Confession—I have a thing for pickups. Wyatt’s was cherry enough to get me hot. A boss F-150 extended cab. Eighties era with two-tone paint and some nice chrome action.
When I climbed into the cab there was even more to like. A bench seat covered with an old wool blanket—a rough weave in an hombre fade of dark browns and oranges—modified to fit over the seat belts. The vinyl floor mats were old and covered with dust and bits of gravel. The dash was faded gray plastic. No expensive sound system—just the standard old AM/FM radio. Smelled kinda like dirty oil. A working truck. It kicked serious butt. I grinned, deciding I wanted to hang in the cab for at least the next ten thousand miles.
Wyatt climbed in behind the wheel and shot me a look. “What?” he said.
I shrugged. I didn’t answer, but I didn’t bother to cover my grin.
His gaze sparked when it hit mine. “Fuck yeah. Got another one!”
Of course, I immediately stopped smiling.
“What?” he asked again. He asked that a lot. Confusion was a thing between us, I guess. “Why’d you stop?”
“Don’t people realize that when they comment on somebody’s smile—when they say something like ‘give me a smile’ or ‘you should smile more often’ or ‘hey, why the glum face’—it’s a surefire way to earn a frown or a fuck you?”
He laughed and stuck the key in the ignition. “Well, I never realized that. Probably because I’ve never gotten that particular reaction. Always get the opposite, in fact.”
“Of course.” The V8 roared to life and I rolled down the window, catching the scent of damp pavement and engine exhaust. “Because those are lines you deliver to chicks you know are a sure thing.”
He laughed again, his hands easy on the wheel, his glance moving from mirrors to windshield to me as he navigated out of the tight parking space and onto the busy street.
“You saying you’re not?”
“Not a chick, or not a sure thing?”
His teeth fastened on his curving lower lip and the gaze he slanted toward me was sly. And sexy. “You’re not as cool and clever as you think, you know,” he said.
“I’m not?”
“No. Because, see, I don’t care if you’re a chick or a sure thing. And you think that’s all I care about when it comes to you and me.”
My gaze fixed on the scene outside the window—the smart, pretty young people walking on the sidewalks, the busy shops and restaurants, the normal hum of action in the heart of downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
“I don’t much care what you care about,” I murmured.
“Yeah, you do.”
Arrogant. Snide. I wanted to glare at him but I kept my gaze fixed outside the truck.
“If you didn’t care,” he continued, “you would have delivered one of those fuck-you’s when I gave you that tip the other morning…or when I asked you to help with that questionnaire thing.”
He was right, damn it.
My palm curved over the rough wool on the seat and I pulled my gaze back into the cab. I needed to work some more on my conversational skills, obviously, so I said, “I was smiling because I love this truck.”
“You do?” His tone was one of complete surprise.
“Yeah. I’d kill for this ride.”
He snorted. “You don’t need to kill. Give me something else to drive and it’s yours. I hate the damn thing—it’s a gas-guzzling beast that’s a bitch to park around campus—but I got it free off my grandpa and it hauls my shit from Nebraska and back every year. And it’s good for at least one of the guys at the house to have a truck for projects or whatever.”
“You’re from…Nebraska?”
“Yeah.” Broad shoulders rose and fell in an exaggerated sigh. “You know how you were just saying how you hate when you get the smile thing all the time and it makes you want to tell folks to fuck off? Well, I have the same reaction when people give me attitude about being from Nebraska. Like I suppose you’re from Boston or New York City or something and you think Nebraska is all full of tumbleweeds and cowboys.”
I did kind of think that, but I wasn’t going to admit it. “My family lived in Connecticut when I was growing up.” I didn’t tell him I’d spent most of my time in schools in, yup, Manhattan. “And I didn’t give you attitude. Exactly.”
“You throw attitude just by blinkin’ your eyes, Ray.”
“Well, I didn’t mean it this time. Nebraska’s cool. Montgomery Clift is from Nebraska. And so is Henry Fonda.”
“Henry Fonda?”
“The actor.”
“Oh. Right,” he said in a vague tone.
“He was in a bunch of great movies. Including one of my favorites, My Darling Clementine. He plays your namesake.”
“Namesake?”
“Wyatt Earp.”
He laughed again. “Hate to break it to you, but I was named after my grandpa. The guy who bought this truck.”
