How could I compete against someone like her, an ambitious woman who didn’t take no for an answer?
“Want to play a game of pool?” Denver winked and offered me his hand. “It’s my table; I can kick them out anytime.”
“I’m sure that’ll go over well,” I said apprehensively.
Denver whistled through his teeth by curling in his lips. The sharp sound caught the attention of the men and he gave them the universal thumb that said, “Get the hell out.”
To my astonishment, they obeyed, setting their pool sticks on the rack and shaking their heads. Denver retrieved the balls from the pockets and placed them in the triangular rack. “You ever played?” he asked.
“This’ll be my first time.”
“Okay then, I’ll break.” He handed me a stick and stood close, rubbing the chalk on the tip. “Solids and stripes. If a solid goes into the pocket, then that’s what I need to sink for the rest of the game, and you’ll target the stripes. Don’t sink the black ball until you’ve cleared your balls, or else you’ll lose the game. First person to clear the table of all their balls plus the black wins. Each time you sink a ball, you get another turn. Whenever you miss, you lose your turn.”
“Why don’t you show her how to hold your balls?” someone razzed.
Denver snapped his fingers at them without turning away from me. “Shut it,” he yelled and continued his billiard lesson. Excitement flared in his indigo eyes and I wondered if it was the game or me. “If you sink the white ball then you lose your turn, even if it goes in with your target. Make sense?”
“I think so.”
“If you sink the wrong ball, well, you just did me a favor. Ready?”
He whirled around, leaned over with his right arm pulled back, stroked the stick over the knuckles on his left hand, and made his shot. A loud crack filled the room and balls scattered across the table, sending a solid red in the pocket. Denver took another shot and sank a blue.
“Why do I have a feeling that I’m getting hustled?” I said, walking around the table.
Denver missed the next shot. “Your turn, honeypie,” he said quietly. “Aim for the stripes.” The music cranked up outside and the room became noisy again. Denver stepped up close and spoke privately. “Look, I can see you got a thing for Reno. You want to know why he won’t talk to you?”
“Why?” I whispered.
“Some dogs don’t like to be handed a bone; they want to work for it. Reno’s the kind of man you need to make jealous to get his full attention. He likes the challenge. Keep that in mind. Your shot.”
I nervously stepped up to the table and felt a sea of eyes watching me. I mirrored how Denver had held the stick and when I took my shot, the stick scraped across the felt top.
Denver hissed through his teeth. “Careful, it’s a new table. Here, let me show you.” He came around and took my left hand, curling my index finger. “Slide it gently through that hole.”
“That’s what she said.” It was our heckler again.
“Get the fuck out,” Denver said in clipped words, his biceps tightening as he threw back his shoulders.
The men shook their heads and stood by the bar but didn’t leave.
I’d been so caught up in the game I hadn’t realized Reno had his eyes on me. Not only that, but the girl with the Dolly Parton rack was still talking to him.
Grrr. Maybe Denver was right. I’m not sure why I’d sought Reno’s attention out of all the available men in the room, but because of the things I had told him about myself, I felt a connection with him that went beyond physical attraction.
“But you didn’t hold it like this,” I argued.
“No, but I have more control,” Denver pointed out. He’d held the stick across the base of his thumb but hadn’t looped his index finger.
I bent over and Denver leaned across the table next to me. “Your angle is all wrong and you’re in too much of a hurry to hit the shot. You have to line it up and take your time.”
“I can’t do this,” I said disparagingly. “I’m just no good at games.”
“If there’s one thing that all women are good at, it’s games. Let me show you.” His eyes lit up and he got behind me. Denver’s arms came around me and his hands slid up to my wrists. “The corner pocket is the easiest shot,” he said roughly in my ear. “You’re too close to the table, so step back a little. That’s it. Now bend over a little more.”
When I did, he walked around and readjusted my fingers to hold the stick properly. As he leaned over my back, I thought I heard a growl, but the music kept a steady beat that drowned out the low sounds. Denver stretched across my back and placed his chin on my right shoulder, holding my right arm and lining up the shot. His breath slid across my neck and when I flicked my eyes around, I saw the men watching with hooded eyes and whispering to each other.
I’d seen guys showing women how to play pool before, so I didn’t understand their interest. The pool stick gently glided between my fingers. In and out. In and out. In and out.