Page 13 of Tucker
Tuckerdisappears through the side door of the garage, and I watch as the garage doorslides up revealing a clean space with a pool table in the center. He reachesinto a small refrigerator and produces two soft drinks, tossing me one.
“Ishould’ve known there was a man cave around here somewhere. Where are the videogames?”
“Ilive alone. My whole house is a man cave. And I don’t play video games.”
“Youlived alone,” I correct, grabbing a pool cue. “I’m breaking. Rack them up.”
Tuckershakes his head. “Yes, my liege,” he mutters, arranging the balls in the rack.
Grinning,I line up my shot and hit the cue ball which smashes into the others,scattering them. Two striped balls fall in and I do a little dance while Tuckerwatches me like I’m a bug under a microscope.
Whatever.He’s no fun.
Idon’t have a good clear shot, and I may have overestimated my ability at thisgame. I could hold my own with the other students, but none of them were reallygood either. Plus, we were trashed most of the time we played. My next shotmisses, and I step back.
There’sa mischievous little grin forming on Tucker’s lips that I’ve never seen beforeand he gives me a cocky sideways look before taking his first shot which goesin effortlessly. He then proceeds to run the damn table on me.
“Ha!You don’t have a shot on the eight,” I point out, like that means I now have achance in hell at this game. He really doesn’t have a good shot when it comesto the eight ball so he strikes it lightly, enough to roll it toward one of theholes where my stripes are blocking the way.
“Ifsomeone would get all these stripes out of the way,” he taunts.
“Maybethat’s my plan.” I walk around the table trying to figure out the best way todo this. I need to leave myself as many future shots as possible.
“Tolose? You shouldn’t have to plan that. Seems to happen naturally.”
Igasp and cover my mouth. “Oh! Did you just make a joke? So you do speak human.Careful though, you might crack your face if you smile.”
Leaningagainst the wall, he crosses his arms, his cue in one hand. “Are you always asmart ass?”
“Nope,”I reply, leaning over the table beside him. “Sometimes I’m asleep.”
Imanage to sink one ball, and go on to the next. My groan makes him smile whenwe watch the cue ball follow the next stripe into the pocket.
“Scratch,”he announces.
“Noshit,” I mumble, stepping back.
I’mgreeted with a smirk while his eyebrows reach for the ceiling. “You aren’t asore loser are you?”
Mydeath glare should be response enough.
Thatfrustrating little smirk stays on his face after he sinks the eight ball,though he doesn’t say anything to rub it in.
“Goodgame,” I mutter, returning my cue to the rack mounted on the wall. Yeah, I am kindof a sore loser. It used to drive Derek crazy when we were young. It got so badthat he taught me to saygood gameafter every win or loss to try toteach me sportsmanship. I don’t think it worked.
“Whereare you going?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice.
“Toput my running clothes on. It’ll be dark soon and I need to beat you for athird time.”
Thistime I hear him laugh aloud as I walk away.
Althoughit isn’t as loud as his laughter an hour later, when he beats me back to thehouse for the first time.
I’dcurse him, but I don’t have any breath left in my lungs.
Thingslighten up between us after that and he talks to me more. I actually evenmanage to draw a few smiles and some laughter from him which for some reasonmakes me feel good. It’s like a daily goal now.
Wesettle into a routine. He works outside building his furniture or he’s gone onassignment for Striking Back during the day while I write. A hammockmysteriously appears between the two trees and I spend some time in the earlyafternoons just lying in it, daydreaming. When I thank him, he just nods at meand goes back to measuring a plank of wood.