“That’s cool too,” I said. “The name and the truck.”
“Thanks.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Where I come from if a girl says nice things about a guy’s truck it really means something.”
“Yeah?” My smile came back. “And what does it mean if a guy says nice things about your truck?”
“Doesn’t happen. Guys don’t compliment each other’s trucks.” His gaze slid up and down my body, his eyebrows performing a goofily exaggerated dance over his bright green eyes. “They only dis ’em when they suck.”
“Oh, right.” I smacked my forehead. “You caught me. I must be a girl.”
“Wee-haw!” He thumped the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, all pumped enthusiasm. “I knew it!” He crowed in a corny Wild-West accent. His wink was just as corny.
My snicker turned into full-blown laughter. I loved that he was making me laugh. If he had a sense of humor about my gender-bendy-ness then it meant he was comfortable with me. Comfortable was a feeling I could get behind right now.
“Just kidding.” I sent him a big wink. “I’m a guy. I just happen to be the kind of guy who makes gauche comments about the kickass quality of other guys’ trucks.”
“Nope. You absolutely can’t be a guy.” He shook his head sorrowfully.
“Why not?”
“You just used the word gauche.”
“Of course I did.” I waved my hand toward the window. “I’m an Ellery student…er, a former Ellery student. I took umpteen SAT prep courses in high school where I learned shit-heaps of fab words like gauche.”
The truck slowed and I realized we’d pulled onto the street lined with several of Ellery’s frat houses. Ellery’s campus was in the small-to-midsize range and its buildings were mostly old—as in over a century—and well-kept in a casual, old-money kind of way. Its fraternities followed this model.
Wyatt eased the big truck down the narrow drive that led to the alley behind… Oh God, wasn’t this perfect?
I sigh-snorted. “Fenton House? For real?”
“Hey,” he said, his expression half-sheepish, half-proud. “Fen-men are the truest.”
I knew for a fact Fen-men were not true. Fenton House—which had some kind of complicated bad-boy history that involved getting kicked out of its national chapter more than once but coming out the richer for it—was a local frat and it had a rep for attracting BMOCs on a campus already full of BMOCs (emphasis on the “BM” as Dave would say). So, yeah, Tom and my dad had both been Fen-men. I’d never set foot in the house.
Chances were excellent that neither Tom nor my dad would show up to play a game of pool this afternoon. So I told myself not to get freaked out. Or, yeah, more freaked out than I already was.
The truck’s engine idled roughly as Wyatt did some smooth-ass maneuvering to back into a spot behind the house’s huge old two-story garage. Not really a garage—too big and no working doors that cars could drive through. More like a carriage house, I guess. He was aiming for a space between a Lexus SUV and a tricked-out Jeep. No beaters in this lot, no sir.
I didn’t mind the groan of the axle or the grind of the transmission. The engine’s rumble was providing a worthy massage on my sore legs and feet. I was bummed when it stopped.
Wyatt palmed the jangly keys. “I gotta unload some shit from under the tarp in back and stow it. It’ll just be a sec.”
I didn’t know if I should offer him help or wait in the truck. Inertia ruled and through the big windshield I surveyed the house that wasn’t much different from my ancestral digs in Greenwich—Georgian architecture, brick façade with shiny white trim and black shutters, nice flagstone patio with an expansive sloping lawn that would be as lush and green as a golf course as soon as spring lit a fire under winter’s ass.
The similarities between Fenton and my old house would make my stepmother quake in her Ferragamos. This was an image that should strike me as hilarious but instead of laughing I shuddered. Ugh. Totally didn’t wanna think about PITA stepmoms right now.
PITA stepmoms reminded me of PITA stepdads.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, checking the time and looking for any missed messages. Dave would be home in an hour or so, but it was likely Tom would make sure he stayed incommunicado.
Worry pounced in a not-so-secret attack. Had Tom made arrangements for after-school care? Should I send him a reminder? There was a strong possibility Dave would freak when he discovered I’d actually moved out. I should have had the guts to come clean with him at lunch today. But I hadn’t and now it would be up to Tom to make the announcement. Would Tom say the right thing, do the right thing?
Shit.
