“How very zen of you,” I quip, and he laughs. “Are you going to be this laid-back if I lose your bet too?”
“Is that any way to talk?” Sebastian chides from his spot on the other side of Daniel. “Have some confidence in yourself, Bailey. You can absolutely win. Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
That last exclamation was directed at Clark, who scratched on the eight-ball again. Yikes. Three-zero. Clark’s face is red with anger. He shakes hands with his opponent stiffly, and comes over to us. “Juliette not here yet?” he snaps. “Fine. Bailey, you’re up.”
Daniel gives me an encouraging nod. "Remember what we taught you," he says quietly, as Sebastian racks the balls for me. "Steady. Long strokes, nothing jerky."
I wink at him, hidden devilry appearing from nowhere. "I've heard that before," I joke. "Not quite in the same context though."
He laughs aloud. "Do me proud, Bailey.”
* * *
Clark’s not the only one who has dropped a rank. Not unexpectedly, my rank has fallen as well. Last week, I was a three, but after my abysmally poor performance, the league has downgraded me. I’m now a two - the lowest skill level of anyone in the league. You have nowhere to go but up, Bailey, I tell myself encouragingly, trying to ward off my nerves ahead of my match. Daniel and Sebastian are watching me, and I do want to do well for them. In one evening, they’ve taught me far more than Trevor’s taught me in months, and I’m really grateful.
My opponent is another two. He’s a geeky looking guy, and he’s a dead-ringer for Sheldon Cooper, on the Big Bang Theory. As I shake his hand, I ask him if people ever tell him that. “Who?” He looks blankly at me. “I don’t own a TV.”
It takes difficulty to keep from rolling my eyes. I don’t understand the hate some people have for TV. I like to escape reality by watching home decorating shows. Sue me.
I’m actually so busy getting annoyed by his attitude that I don’t tense up as I break, and because I’m not paying attention, I have the break of a lifetime. Well, my lifetime. This isn’t just a legal break. No, this time, when the balls scatter, one of them actually rolls into the pocket.
Little orange ball, I want to take you home and put you on a display shelf.
Even more shockingly, I follow up that opening shot, that miraculous exciting break, by sinking another ball, the solid green. I miss the next one, because sadly, no fairy godmother has been by sprinkling fairy dust on my pool cue. But still - two balls in a row? This is unheard of.
Nerd guy - whose name is Michael - tries to aim for a striped yellow ball at the far end of the table and misses, and it’s me again. Luckily, he’s left me with an incredibly easy shot - the ball I’m aiming for is only inches away from the pocket. It rolls in.
Three balls. I’ve managed to sink three balls. This is beyond awesome. This is stupendous.
My streak continues. Nothing dramatic - I still miss far more balls than I make, but I realize something. When I was playing with Trevor, if I missed a shot, he’d take advantage by clearing the table. Today, since I’m playing with an opponent that’s as bad as I am, the game is much more evenly balanced, and the coaching that Sebastian and Daniel have provided me is helping. It’s really, really helping. I’m keeping all the instructions I’ve heard from them in mind. Eyes on the tip of my cue. Keeping my head down while I take the shot. Steady and slow, with no sudden movements…
And then, it’s time for a shot at the eight ball. I close my eyes and mutter a small prayer to the universe. Please, I ask. I really want this.
I miss.
Crap, I mutter under my breath. Crap, crap, fucking crap. I move to the side to let Michael take his shot. Sebastian’s talking to Juliette, who must have come in at some point while I was playing. She’s gesturing at him angrily, and they look like they are having some kind of argument. Daniel comes over to talk to me. “You are doing really well,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I missed the shot at the eight.” My voice is disconsolate.
“So what? The game’s not over yet. Your opponent still has two balls left, and he hasn’t made two shots in a row all night long. There’s an excellent chance you are going to get another try at this.”
He’s absolutely right. I just need to keep this in perspective. Sure enough, as Daniel has predicted, the guy misses and I get another go. It’s not going to be easy - the eight ball is all the way on the far end of the table. Since I have almost no chance at it, I just go through the motions. I mark my pocket and I chalk my cue, and I aim, and wham.
There must be a fairy godmother.
Because that ball?
That sweet, precious eight-ball?
Rolls into the pocket.
I have won my first pool game.
I squeal like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, jumping up and down with gleeful excitement. “I won,” I shriek in Daniel and Sebastian’s direction, but they aren’t looking at my face. Their eyes are glued to my chest. “Oh come on,” I flush, getting closer to them so they are the only people that can hear my next set of words. “My face is up here, you know.”
“I know,” Sebastian says, unabashed. “I wasn’t looking at your face.” He puts an arm around my waist and draws me in. “Now I am,” he mutters, his lips so close to mine that I stop breathing in reaction to his nearness. “Congratulations, Bailey,” he says. Then he dips his head toward my lips, and kisses me.
He smells like musk and sandalwood and man. His kiss is soft but insistent, and I yield, parting my lips and deepening contact as if I can’t get enough of him. Forgotten is the pool hall and my opponent. I ignore Clark’s slack-jawed stare and Juliette’s narrowed eyes, and I kiss Sebastian Ardalan, bad boy celebrity chef, strong, tattooed Sebastian Ardalan, and it is so good. My hands come up to hold onto his waist, and the blood pounds in my ears, and I am helpless and aching for more.
