shot and blow this joint.
I looked at Teddy’s still-smiling face. “Fuck you,” I said tiredly. I exited the stinky hallway, brushed by the guys and gals congregating by the stairs and vamoosed.
I was freshly showered and huddled under my comforter watching Taxi Driver (yeah, I was in that kind of mood), when Wyatt texted me.
Can I come up? Pool’s over. People here are making me crazy. Need to read.
There’s the library, I responded helpfully.
A few moments passed. I stared at Bobby DeNiro’s dark, dark eyes. I curled my toes against my comforter, tense. Did I really want Wyatt to go to the library? Or did I want him to come up here?
I reached for the phone, ready to type an invitation, when it pinged at me.
I like library. But like you better.
Come up, I typed.
I threw on some sweatpants, a hoodie and thick wool socks. Started water boiling for tea. I’d need caffeine to avoid falling asleep on Wyatt’s thigh again. Didn’t want to set that precedent.
When I opened the door, his smile was happy, sheepish, guilty and worried all at once.
“What?” I asked, stepping aside to let him in.
He shrugged, letting his bag fall from his shoulder.
“I feel kinda bad.”
“Why?”
“Because you had to deal with Solomon. Mike told me he’d noticed Teddy was macking on you. I was surprised he got…obnoxious.”
“You were surprised? Really? He pretty much oozes obnoxiousness. Kinda hard to miss.”
“Yeah, but he’s usually more predictable.” His smile was rueful. “He typically goes for babes with Angelina Jolie lips and Kate Upton racks.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.” I delivered this cleverness crisply.
His smile twisted. Even though he dropped his bag to the floor he asked, “Are you gonna make me leave?”
“I invited you up, didn’t I? Why would I make you leave?”
“Because I’m an idiot Fen-man and you’re tired of my kind?”
“Well. Yeah…”
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day, though, so I’m hoping you’ll…overlook my shortcomings.”
“Looking forward to this?”
“Coming over here. Being with you. Having some quiet.”
“Ah.”
He wasn’t wearing a jacket. He’d changed his shirt and his hair was slightly damp. He’d apparently showered. For me? My lips twitched and something warm and syrupy poured over the remaining cold stuff in my gut.
“Well. Since you’re here, you can sit.” I turned and waved at my nest on the floor. “It’s still kind of hard on the ass, but it’s slightly better than the bare floor.”
“Looks great,” he said, his eyes as shiny and pleased-looking as if I’d offered him a berth on the Crystal Ship that sailed nightly toward Nirvana.
As he settled in, leaning against the wall, stretching out his mile-long legs across my comforter, retrieving books and computer from his backpack, I made us both mugs of tea.
He accepted his mug with gratifying thanks and I sat gingerly beside him, keeping a goodly, foot-long distance from his muscular thigh.
Since he wanted quiet, I scrounged around for ear buds.
“What are you watching?” he asked, tipping his head at my laptop.
“Um…” I abruptly realized I wasn’t in a Taxi Driver mood anymore. “Nothing at the moment.” I gave up the ear-bud hunt and glanced at the book he’d opened on his lap. “What are you reading?”
He looked down at the book. His soft laughter sounded apologetic. “Karl Marx. Research for a paper. I’ve read big chunks of analysis. Now I need to pull my own thoughts out of my ass.”
“Is that where you store your Karl Marx thoughts?”
“Some of them.”
“Would it help to talk your ideas through? I mean…with me?”
“Probably.”
I settled back against my pillow. “Go for it.”
“Are you sure? It’s some fucking dense shit.”
My mouth turned down. “I’m smarter than I look.”
He laughed. “Scary thought.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“You look smart as hell. Your eyes. Sometimes they get super-intense. Like that Cumberbatch guy who plays Sherlock.”
My turn to laugh. “Really?” This pleased me.
“Yeah.” He reached up and touched the crest of my cheek, the curve of bone below my right eye. His skin was kind of chapped and the edge of his finger was rough, dry. A memory of Teddy Solomon’s touch flashed through my nerve endings and I shuddered.
“What?” he asked, dropping his hand abruptly.
“Nothing,” I said. I pointed at his book. “Tell me about your paper ideas.”
His gaze lingered on mine for a couple of moments. “Okay,” he said, right as my belly did a flip-flop.
I listened to him talk, asked a few questions, offered a few ideas. A while later—around the time his hand found mine and our fingers tangled—I realized I was having fun. Wyatt’s brain was impressively straightforward and forthright and deep. Like the rest of him.
Declaring himself ready to write, he retrieved his laptop. After he fired it up, he reached for my hand again. Casually, almost absently. As if pressing our palms together and twining our fingers was a basic part of being comfortable.
“You gonna type one-handed?” I asked, teasing.
He looked down at our hands. His smile was lopsided. “Yeah. You think I can’t?”
“Nah,” I said. I gently disengaged our fingers and rolled to my side, easing my body closer to his. “I think you could.” I slid my hand—still warm and tingly from his hold—onto the firm planes of his belly. I understood the need for touch. “But two hands would work better.”
His abdominals flexed and froze and flexed again, rippling under my fingers, maybe getting ready to beg for some vigorous rubs and happy scratches.
I shifted a quick glance to his face. His eyes were liquid and dark. “Nuh-uh,” I chided. “Don’t forget about poor old Karl.” I fixed my gaze on the blank document shining brightly on the laptop’s screen.
“Smart, smart, smart,” he murmured as he began to type. “That’s what you are.”
Sometimes, I thought, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing under my fingers. But being smart sure didn’t mean I knew what the hell I was doing.