I took a deep breath. Not my circus, not my monkey. I needed to stop worrying about crap I couldn’t control and start being the ringmaster of my own damn circus. I looked up at the big frat house and snorted. Hey, at least I’d found some clowns to hang with today, right? Now all I needed was a tent to sleep under tonight.
Obviously what I needed was some kind of a real plan. Did I remember how to plan? Had I ever been good at planning?
Here was a plan—I could sell the Vespa, buy this truck from Wyatt. Drive west. Go to Nebraska. Las Vegas. Visit my aunt in Carmel-by-the-Sea—
“Hey, you okay?”
My head jerked. Wyatt pulled the passenger door open and I gripped the seat to keep from falling out. Guess I’d settled in too comfortably against the door’s nice padded panel.
He was watching me with his gentle, leafy-green eyes.
“Oh, yeah. Hunky-dory.”
He laughed. “Who even says that?”
I raised my brows. “Me, obviously.” I rolled my shoulders, willing my body to relax.
“Obviously.” Wyatt tipped his head toward the big house. “Ready for some billiards mayhem?”
I shoved my phone into my pocket. My hands shook and I raked my fingers into my hair, holding on to the sticky spikes while I tried to decide whether hanging out with a bunch of clowns this afternoon was a good start to my new life plan.
Wyatt exhaled another huff of laughter. “Ray?” he prompted.
“Give me a second,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do with the rest of my life.”
“And that will only take a second?”
“Well, obviously more than that if you’re going to keep talking to me.”
He draped a long arm across the top of the open door. When I caught a whiff of fabric softener and warm skin, I held my breath.
He grinned and, fisting his other hand, thumped his chest. “Lay it on me,” he said.
I had a weird notion to grab his lean torso and rest my weary head against his chest, feel his arm curve around me, strong and protective. I could feel the soft brush of his cotton T-shirt against my flushed cheek, hear the steady thud-thud of his heartbeat in my ears. I forced my gaze toward the windshield.
“C’mon,” he prompted. “Tell me your troubles. Figuring out shit works best if you talk it through with someone.”
“Like with a stranger? A guy who picked me up because I make him think about sex? Academic-type sex that he analyzes in a seminar with a bunch of doofuses?”
“Believe me, there’s nothing, uh…analytical or academic about the way I think of you.” His laughter was husky and warm, and it reached out to me like a calming touch, all gentle pressure and friendliness. “We aren’t strangers anymore. We know each other’s names. Where we’re from. How we identify…” He waggled his eyebrows. “We’ve had more than one real conversation. Hell, if we admitted that to some of my buds, we qualify for being in a relationship.” He said the last words in an obnoxious singsongy voice.
“Better not admit it then.”
His lips twitched. “I won’t admit it. But not for the reasons you think.”
I pressed the soles of my Red Wings hard against the truck’s rubber floor mat. I didn’t appreciate how he kept suggesting he knew what I thought. Number one, it was arrogant as hell. Number two, I had a slippery-slidey feeling in my gut that he actually did know what I was thinking.
“I need to find a new place to live, like pronto,” I blurted. “I got kicked out of my apartment last night.”
“Shit. For real?”
“Yeah. I’ll spare you the gory details. But now there’s the matter of—”
“What if I want all the gory details?”
“To quote rock-and-roll wisdom—you can’t always get what you want.”
“Okay, what if I need to know all the—”
I punched him in the arm. Ow. He had really hard biceps.
“Hey. Don’t hit the guy who’s trying to help you out.”
“This is the problem with being in a relationship with me. You get hurt.”
“Kinky.”
“You don’t know the half of it, big guy.”
He laughed again and my stomach dipped. His laugh was too damn appealing. And here I was yet again…flirting with him. For a reality dose, I told him, “If you really want to help me with my troubles, you can hook me up with a super el-cheapo apartment that’s within a few blocks of downtown.”
“Um…”
Yeah, reality was always a big fat drag. I sighed. “Never mind.”
“No, no. I’m good at logistics. Lemme think.” His chin made a whispery-swish sound as he rubbed it with his thumb.
I stared at the big house in front of me. A couple of guys had come out onto the patio. One was smoking. One was sprawling his big jock body onto a lounge chair. They looked so easy in their lives, so relaxed. They had a schedule. They had a plan. They had financial aid and parents who didn’t hate them.
