Page 7 of Distant Heart

Chapter 3:

Rexton was bored.

He’d ended up in the type of room one might expect to find in an upscale bar or club, not a prestigious university. There were three pool tables, a corner filled with old-school arcade machines, and at least two holo screens on every wall, each one hooked up to a different gaming system. A small bar sat across from the entrance, manned by a bartender who appeared to be either a student or a fresh graduate. There were also a couple of small metal square tables in that area. That along with the two brown leather couches made up all the seating arrangements.

There were several people there, most minding their own business, but what had caught Rexton’s attention initially was the ruckus at the main pool table. It’d been so loud, that he’d heard it from down the hallway, trailing after it out of pure curiosity.

The two guys working the table had been good, really, really good, so he’d lingered to watch them finish their game. As soon as it’d ended, however, another challenger had stepped forward to take on the winner and he, to put it frankly, sucked ass. The only reason Rex hadn’t already left was because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Vitality, that’s cool.” The shitty player wrung the top of his pool stick between his hands, not even bothering to watch his opponent eye up his next shot. He’d started talking to Rexton at the start of the game, but so far their conversation was going nowhere.

“Yeah.” He had half a mind to ask if he could play next, just so he’d have something to do, but Rexton wasn’t sure he wanted to be locked in like that. “You from here?”

“Born and bred.”

“Right.”

“So, if you’re not a student, who did you come with? Cor Night is a big deal, typically outsiders aren’t invited. Lucky you.”

Rexton wasn’t feeling very lucky at the moment. It wasn’t too obvious, but he was fairly certain the guy was flirting with him, and he had zero interest in pursuing anything with him. He couldn’t even recall the guy's name, though he was certain they’d introduced themselves at the beginning of this lengthy and pointless conversation.

Tonight was dragging and he was this close to throwing in the towel and—

“Excuse me, sir.” The bartender appeared at Rexton’s side then, placing a small silver tray on the edge of the pool table where he was standing.

His brow lifted as he stared at the three pieces of chocolate-covered fruit on the platter, the tips of his ears turning red when that drew unwanted attention from those playing. “I didn’t order this.”

“I did.” Illya’s smooth voice came from the doorway and Rex turned just in time to see him enter. He waved the bartender off and glanced briefly at the player before wrapping an arm around Rexton’s hips. He planted his palm against the table, effectively blocking Rex in and then set his chin on his shoulder. “You should eat them while they’re still cold.”

Rexton blinked at him, at a loss for words.

“Oh,” the player who’d been chatting him up paled and took a distinct step backward, “I didn’t realize you came with a Black Hart.” His wide eyes turned to Illya. “We were just talking.”

On Vitality, there were two elite groups who ruled the planet and the universities they attended. They were collectively known as the Devils, and one of those bastards was the reason he was here now, on a planet in the midst of their winter season instead of home finishing his midterm project. The way this dude was now sucking up to Illya reminded Rexton of that fact, and he found annoyance brewing.

His elbow shot back, connecting with Illya’s stomach. He was careful not to be too rough—he was mad, but he wasn’t an idiot—the contact just enough to smart and get his point across. The second there was a bit of distance between them, he sidestepped, removing himself from the Black Hart’s clutches.

A hush fell over the room, the only sounds the pinging and music of the video games still going. It was so intense, Rex almost apologized.

Almost.

Instead, he straightened and crossed his arms.

Illya sighed and rubbed at the spot where he’d been hit before letting out a low whistle. The shrill noise was instantly understood by everyone but Rexton, the room emptying in a matter of seconds, as though people couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

His eyes widened in a mirror of that player’s shocked look earlier—the one who’d fled even faster than the rest—as he watched them clear out until it was only him and the Black Hart left. “What the hell?”

“Don’t curse.” Illya rested a hip against the pool table and selected a piece of fruit. “It’s unbecoming.”

Rexton slapped the morsel away when it was held up to his face, sending the chocolate-dipped fruit rolling across the velvet surface of the table. It hit the side of one of the balls and sent it spinning a few inches, straight into a side pocket.

“I hope that wasn’t one of his,” Illya stated.

“His?”

“The one who was hitting on you. Was he stripes or solids?”

The ball that had gone in was the latter.

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