Page 33 of Agency
“Keep the tab open, Elise?”
“No shots?” she asked.
“Not tonight.” I nodded my thanks and, before Andrew could react, I was grabbing my beer and walking over to the pool table to see if my own tastes matched up with Elise’s. After all, tonight was a night of celebration. And what better way to celebrate than to actually find someone interesting to talk to?
I came to a stop a few steps from the table, eyes on the mysterious pool player while I took another drink of beer. Aside from her thick red hair, there really wasn’t much to inform me one way or another on her gender, other than Elise’s words. Then, my eyes drifted to the table, and to the shadow game she’d been playing against herself. She’d knocked the stripes all the way down till there was nothing but the eight ball, but plenty of solids were still on the table and blocking her winning shot. I saw a path around, but the shot was the double-banking kind.
If Morgan had been there, he could have made the shot. Andrew or me, though? Not a chance. We were pure amateur hour compared to him.
I took another long drink of beer, half-wondering if she was good enough to pull off the shot.
“Having fun standing there and staring at my ass?” the billiard player asked, giving me a start so severe that I nearly spat out my beer. “Or are you on your way to use the restroom, or something?” Her voice was almost melodic, and cut through the jukebox’s music. I could even hear a bit of a teasing laugh to her words.
“How did you–?” Glancing up to the low-hanging light fixture that hung over the pool table midway through my sentence, I stopped myself as I locked gazes with her eyes in one of the angled mirrors.
Damn. Elise sure as hell wasn’t wrong. Not for one second, or about one thing. Because this woman, with her full lips, high cheek bones, and delicate nose was a lot easier on the eyes than either me or Andrew. That was for damn sure. Even the scar on her jaw seemed to add to everything, as if the universe had needed to eventually put something there just to keep her from being perfect.
But, for as attractive as her facial features were, they had nothing on her eyes. Crystal blue and holding what seemed to be a deep, abiding, almost bittersweet sadness, her eyes were the stars. Hands down, some of the most gorgeous and expressive I’d ever seen.
Seconds later, I was shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my own idiocy and lack of observational skills. If this had been back in Afghanistan or Iraq, I would have been dead.
But, since this was only St. Louis, and the Bothersome Beaver at that, I was only embarrassed.
“Well?” she asked in the reflection. “Going to answer me? Or a beaver got your tongue?”
“Pretty sure beavers don’t actually bite tongues unless they’re made out of wood.”
“Never met a cat that actually caught any, either, though.”
“True.”
“Still haven’t answered my question.”
“About staring at your ass? No, I was looking at the shot, and wondering if you’d be able to make it.”
“That so?” Before I could answer, she was drawing back her cue, then sliding the slender pole forward and striking the cue ball. “Eight ball, corner pocket.” Her stroke was sure and steady, and the ivory-colored ball went rolling forward. The cue ball banked off the rail with a low thud, collided with the adjacent rail with another thud, then banked right into the eight ball and sent it rolling with gentle and sure determination towards the corner she’d indicated only moments before.
“Nice,” I said as she shifted focus to the striped balls still remaining on the table, but remained bent over. She looked back at me with a raised eyebrow, and the slightest curl of a smile at the corner of her gorgeous mouth, as if to silently ask whether I was talking about the shot, or her ass.
“And, to be clear, this time I mean ‘nice’ to both,” I answered before taking another drink.
Rolling her eyes, she returned to her shadow game and took her next shot. “That kind of thing ever actually work?” she asked as the stripe rolled into its new home. This time, she didn’t bother looking up to the mirror hovering above the table.
“Does what kind of thing ever actually work?”
“This blunt approach of yours to picking up women.”
“Who said I was trying to pick you up?”
“The way you walked right over here and started staring at my ass.”
“Thought we went over this just now. I only glanced down when you mentioned it was there.”
“Mentioned it was there? You mean to say you meet a lot of ass-less women?”
“Well, I’ve met a few with barely any ass, but I don’t think that’s exactly what you mean.”
Snorting out a laugh, a surprisingly delicate sound, she now glanced to the mirror and locked gazes with me. That bittersweetness had deepened in the last few minutes. Ripened, maybe? There was something else there, too.