My hand clenched the edge of the seat. My nerve endings had ceased functioning because I couldn’t feel the fabric beneath my palm, couldn’t feel anything. It was official. I sucked at thinking about the future. Both short-term and long-term. Here I was confiding stuff to Wyatt Kelly, business major, frat guy, intramural basketball coach, acolyte of Tom Perlmutter—a guy on his way to becoming the type of man I knew well and hated—accepting invitations to play pool at his frat house, for God’s sake. What the fuck was I doing?
Leaving, that’s what I was doing. I unfastened my seatbelt, swung my legs around—
“Hey, I just thought of something.”
“What?” I kept my gaze fixed on the happy-go-lucky boys on the patio.
“Zach O’Malley. One of the bros. His family runs a big property management agency here in town. They might be able to hook you up with something fast. He’ll probably be playing pool this afternoon.”
I barely registered his words, but I nodded as if I understood exactly what he was saying and really, really appreciated the information. Then I said, “You know what? I just remembered something I have to do—”
“Whoa! You’re not going to bail on playing pool, are you?”
“Ah, actually—”
“Cuz if you’re hard up for cash and you have any skills at all…” His words dipped enticingly. The little gold glints in his eyes sparkled and shined.
“Setting up your friends to take a dive, Wyatt? Isn’t that against house rules, the terms of brotherhood, the Fenton constitution—?”
He snorted. “Hey, it’s about time some of those guys got shaken down. Totally complacent. They’re ripe for some schooling and we’ve got to get our game ready for a showdown with Chi Phi next week.”
“What makes you think I’m any good?”
“I shouldn’t trust what your friend David said about your skills?”
“Actually, Dave is the most trustworthy guy I know.”
“There you go,” he said, nodding. He tipped his head toward the house again. “Come on. It’ll be fun. It’s only for a few hours. If you hate it, I’ll give you a ride to wherever you want whenever you say, okay?”
I knew he was sensing my embarrassment, my weirdness about this scene. And it was nice of him to try to ease those feelings. I needed to start being more comfortable about kindnesses so I said yes.
The house was surprisingly un-debauched on the inside, at least on the first floor—we didn’t venture into the basement, which is where the disgusting stuff usually happened in student housing. Not that I would know about any of that…
Sure, there was a lingering scent of eau de beer-barf-et-bong, but the big common area on the first floor in the back of the house was mostly clean. Civilized almost. Hardwood floors. Built-in bookcases with actual books. Fireplace. Open windows leading out onto a huge patio and backyard. Again, it reminded me of the house I’d grown up in…except the leather sectional over by the entertainment center probably had a few more hurl and come stains than the sectional of the family room at home.
Two pool tables dominated the space beyond the seating area. I surveyed them with a connoisseur’s eye and was pleased to see that each table had been recently re-felted and there was plenty of space for maneuvering around them. There were two racks of cues and after a few minutes of testing them out I found one that was fairly serviceable.
Of course the guys hanging out getting ready to play each had their own cues, complete with deluxe leather cases and lots of “I have very special equipment so I am obviously very special too” attitude.
Wyatt had introduced me around and I was relieved to receive mostly ordinary “hey man, how’s it going’s” and almost zero inquisitive comments. Well, Mike made a few snide remarks, but I already knew he was an asshole. This lack of interest in a new person in their midst might have to do with the fact that there was a guy from the local electronics store installing a ginormous flat screen on the wall adjacent to the pool tables. Apparently somebody had been zealous with a ping-pong paddle the previous night and the old TV had bitten the dust with style. The installation dude was being bombarded with lots of highly informed and super-helpful advice about how to coordinate the sound system and wireless and ports and Internet and on and on.
Pool play started up in a casual way, which suited me fine. The game was nine-ball with partners and while I was happy I wasn’t up first—I wanted a chance to survey the competition—I was unhappy to discover that I’d drawn Mike as a partner.
“When we’re up I’ll break,” he said. He grinned and belched, long and liquid. Niiice. “Don’t worry if your skills aren’t up to snuff. I’m good enough that any shitty play on your part will go unnoticed.”
I raised my brows, trying not gag at his Dorito breath. “Okey-doke,” I said. Picking up a square of chalk, I sauntered around the table and tried to channel Paul Newman in The Hustler. Yeah, I’d seen The Color of Money, more than once actually. But you know how I feel about classics, and Tommy-boy Cruise does not a classic make.
