L. A. Witt - Rules 1 - Rules of Engagement (7 page)

 

“Right, right,” the manager said. “I think there was that one time last summer that you lost.”

 

“Hey now,” someone else said. “Some bastard beat him the other night. Anything’s possible.”

 

“Yeah, but is he here now?” Joe asked. “The ones that beat him never show up when it fucking counts.”

 

“Right here!” Brandon said, gesturing at me.

 

My cheeks burned as the entire room looked my way. “Well then,” Joe said with a satisfied nod. “Maybe we have a contender, after all.”

 

I raised my beer and nodded. “I’ll try not to humiliate him too badly.”

 

Joe laughed. Then he continued. “You’ve all read the rules. Remember, slop counts, except for Brandon.”

 

“Hey! What the hell?” Brandon said.

 

“Just trying to make it fair for everyone. Now shut up, or I’ll make you shoot with your damned feet.”

 

“Fucker,” Brandon muttered into his beer bottle. We exchanged quick glances and laughed.

Joe went on, “This is a double elimination tournament. You lose twice, you’re out. We’ll be running all four tables until we get down to the semifinal, and the final will be on table one. Beat Brandon at all, in any game, and your next beer is on the house. Questions?” No response. “Let the games begin, then.”

I nudged Brandon. “Man, there’s free beer involved now. I’m going to have to wipe the floor with you.”

 

“Bring it on,” he said.

As the tournament started, we moved to our assigned tables. My first game was two tables over from Brandon’s, which was probably just as well. He would be enough of a distraction when I was playing him. I didn’t need him psyching me out during my other games.

My first two games were easy wins. The first was a college kid who probably would have played better had he been sober. It didn’t bode well for a successful game of eight ball when a player had to use the table to hold himself upright. My second opponent put up a fairly good fight until a fancy—but incredibly risky—combo shot sent the eight careening into the side pocket.

The third game was also a bit of a challenge. Never mind the fact that she was a much better player than the other two, she made a point of letting the front of her shirt fall forward—
way
forward—every time she leaned over to take a shot. By the skin of my teeth, I managed to beat her, but it was a close game.

Brandon played her in the next round. I wondered if he would have a hard time—so to speak—against her like I did. Of course, being Brandon, he beat her soundly without batting an eye, though he did send a few well-timed glances down the front of her shirt while she played.

We each lost one game—Brandon to the college kid that had evidently sobered up a bit, and me to Brandon—but we both won in the semifinals. He played circles around his opponent while I struggled against a guy who looked like a lumberjack and played like a pro. By the time I finished that game with another narrow win, I was sweating bullets while the unshakeable Brandon Stewart casually sipped his beer and chatted with two of the eliminated players.

Before we faced off in the final, he pulled me aside and said, “You know it’s nothing personal when I beat you, right?”

 

“It was nothing personal when I beat you. It won’t be this time either.”

 

He grinned. Then he lowered his voice. “When this is over, you game for a little one-on-one?”

 

I smiled, pretending that the very thought of touching him again didn’t make my knees shake. “Your place or mine?”

“You choose.” He sipped his beer. Dropping his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, he added, “As long as there’s a bed, you, and no clothes, I’ll be there.”

With that, he walked back to the pool tables, leaving me trying to catch my breath and wishing my beer was about fifty degrees colder. I took a long drink, trying unsuccessfully to think of something other than last night and what was in store for me tonight.

“We’re down to the final game,” Joe announced, bringing me back to the present. “And we’ve got newcomer Dustin Walker taking on Brandon ‘when will he ever fucking lose’ Stewart.” He looked around the room and stopped when he found me. “No pressure, Dustin.”

Raising my beer bottle and nodding, I said, “No, no pressure at all.”
Especially not after a certain someone made me think about—oh, Brandon, you son of a bitch
. I caught his eye as he put chalk on his cue.

Grinning, he put the chalk down and winked at me. I groaned and sipped my beer. Beating him the night I met him had been tough enough. This was going to be the longest game of eight ball in history.

Picking up my cue, I headed to the table, where the ref handed me the rack. As I racked the game, I said to Brandon, “I hope you don’t think you’re going to psych me out.”

