Page 33 of Him
“My face isn’t in my profile pic.” Wes can hardly speak for laughing.
I realize something. “You didn’t show me your profile.”
“No kidding,” he says, getting a hold of himself finally. “Not showing you that.”
“Why?” When he shrugs, I suddenly wonder if… “Is it a dick pic?”
Another burst of laughter shudders out of his mouth. “Abs,” he croaks. “It’s my abs.”
Of course it is.
Wes’s new “friend” drifts back to our table, sliding a bottle in front of Wes, who’s barely made a dent in his current one. We spend the next few minutes chatting. Well, they chat. I just listen, feeling uneasy. There’s something kinda…sleazy about the whole thing, about this guy, but maybe I’m just grumpy. I wanted to hang out with my best friend tonight, not watch him eye-fuck some other dude.
“I teach second grade at the public school,” the guy’s telling Wes. His name is Sam, and it’s a little hard to hate him now that I know he works with kids. He seems decent. And he’s really good-looking. Not Wes good-looking or anything, but—Jesus. Am I seriously sitting here comparing the level of attractiveness of the two guys beside me?
I take a deep gulp of my beer. Screw it. If I’m going to be the third wheel tonight, I might as well get wasted.
“Pool table’s available,” Sam says, gazing across the room. “You guys up for a game?”
“Sure,” Wes answers for us, and I swallow down my irritation with another swig of beer.
“I’ll just watch,” I mutter as we reach the table. “Not in the mood to shoot pool.”
Wes eyes me for a moment. “All right.”
Sam racks the balls and flashes Wes a grin. “Looks like it’s you and me. For the sake of full disclosure, I’m about to kick your ass.”
This guy doesn’t know Wes, though. I used to watch my buddy hustle every unsuspecting sap who’d ever challenged him to a game.
Wes smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, you might be right about that. I’m not very good.”
I stifle a snort.
“You want me to break?” Sam offers.
Wes nods. His gaze meets mine briefly, and I see the twinkle in his eye before he turns away.
I lean against the wood-paneled wall as Sam bends over at the far end of the table, the pool cue positioned skillfully in his hands. His opening shot sends the balls scattering in a dizzying whirl, but he only lands one—solid red in the side pocket. He sticks with solids, sinking one more before missing the next shot.
Wes is up. He studies the table with a frown, as if he can’t decide which shot to take. Bullshit. Like his shrewd brain hasn’t already planned out every single shot all the way up to the sinking of the eight ball.
Sam sidles up to him, lightly resting his hand on Wes’s shoulder.
I narrow my eyes. Handsy motherfucker, ain’t he?
“Go for the eleven,” Sam advises. “Corner pocket.”
Wes bites his lip. “I was thinking the thirteen.” Which would require a combo shot that would make even the most advanced billiards players sweat.
Sam chuckles. “That might be a bit too difficult considering you’re not—”
Wes takes the shot before Sam can finish the sentence. He sinks the thirteen. And the nine. And the twelve. In one impressive combo that makes Sam’s jaw hit the floor.
I can’t help it. I start to laugh.
“You’re not very good, huh?” Sam sighs heavily.
Wes’s mouth twitches. “I may have underplayed my level of proficiency.”