I shimmied the chalk over the cue’s tip and watched the action. The guys playing were good but not stellar, and I concentrated on shot choices and strategy rather than their conversation. (They were debating who was the most “do-able” on Walking Dead. No discussion there as far I was concerned. Glenn. Duh.)
My gaze snagged on Wyatt, who’d been busy setting up on the other table. Our gazes connected and he winked. I rolled my eyes and made myself focus on Mike’s bulky arms and thick fingers as he shifted around to get the rack of balls right. But even after the game started, my gaze kept glomming on Wyatt. He was highly gawkable—especially when his long, lanky body was in motion.
Might not seem like it to those who were uninitiated, but pool is a very sexy game what with all the bending and leaning and stretching and arm actions both jerky and smooth. There were a lot of ripe silences interspersed with snarky trash talk. And laughter. Laughter was definitely part of a good game. Wyatt’s broad shoulders shook when he laughed. The raspy, goofy quality of his guffaws had begun to grow on me in a big, big way.
But me staring at him with sexy thoughts in my eyes would likely bring unwanted attention and set off alarms I had no idea how to silence in a place like this. A frat house wasn’t my turf. I was beginning to believe I was a lone-wolf-type creature who didn’t feel comfortable on any turf here at Ellery. I couldn’t seem to borrow, buy or beg the Ellery College “attitude”. Intensely worshipful of the academic gods in the classroom during the day. Intensely worshipful of the party gods in frat houses at night.
A cheer rose around the table where Wyatt was playing. Wyatt and his partner had won and attention shifted to the table where Mike and I were playing. Mike was making a big show of posing before breaking, doing a funky arm pump more about showing off his ripped triceps than taking proper aim at the balls. Pump, pump and craaaaack! Whaddaya know? Not a single ball went in, most of them remaining in a tidy triangular wad in the center of the table.
I cut off a snort of laughter because, yeah, it was pretty bad form to laugh at your partner. I didn’t need to worry because the hoots from the other guys drowned out any of the noises I would have made.
“Nice one, Mikey!”
“Shut the fuck up,” he grunted.
The first guy from the other team—a short, fire-plug type with dark, curly hair and snappy brown eyes—had a nice run of four.
My turn. As I approached the shot, angling around a corner in a narrow passage between frat boy and pool table, the power of a few dozen judging eyes zapped through my clothes. My hands shook a little as I lined up the shot, squinted, reconfigured and tried for another angle. The cue was hard and slick beneath my fingers, the tension in my tendons heating through layers of paint and varnish.
“Don’t take the bank shot,” Mike commanded.
I ignored him. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
“You’ll have to bank it if you take that angle,” Mike warned.
“No shit,” I muttered.
More laughter from the peanut gallery.
I leaned, placed my hand on the felt and set the cue. Thwack! Perfect angle, perfect shot and the ball went into the hole with a satisfying thunk.
The next two shots were no-brainers, and I moved to take them with no hesitation. My hands weren’t shaking anymore. Someone had turned on the sound system—the satellite was tuned to a classic rock station—and I let the bass line of the song move through my limbs as I surveyed the play of the balls, the new positions, the new angles.
I loved to play pool.
My body moved easily, my fingers finally becoming one with the sleekly polished cue and the felt’s fuzzy nap. My hips and arms balanced lovingly against the solid weight of the heavy table. My groove stopped only when I realized I didn’t have any more shots to take.
“Fuckin’ A!” Exclamations of surprise and congratulations flowed around my head, easing me out of the zone I’d been wallowing in.
Wyatt was standing close. Heat from his body and his smile hit me like sunlight. I blinked. “You ran the table. Awesome.” He raised his fist for a bump. I bumped him and turned my gaze on the table. He was right. I’d sunk every ball. Pretty good considering my usual opponent in this game was eleven years old.
“Ha! And to the final round we gooh-whooa!” Mike came in for a bump too. Happy Kong. For a scary moment I thought he might hug me, but he turned away and hooted, “And you guys thought you were handicapping me with Elvis here. We are so taking the next round, right, E?” He winked at me.
I winked back. “Sure.”
Mike was obnoxious and more than a little annoying, but maybe he could walk a broader path toward humanity given time and a lot of training. And, hey, cold, hard cash sounded good. So did more pool. So did more Wyatt grinning at me.
