Page 27 of Nash
"Took Darla home. Rider's on the door." He shrugs. "Came back."
I drop the folder on the bar, cross the room, and pull a cue from the wall rack. I rest it against my shoulder and wait while East finishes the rack, lifts the triangle, and sets it aside.
The clubhouse is quiet; the yard empties out. Through the window, I can see Ruby tying off a trash bag, the balloon arch sagging behind her, and the goat asleep under the picnic table.
The cue presses into my palm. I've already pictured what I'd do to her in that building, every detail.
"You break," East says.
I chalk the cue and line up the shot. The crack of the break scatters the balls across the felt, and two solids drop. I circle the table, lining up the next shot, my shoulders dropping a half inch with the familiar geometry of angles and controlled force applied to a specific point.
East leans against his cue. "You good?"
"Fine."
"You've been fine for about three months. Just checking."
I sink the three ball and move to the next position.
"She got to you today," East says.
I don't answer.
"The fry thing." East grins. "Brother, the whole damn table saw that."
I miss the next shot by barely an inch, the cue ball rolling wide.
East chalks his cue, still grinning as he bends over the table and sinks two in a row without looking up. "You rememberMalachi with Candace? Woman couldn't stand him, told him to his face repeatedly, and the rest of us had to watch that man walk around this clubhouse pretending he wasn't completely wrecked over a woman who called him every name in the book."
I don't answer.
"I was worse. I fucked everything that moved trying to keep Darla out of my head because I thought wanting her meant letting go of Declan." He sinks another ball and straightens, his grin fading into something quieter. "We all had our reasons for fighting it, but you're more like Kai. You'll stand at the wall and watch her walk away every night until something breaks, and by then you might not get to choose how it breaks."
I set the cue butt on the floor. The overhead lamp hums.
East racks the balls again. The clubhouse is empty, bikes having peeled off down the road, the last of the afternoon light fading across the yard.
Through the window, Ruby is at the far end of the fence with the goat at her feet. Her tank top is damp from the heat, and clings to the curve of her waist. The strip of skin at her abdomen catches the last of the sun. She crouches to scratch behind the goat's ears, and her shorts ride up the backs of her thighs. My grip tightens on the cue. She straightens, pushes her hair off her neck, and her red lips move like she's talking to the goat. I watch her mouth shape words I can't hear through the glass, and my chest pulls tight.
She's standing still. Ruby, who never stands still.
"Your break," East says.
I line up from the near rail and strike clean, three balls dropping as the crack of the break echoes in the empty room and settles into the walls.
East studies the table, walking a full circuit before choosing his shot with one hand loose at his side and his cue balanced against his shoulder. He takes his time. East plays sloppy with everyoneelse, misses easy shots, lets Kyle think he has a chance. With me he plays for real. He's methodical. Patient.
"Darla's been craving pickled okra," he says, leaning over the table to line up the eleven. "Which is fine, except she wants it at three in the morning, warm, and she wants it with ranch." He sinks the shot, straightens, and walks to the chalk. "Then she comes out in my T-shirt and watches me stir it, and she knows exactly what she's doing because that shirt hits her mid-thigh and she doesn't wear anything under it." He grins. "We don't always get around to eating the okra." He chalks the cue. "You could have that, you know."
Ruby in my apartment. Ruby in my shirt. The image arrives fully formed and hits somewhere behind my sternum. Her bare legs. Her hair loose. The hem of my shirt brushing her thighs while she leans against my kitchen counter at three in the morning.
I sink the cue ball into the side pocket. Scratch.
"That bad, huh?" East says.
He circles to the far side and lines up another shot with a good angle and right alignment, but misses by a margin too clean to be accidental. I take my shot, and the six drops clean.
"You look like shit, by the way."