“No, I don’t think I’m going to psych you out.” He leaned over the opposite end of the table, his lips twisting into that mouthwatering cocky grin. “I already
have
.”

I took in a breath through parted lips before I could will myself not to let him see my reaction.

 

Chuckling, he set the cue ball on the table. “May the best man win.”

“You’re evil,” I said with a laugh as I picked up the rack. “You already knew that.” He leaned over the table.

“But with each passing day,” I said, trying not to stare at the way his long, slender fingers bridged the cue, “I’m learning just how deep those wells of evil really are.”

He winked at me but said nothing. A moment later, his cue snapped forward, and the balls broke. I heard two drop, but only saw one.

“Twelve and four,” the ref said.

“Hmm, so do I go after stripes or solids?” Brandon said, rubbing his chin and pretending to be in deep thought. Then he smirked and lined up a shot. “Might as well go with solids.” Looking at me, he added, “Then it’ll feel more consistent when I go to drop the eight ball.”

I rubbed my eye with my middle finger. Chuckling, Brandon mouthed, “Later.”

He dropped the seven and the one before scratching. He cursed under his breath as soon as he hit the cue ball, knowing the shot was doomed before it was halfway across the table. As we walked past each other on his way to the sideline and my way to the table, we exchanged a fleeting glance. He said nothing, did nothing, just looked at me with a totally neutral, casual expression. He added no flourish or flirtation to it, but it was enough to make my hands unsteady.
All part of your evil plan, isn’t it, Stewart?

More than ever, I was hellbent on winning this game.

Fortunately for me, Brandon’s attempts to psych me out worked in my favor: as I tried not to think about him, I focused harder on the game. By the time this turn was over, I’d dropped three. As the game wore on, we were neck and neck, each with two left on the table.

Brandon knocked both of his in. He gave me a cocky look and said, “Dustin, why don’t you call the pocket for the eight ball? I’d hate to think I won this on my own.”

“Fine,” I said, trying to glare at him, but laughing instead. “Side pocket.”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s easy.” The eight was a simple shot away from either side pocket. He leaned to take his shot. “Wait, wait, wait,” I said. He looked up. “Side pocket… on that table.” I gestured at one of the other tables.

 

The rest of the crowd laughed. Joe said, “You know, since it’s Brandon, I’m half-tempted to go along with this.”

 

“All right, fuck you all,” Brandon laughed. He pointed his cue at one of the pockets. “Eight ball, side pocket.”

 

I gritted my teeth, knowing I was completely fucked. Ah well, it was a good run.

His cue jerked forward. “
Shit
!” he said the second it struck the cue ball. The eight ball shot across the table and narrowly missed the side pocket, bouncing harmlessly back into the center of the table.

Thrilled to see their perennial winner possibly meeting his first tournament loss in ages, the crowd cheered.

 

Brandon scowled, shook his head, looked at me with a smile, and gestured at the table. “Your shot.”

 

“No pressure, Dustin,” Joe said on the mic. “But you damn well better not lose.”

“No, no pressure at all,” I said, laughing and rolling my eyes. Surveying the table, pretending every eye in the room wasn’t burning a hole in my back, I tried to focus on my strategy. The eleven was an easy shot, sitting fairly close to the corner pocket, but the nine was some distance from the opposite corner. Might as well get the harder one out of the way.

I lined up my shot, took it, and watched with satisfaction—and relief—as the nine dropped.

“Nice shot,” Brandon said. “But have fun with
that
one.” I looked at the table and cringed. I’d completely misjudged where the cue ball and the eight ball would land. Now the eleven and the eight both teetered precariously on the corner pocket. The eleven was slightly in front; even the tiniest nudge on that ball could knock the eight in, costing me the game.

I ran a hand through my hair and blew out a breath. “Fuck.” “You could have Brandon shoot it for you,” some smartass in the crowd said.

 

“No way,” Brandon said. “I’m not touching that.”

I gave him a stunned look, but his eyes were fixed on the table. He shook his head, wincing. When he met my eyes, his expression said, loud and clear, “better you than me.” I didn’t know if it was an attempt to psych me out or if he really didn’t envy my predicament. If it was the former, it was definitely working.

