Page 19 of Where There's Smoke

“Oh please.” I took a cue off the rack and picked up the chalk. “Just because you won two whole games does not make you God’s gift to pool.”

“Two whole games that night.” He picked up his favorite cue. “But then there’s the time before that. And the time beforethat. And—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” I rolled my eyes and handed him the chalk. “I’ll rack. You break.”

For the first half of the game, we kept the conversation to the usual shit: the film Chris had just finished shooting, our dad turning up his nose at everything we did or didn’t do, crap like that.

Ahead by two and not about to let the SOB beat me like he always did, I gestured at the table with my cue. “Three ball, side pocket.”

As I leaned down to take my shot, Chris said, “So you’re really following in Roger’s footsteps?”

“Well, sort of.” I snapped my cue forward, and the cue ball shot across the table. When the three fell in the pocket with a satisfyingthunk, I stood. “Don’t know if I’ll ever make it to the US Senate, but hey, we’ll see, right?”

Chris shrugged. “Good luck, man. I could think of worse lines of work.”

I laid my cue across the table and aimed it. “Like acting?”

“Hey. Hey. Shut up.”

We both laughed.

“Four ball, corner pocket.” I took the shot but, this time, narrowly missed. “Damn it.”

He picked up his cue. “Good thing you’re not trying to be a professional billiards player.”

“Oh fuck you.” I laughed and leaned against the wet bar. “Can you imagine Dad’s disappointment if I followedthatcareer path?”

Chris grimaced. “Well, given how well you play…”

“Let’s hope I play the political games a little better, then.”

“No shit.” He paused. “Nine ball, side pocket.” He eyed his cue, probably making sure he had the angle right to make the shot. “Run for president, Dad’ll probably stop being butthurt about everything.”

“Only if I win,” I muttered.

“I said he’d stop being butthurt.” Chris walked around the table, looking at the available shots even as he spoke. “I didn’t say he’d be satisfied.” He glanced at me and grinned. “Even he would have to admit you’ve got a set of brass ones to try for the White House.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Yeah, well, let me start with Sacramento and we’ll go from there. I’m two days into all this campaign bullshit, and it already feels like six months.”

“And you wonder why Roger went gray so young.” He leaned over the table to line up his shot. As he turned his head, an odd shadow peeked over the top of his collar. When he shifted slightly, the shadow stayed with him.

I craned my neck. “What’d you do to your neck, man?”

“What?” He reached back, his hand going straight to the bruise. “What do you mean?”

I raised an eyebrow.

His cheeks colored. He cleared his throat and focused again on lining up his cue. “Just a little stunt mishap.”

I pursed my lips. “Really?”

He glanced over his shoulder at me. Then he exhaled and shook his head, turning back to the game. “Quit worrying so much, Jesse.”

“Why should I?” I tapped my index finger on my cue. “Every time you’re here, you—”

“Jesse.” He stood and faced me. “Stop worrying. I’m serious.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, my stomach winding into knots.

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