The next round passed quickly. Wyatt had disappeared to help dispose of the old TV and I was beginning to relax a little—someone had opened a case of beer, which I heroically ignored because I wasn’t nearly as big of a fuckup as Tom thought I was—and more people showed up, including a couple of girlfriend types. When it was time to play again, my first shot was amazing but my second shot sucked. I totally muffed it. Not a big deal, but Mike got a little tense when my turn came around again.
“Okay, so I see what you’re thinking. You wanna line up the corner shot so you’ll get the next shot here.” His hammy fist thumped the surface by the side pocket. “But don’t get too far ahead of yourself. The other shot would be—”
“Hey, shut up, Mike!” the fireplug guy interrupted. “Let him take the shot he wants. We have to practice playing by official tourney rules. Only girls get consultation handicaps.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up and he looked from the fireplug guy to me and back. “Um, Ty?” Mike shook his head, a boy-are-you-ever-an-idiot look making his round face go hang-dog droopy. “Elvis here is a chick.”
The words were spoken in a normal tone of voice, but they had a powerful effect on the space around us—like they’d inspired some kind of anti-sonic wave that rode into all corners of the room, erasing all noise and activity. Everyone got quiet, stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
Fireplug guy broke the silence. “Nuh-uh! No way.”
“Way,” Mike said.
Fireplug’s brown eyes snapped, zipping from humor-filled to serious as they scrutinized my face and body. “You’re not a…uh…are you?”
I tipped my head and gave him the same zoo animal observation he was giving me. “Uh…” I mimicked, “maybe.”
“Get the fuck out,” he muttered. I couldn’t tell if he meant the words literally or if he was expressing general freaked-out-edness.
There was a loud clatter from behind me and I turned to see Wyatt picking up the remote from the floor. Standing slowly, he tossed the remote onto the couch—his movements sharp and silent. Heat swarmed the back of my neck and the cue slipped in my fingers as he walked toward the pool tables with his tin-star stride and his steady-Eddie eyes, ready to be the fair-and-square sheriff at another showdown.
Shit. Not that I didn’t appreciate a boy who managed to look all fine and heroic, but the look on Wyatt’s face was hitting me all wrong. I didn’t want to be rescued. I wasn’t a damsel or a dude in distress, and I sure as hell didn’t want to start any arguments or make any points. Not unless they involved pool, anyway. I could handle my own damn shit.
I leaned the cue against the wall, sauntered over to the guy I’d seen smoking outside earlier and asked if I could bum a cig. “Sure,” he said. “But you gotta light up outside.”
“S’cool. I’ll bring the lighter back in a sec.”
He nodded, looking at me with wide, bloodshot eyes.
I took the smoke and his lighter and made my way toward the doors leading to the terrace. I wasn’t necessarily planning on leaving. I just needed a minute.
Because if I was going to have a conversation about boy-girl stuff…if I was going to get kicked out of this house because of the way I looked…if I was going to be the cause of an argument about rules, about standards, about life attitudes in general…if I was going to have all eyes on me…if all of those things were going to happen…then I needed to have something at least slightly stronger than caffeine flowing through my system.
“Ray, hold up,” Wyatt said from behind me. “Let’s work this out.”
“Nothing to work.” I shrugged, playing it casual. Heavy convos didn’t have to happen everywhere I went, did they? Goddamn it. I just wanted to play pool. “Just need a smoke.”
I pushed open the French doors and took a few steps onto the flagstone terrace. I slung my ass into a nearby lawn chair and lit up. The blast of nicotine hit my bloodstream fast, making me feel nice and floaty. Wyatt had followed me outside, Fireplug tailing him. I knew everyone inside was likely observing the scene with extreme interest. Wyatt had my abandoned pool cue slung rifle-like over his shoulder, his features lawman-tough. Too bad Fireplug was slouchy and freaked-out looking. He wasn’t holding his own as a sidekick.
I squinted at the two of them through the smoke I was generating, wondering who would break the growing silence first.
Fireplug guy couldn’t contain himself. “You’re not quitting, are you? We were in the middle of a game.”
The question seemed more significant than a matter of deciding to play pool or not. I took a deep breath and tried not to wince when my ribs twanged.
