Not an oversight, just a lack of talent.She bites back the admission.
Charlie pauses for a moment and studies her. Then he takes a step back with a sly smile before he strolls to the opposite side of the table. He grabs the black plastic rack and fills it with the balls from the pockets nearest to him. She rolls the ones from her side over, unable to resist studying the way his body moves, how his shoulder flexes beneath his clothes as he stretches to reach one that doesn’t quite make it. Balls all in the rack, he points to the top of the triangle. “The one ball here; eight in the middle; a stripe in one corner and a solid in the other; the rest doesn’t matter. Do you want to break?”
“Umm... Sure?” As soon as she attempts to take aim with the cue, she realizes she truly has forgotten more about this than she remembers. The angles are all wrong, her grip too tense, the hole she’s made with her fingers as a bridge too tight. Discomfort in her wrist confirms she’s way off, nowhere close to the correct position. But she also doesn’t know how to fix it. Her first attempt misses the cue ball completely. Her second sends it leaping off the table. Charlie catches it in one hand with reflexes that would make an MLB scout stand up and take notice.
“Jesus,” he says, the ball safely ensconced in his palm. “You weren’t fucking with me? You really don’t know how to play?”
Gretchen’s ready to spit back something about how maybe heshould believe her when she tells him things, but the words get caught in her throat as Charlie moves closer, wrapping his fingers around her cue. He leans in to whisper in her ear, “I probably shouldn’t teach you this. You’re already too powerful as it is.”
This is like when they first met. Like standing on the farmhouse’s porch and hearing him describe her in nearly the same terms with which she thinks of herself. There’s less disgust in his voice this time though as he acknowledges that Gretchen’s damn fucking good at what she does. And it’s nice to be recognized for her skills, as unsavory as he may find them.He sees me.
She lifts the cue into a horizontal position again, and Charlie’s touch is both forceful and guiding as he persuades her right hand to loosen slightly and lower to correct the angle. He pushes her left palm flat against the table, then adjusts her fingers into a simpler bridge. One of his palms lightly presses her shoulder blade until she’s bent over, chin closer to her cue. Meanwhile, his body is pressed so close to Gretchen’s that she finds herself subconsciously matching the pace of his breathing. And god help her, all she can think about is if this is what Charlie Waybill would be like in bed, demanding things from her in this way that somehow still feels soft beneath it all.
“Try again,” he says, his lips closer to her neck than she realized. The moist heat of his words near the sensitive skin below her ear makes her knees go a little weak, and she has to lean into the table to remain standing when he abruptly takes several steps back.
Gretchen aims the cue and hits the white ball with as much force as she can. It gives a tiny hop in the air before hitting the one, the force too weak to send the rest of the balls very far.
“For a break to be legal, you have to either pocket a ball or hitat least four off the cushions,” he says, gathering the few she scattered back into the rack. “Again.”
The proper position seems to be part of her now, seared into her muscle memory by Charlie’s guidance. But she says, “Can you... can you show me again?”
Another shot, this one much better. Something low in her stomach flutters when Charlie says, “Yeah, there you go. Nice job.”
He takes aim next. “Watch me.” As if Gretchen needs to be told. As if she could do anything except take note of his every move. He hits the cue ball into one of the solids, which bounces off another and sinks a stripe into the left center pocket.
“You’re pretty good at this. Pick this up from your grandma too?”
Gretchen meant it as a joke, but Charlie says, “Yeah. And Grandpa. Both played. They had a table in the basement for a time. Taught me down there. I liked it. Played a good bit through college, but had to take a break while I was at sea. Been getting back into it the last year or so.”
“You mean you didn’t play pool on the tall ships?” She imagines it would be challenging to keep the balls from rolling around.
“Ha. They do have gyroscopic tables on some big cruise ships, but not the windjammers I worked on.” He aims and takes his next shot—another seemingly effortless one that Gretchen knows requires immense skill. “And I couldn’t play in most ports because I didn’t speak the language enough to figure out what rules we were playing by, and I didn’t want to get my—”
“You Waybill?” someone interrupts from behind Gretchen.
“Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”
“I heard you’re pretty good.”
Who’s this chump interrupting their game? (Or whatever it is she and Charlie are doing, since it’s less an actual game and morehim running the table while she tries not to be too transparent in her ogling.)
She thought Tipsy Lou’s was an odd choice for Charlie “I’d like to be a librarian” Waybill’s night out, but he’s nowhere near as out of place here as the twentysomething guy in an oxford shirt and fleece vest standing beside a tall, slender woman wearing a body-hugging red dress and sky-high heels. His face is flushed from alcohol, and she has the high cheekbones and wide-set eyes of a high fashion model. After years in the city, Gretchen can clock a DC consultant bro from a mile away. It’s clear that’s what this guy is, though she can’t begin to imagine how he and his date found their way to a dive bar in the far, far,farsuburbs.
“I’m all right,” Charlie answers, although the modesty sounds more obligatory than sincere. She can see by the few shots Charlie has taken that he not only has raw skill, but the discipline to have honed it into something formidable.
“Prove it. A hundred dollars,” the man says, taking a step forward. Gretchen clocks that his vest hasdeloitteembroidered on the chest. Yep, consulting bro.Called it.
“Pardon?”
“I bet you a hundred bucks I’ll beat you.”
“Not interested,” Charlie says without hesitation, then directs his attention back to Gretchen. “Your turn, Acorn.” Which, it isn’t, not technically, because Charlie still hasn’t missed a shot. But getting closer to the cue ball will also get her closer to Charlie, which is where she wants to be. And maybe... maybe where he wants her to be too?
“Aw, don’t be a pussy, man,” Mr. Deloitte says, chuckling as if that was actually a sick burn.
Oh, how Gretchen’s always hated consulting bros. Howrighttaking their money always felt. There are countless ways she could clean out this one’s pockets, easy peasy. Just like the good old days when she first arrived in Washington. But she can’t do that here, not in front of Charlie.
“Maybe we should go find Dutch and Bobbi,” he says, his hand coming to the small of Gretchen’s back. Charlie has it in him to stand his ground; she knows because he does it with her all the time. But she’s glad that he’s not the type to take this asshole’s bait.
