Page 19 of Bullet

“I’m not looking for an old lady, and if I want to get laid, I have plenty of willing options here.”

“Of which youneverpartake. You might flirt or take it to first base, but what the fuck is first base?”

“More importantly, who the fuck still says first base?”

“I think you do need to get laid.” If he left it at that, I might admit that he’s right, but he just has to keep pushing, going off on that tangent that I don’t even want to allow myself to consider, no matter how many times Lynette George’s face has entered my mind this week. “Two mature, consenting adults can enter into a sexual relationship and still keep things professional.”

“How many times do you think that has actually worked out?” I motion to the table, allowing him to break, but he gives me a flourish of his hand and a bow.

“Age before beauty, babe.”

Forget head on a pike, head on a pool cue is looking more and more attractive.

I send my cue smashing into the head ball, scattering the rest around the table. One ball rolls away. I guess I’m going with solids.

“In the history of the world? It has to have, in at least a few instances,” Smoke answers my earlier question as he angles around the table, setting up his shot. “Think… Antony and Cleopatra.”

“They committed suicide,” I inform him dryly.

“But he died in her arms. That’s romantic, at least.”

I had no idea that Smoke would even know who Antony was, or what other crazy examples he might come up with. Then again, I’m probably the one who told him. I have a Shakespeare and an Ancient Rome obsession.

“When Lynette George gets here, keep the really bad historical references to yourself.”And all your other opinions.

Smoke holds his cue vertically, giving me a total shit-eating grin. “Can I ask her what your real name is?”

“Not if you don’t want me to change my mind about the drinking and mistake you for a dartboard.”

“It’s too soon, I know. The loss of the range. We’re all feeling it. We’re in deep mourning.” He’s serious, but still manages to sound like a total ass.

“Deep fucking mourning is right. I had some of my favorite guns in there.”

“Weren’t they all your favorite?”

“Irreplaceable ones,” I correct, edging around the table to take my shot. “You can’t just go out anywhere and buy seventeenth- and eighteenth-century guns.”

“Is that how you’re going to win her heart? By talking about antique weapons?”

“If she’s interested in them, which I doubt.”

“Well, prime your flintlocks, because here she is.”

I almost don’t look behind me, I’m that convinced Smoke is just being an asshole, turning my crank so he can poke fun at me about how badly I’ve been waiting for exactly this moment.

Even Smoke isn’t that cruel, and when I turn to look over my shoulder, there Lynette George is, indeed.

Dressed like she’s going to court, in a black power skirt suit, crisp white blouse, and towering pumps, she looks ready to take on the world and win. She even tosses her hair as she follows Timothy, one of our newest prospects, in. She’s probably six foot two in those heels, her dark hair freshly blown out into alluring waves, lips a scarlet red, nails painted to match. The bottoms of her shoes flash red with every step.

She sucks all the air out of the room in a single collective gasp.

“Holy shit,” Smoke sighs, sidling right up next to me. “You should tell her that her photos online don’t do her justice at all. I thought associate lawyers were just lowly grunt work beasts, but she looks like she’s a bad boss bitch.”

Smoke is my friend, I remind myself. He’s my club brother. That doesn’t stop my brain from conjuring some very satisfying images of me breaking this pool cue off between his teeth and shoving both pieces up his ass.

“If you’re not going to go for it, can I have your permission to give it a shot?”

Pool cue, meet knee. I bring it down violently, barely managing to catch myself before I snap it in half and impale Smoke’s eyes for daring to look at Lynette George with lustful, wishful thinking.

---