“Does it matter?” I tipped my head toward the doors and the pool tables beyond. “For the rules?”
“Whuh?” Fireplug’s eyes got blinky.
“Do those kinda questions matter when it comes to rules for pool here? You know. Boy, girl. Penis, vagina. Black, white. Blah, blah. Does it matter if you think I’m a girl or a guy?” I asked, enunciating clearly and slowly. “Do you have to make a decision on those things in order for me to keep playing here?”
“No!” Wyatt’s voice echoed rifle-shot sharp across the flagstones. His Adam’s apple bobbed and I knew he was trying to keep his cool. “Tyler doesn’t decide any of that stuff. If it’s against the rules in any way for you to play here then I’m changing the rules right the fuck now,” he said. He handed me my cue. “Come on. You’re up.”
“Okay.” I made my fingers work well enough to grasp the stick. Nice to know that Wyatt wanted to change rules, but he wasn’t a real-life sheriff around here. He had to know he couldn’t change shit around Ellery College—and anywhere else for that matter—simply by saying he was gonna change it.
Inhaling an unsteady breath, I stood and walked over to stab my smoke into the sand bucket full of butts outside the doors. As we returned to the tables, Wyatt shot a knockdown look toward Mike and his buds.
Damn. I hadn’t known Wyatt’s eyes were capable of looking so mean.
Mike raised his hands, all innocence. “Hey,” he croaked. “I didn’t say anything rude, man. I’m just playing the game to win.”
Wyatt grunted. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”
“Nothing!” Fireplug guy—Tyler—stepped up to the table looking a tad hosed; his firepluggishness had deflated into something a lot more limp. “Damn, Wy, I was just telling Mike to stop being a dick about handing out the advice. I mean it’s obvious that Elvis—or, um Ray…” He swallowed hard and the look on his face when his eyes traveled to me was almost comical enough to inspire laughter, almost. “…um who-the-fuck-ever here, is a good player and doesn’t need Mike being a know-it-all prick to her. Um, or him.” He sent me an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”
A humor-filled sort of snort escaped my lips. Laughing was better than smashing my cue against the newly felted slate on the table, right? Or breaking the cue over my knee and storming out. Or sinking to the floor, crawling beneath the table and never coming out again.
Sighing silently, I straightened my spine. The only thing to do in this situation was to let it ride. Freaking out when people disappointed me didn’t accomplish much. I’d learned that the hard way. Anesthetizing myself didn’t help with disappointment either. Learned that the hard way too. And avoiding people altogether, hiding out at Tom’s place for months on end with Dave as my sole friend…well, I guess that game was up. As all those thoughts came together, suddenly finishing this game—playing out the rest of the afternoon in the stinky confines of Fenton House—seemed super important.
Ignoring the heated conversation going on between Wyatt, Tyler and a couple of other guys—they’d moved on from discussing me to discussing whether their rules for playing pool with girls were archaic (um, fuck yes)—I re-gripped the cue and took my shot. I made it. I took another shot. Made it too. Then I cleaned up the table. And when I stood there and listened to the congratulations of the guys who’d been watching, slouching my shoulders against the walnut-paneled wall, sipping a Coke I’d filched from a mini-fridge, I made myself ignore the sidelong glances and the whispers from the folks loitering beyond the pool tables, and instead paid attention to the praise that was all about respect for the game and not about the way the players looked.
Wyatt’s gaze kept skipping to mine as he retrieved the balls from the pockets and racked them up. His mouth was taut but his eyes were smiling. He was still pissed off, but he was trying to get over it for my sake. It was a good look. And suddenly the warm, fizzy feeling I got while watching him seemed like the most dangerous part of this whole venture.
“What do you say we put the partner play on hiatus now and play for cash?” Wyatt suggested, glancing around at the guys still hanging around the tables.
A couple of them responded enthusiastically. A few of them cast wary gazes toward me and Mike and bowed out in favor of a Sox game starting up on the big screen.
“What do you say, Ray?” Wyatt straightened, rolling his shoulders. I let my gaze skim over the contours of his pecs, the outline of his ribs, the concavity of his abs. Just a quick glance—my eyes only needed a couple of seconds for fuel.
“I say…okay.”
“Cool,” Wyatt said. He winked. “Your turn to break.”