“Well,” I said. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” I considered a few different angles before I took my shot, hoping for the best. It was a common mistake for beginners to hit a ball too hard when it was so precariously positioned, knocking it away from the pocket rather than into it. In this case, my best chance was to do just that: hit them hard and hope that both, or at least the eight, rolled away rather than in.

It worked. Both the eleven and the eight flew in opposite directions away from the pocket. The cue ball, however, dropped. Brandon whistled. “Nice shot.”

I glowered at the cue ball as I pulled it out of the pocket and handed it to him. I’d sacrificed my turn—and likely my chance to sink the eight ball—but at least the game was still on.

“I’m serious,” Brandon said, clapping my shoulder as we passed on my way to the sideline. “That was impressive.”

“Thanks,” I said. We exchanged smiles.
Joe elbowed me. “Nice run.”

“It’s not over yet,” I said with a shrug. The crack of the cue ball hitting another ball, followed by the hollow
thunk
of a ball dropping into a pocket made me pause. “Okay,
now
it’s over.”

The crowd cheered for both of us, and a moment later, Brandon’s arm was around my shoulders. “Good game.”

 

“Likewise.”

Whispering so low I could barely hear him over the cheering around us, he said, “I’m horny as hell. Why don’t we get the fuck out of here?”

A
S SOON
as we were in bed, we couldn’t pry ourselves away from each other. I wanted to suck his cock, I wanted him to suck mine, but I was lost in the sweet taste of his mouth. I hadn’t made out like this since I was a teenager, and every minute of it just got hotter and hotter.

He was breathless when he broke the kiss and said, “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

 

“I will, but I don’t want to stop this.” My voice shook.

“I don’t want to stop either,” he whispered, holding my face with trembling hands. “But if you don’t fuck me right now….” He trailed off, exhaling as he pressed his hard cock against me. “Jesus, Dustin, I need you to fuck me.”

There was no way in hell I could even think of resisting, not with the desperate hunger in his voice.

We sat up and I moved away from him just long enough to get the condom and lube. Even as I put the condom on, we couldn’t stop kissing. I wanted to be inside him, I wanted to fuck him until we both came, but his kiss turned me on like nothing else.

He started to turn around, but I caught his shoulder. “Wait,” I said, kissing him gently. “I want to see your face.” I reached past him and grabbed a pillow. “Put this under your hips.”

“You
have
done this before, haven’t you?” He smiled, putting the pillow behind him.

I winked. “A time or two.” He kissed me, and I lowered him to the bed slowly. I sat up, letting him wrap his legs around my waist as I pressed my cock against his ass. Watching his eyes, completely mesmerized by the look on his face, I slowly pushed into him. I gave him just a little, waiting for him to relax. When he did, I slid further in.

“Oh fuck, that feels good,” he said.

 

“And it looks incredible,” I said, holding his leg against my hip as I ran my hand up his trembling abs. “I love watching you like this.”

He closed his eyes and licked his lips. My mouth watered; I needed to taste his kiss again. Leaning over him, I slid my hand under his neck and kissed him. He put his arms around me, rolling his hips back and moving with me as I fucked him. I moved from the hips, taking faster, deeper strokes as he relaxed and accommodated me. The more I kissed him, the more I needed to fuck him, and the more I fucked him, the more I kissed him.

“Jesus Christ,” he moaned against my lips. “Oh God, Dustin, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

I sat up and held his hips, slamming into him as hard as I could. His back arched, and the cords stood out on his neck as he begged for more, and I gave him more.

Holding one of his legs against me for balance, I let go of his hips and wrapped my fingers around his cock.

 

“
Holy fuck
!” he cried. “Don’t stop, Jesus Christ, don’t… fucking… stop….”

I tried to keep fucking and stroking him, but my rhythm faltered. I could barely breathe, could think of nothing but how incredible he felt and how fucking sexy he looked. A violent shudder shook me against him and I gasped, losing my rhythm completely. He overwhelmed me, drove me completely into oblivion, but I didn’t want to stop until he came.

“Dustin.” He sounded like his teeth were chattering. “Dustin, look at me.”

 

I hadn’t even realized I’d closed my eyes, but I opened them and looked at him, nearly coming just from the palpable lust in his eyes.