Page 168 of The Menagerie
“What?”
“Just, that’s not that much time to take off after, what, almost ten years?”
“Seven. That a problem?” The challenge in Mal’s narrowed eyes is obvious.
Rowan feels nervous sweat pebble up on his forehead, something that’s never happened with Mal. Leave it to his stupid mouth to fuck things up.
“No! Definitely not. Hell, you know most of what I did when I was younger, which is worse than having consensual sex at a BDSM club for years.”
Thankfully, Mal’s eyes soften. “I guess.”
For once, Rowan’s glad that his sordid past gives him an out. He looks around for a distraction, taking another long pull on his beer.
“You play pool?” Rowan asks when the couple previously occupying the table clears it.
“You sure you wanna take me on? I’m pretty good,” Mal replies cockily.
It makes Rowan’s heart pitter-patter in his chest.
He puts on his own sense of bravado.
“Used to hustle pool with Jay when we were teens,” Rowan says, standing and heading to the pool table.
“Oh yeah, tough guy?”
“Mmm. Swindled more biker dudes than I can count outta their cash.”
Mal laughs, a little incredulous, a little fond, and it has Rowan’s heart racing.
While Rowan chalks the cues, Mal expertly racks the balls, one ball in the front, eight ball in the middle, alternating stripes and solids everywhere else. Theclick, click, clickof the balls cracking together as Mal rolls them in the triangle takes Rowan back to swindling said bikers and drunk tourists out of cash when he and Jay would sneak into bars with fake IDs to make some extra money.
As confident as he is in his pool skills, Mal has a tendency to surprise the hell out of him, and he’s not exactly sure he can beat him.
They play a quick match of Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine who gets to break, Mal huffing when Rowan beats his rock with paper. The warmth of his hand as he covers Mal’s fist with his flat palm is searing, and he pulls away quickly, as if his faux paper might actually burn to ash at the touch.
Rowan dips over the table, and with a loudcrack! the balls scatter, two striped balls sinking into two of the corner pockets.
“Tch,” Mal scoffs. “Beginner’s luck.”
“You wish, Savaryn.”
His next shot is a mess, nothing lined up neatly enough for him to sink anything.
Rowan grins as Mal leans over to take his own shot, admiring the way his jeans hug his ass.
“I see you starin’ at the goods, Red.”
The orange five ball sinks into the pocket.
“Looks like you have to go again. How unfortunate for me,” Rowan teases as Mal leans obscenely over the pool table, far more than necessary to make the easy shot.
“Can see how bent outta shape you are about it.”
They take turns, sometimes sinking two or three shots in a row, sometimes missing their marks entirely, but constantly throwing teasing jabs back and forth. Idly sipping their beers as they eye each other from across the green felt table.
It’s ridiculous how attracted to him Rowan is.
Rowan wins the game, coolly sinking the eight ball into one of the middle pockets. Mal insists on best two out of three, and he wins the second game on a technicality—Rowan forgot to call the pocket for the eight ball because Mal was doing thisthingon the cue with his hands that looked obscene and got Rowan all kinds of flustered. Mal laughed at him and reracked the balls. Fucker knew exactly what he was doing and the effect it would have on Rowan.