We pull away slowly from each other as he breaks the kiss. In his eyes, I see the same hazy lust as I’m feeling. Then he leans in for one more brief kiss. “The match isn’t over,” he says hoarsely. “First one to win two games, remember?” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. “A pool game has never been more inconvenient.”
My head's still spinning as I walk back to the table. My focus isn’t on the game. It’s on the very public kiss that Sebastian just gave me. As much as I’m trying not to think about it, I can’t help it. What does that kiss mean? What’s going to happen next? And most importantly, what does Daniel think about it?
Distracted as I am, I promptly lose the next two games. Clark glares at me as Michael pockets the eight-ball to win. “Sebastian, you’re up next,” he says curtly. “And try to win your match, damn it.”
Sebastian winks at me and goes up to play, and I shake my head again, confused. I need to go to the washroom and splash my face with cold water, and wonder what the heck is going on.
12
Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.
Ambrose Redmoon
Bailey:
Juliette’s waiting for me when I get out of the stall, her expression thunderous. Shit. Is this about Sebastian’s kiss? They aren’t dating, are they? “Is something wrong?”
“Is something wrong?” she repeats. Her voice rises with frustration. “Yes, Bailey, I’d say something’s fucking wrong. Do you know that Sebastian blew off a really important business meeting tonight to come hang out with you?” Her fists are clenched at her side.
“Sort of,” I reply. “He mentioned something.”
“Well, good for him,” she drawls the words out, sarcasm oozing out of every syllable. “Isn’t that nice that Sebastian mentioned blowing off a meeting I’ve been working on for months to put together?”
I’m not sure why I’m the target of her ire. Sebastian’s a big boy, and I’m not responsible for his behavior. “Why are you getting pissy with me?” I ask directly, refusing to pussy-foot around the fact that she’s being a bitch
“Listen to me, Bailey.” She steps close to me, and I fight the urge to take a step back. “There’s a narrow window of opportunity here. Sebastian knows it, even if he’s ignoring it at the moment. Seb New York was just awarded a second Michelin star, and we have to strike when the iron’s hot.” She glares at me. “If there’s ever a time for Sebastian not to lose focus, it is now. The last thing he needs is a distraction.”
Me. I’m the distraction.
Here’s the deal. All my life, I’ve had to fight the redhead stereotype. Everyone always assumes that redheads are prone to anger and rage, but I’ve never been that person. I’m pretty even-tempered. I avoid conflict. I don’t call people out on their bullshit.
Until now. “No,” I tell her. “You listen to me. Sebastian is an adult who can make his own decisions. If you have a problem with him, you can talk to him. But you don’t get to hurl accusations.” I meet her eyes evenly, though I’m quaking inside, wondering how she’s going to react to my speech. “Are we clear?”
The Thursday Drinking Pack will be so proud of me.
Juliette doesn’t reply. She just glares at me for a few long seconds, then she spins on her heel and walks away without saying another word.
* * *
I wash my hands, somewhat shaken by the whole confrontation. As I calm myself, a surge of sympathy for Sebastian flows through me. He’s a two-star Michelin chef, and he’s in his early thirties. He must have worked incredibly hard to achieve everything he has. I can’t believe that his own business adviser is acting like he’s slacking off for playing pool with his friends. Poor Sebastian.
All of those thoughts flee my brain when I push the door open and walk out, because standing in the dim passageway, waiting for me, is Daniel.
My heart jumps in my throat at the gleam in his eyes. Amused, heated, dark. The instant I absorb that look, I swallow, unable to conceal my own desire. These guys are like some kind of Bailey catnip.
“Unlike Sebastian, I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you on your win,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. I watch his head dip toward mine, his body nearing, then his lips are on mine, and I stop thinking and just feel.
His kiss is slowly sensual. Sebastian’s kiss could have been passed off as a gesture of celebration, but the message in Daniel’s kiss is clear. This is a prelude to sex. I whimper as his tongue slides into my mouth, hot and insistent. His fingers slide through my hair, wrapping around the strands and tugging my head back so my neck is exposed. His lips press butterfly-soft kisses against my throat, my jaw. His teeth graze my skin and I shift, restless with longing.
Then he pulls away and I blink pressing my fingers to my swollen lips. Some of my lipstick is on his mouth. I move to wipe it away, but his mouth captures my fingers and he sucks, and my knees almost buckle as liquid, molten heat runs through my entire body. “Daniel,” I whisper. “What are you doing?”
“Congratulating you.”
“I didn’t win my match.” Why am I standing here arguing with Daniel about whether I won or not, when there’s the two kisses to think of?
“You won a game, didn’t you?” His gaze never leaves my face. “Do you want to take this further?”
“With you?”
“With Sebastian and me.”
I swallow nervously. There’s no dancing around the topic now, no way to pretend that I’m not interested in both of them. There’s no hiding from my desire and my forbidden longings.
“Both of you?”
He just nods.
Shit. I just ended a relationship. What am I doing, playing with fire the way I am? I shake my head back and forth, frantically. These guys have crawled in and staked claim over my libido. I need to dislodge them. A threesome is a ridiculous idea.
“When?”
This time, he smiles, a surprisingly sweet smile that softens his face. “Friday night, my place?” he asks. “Sebastian is usually done working at ten.”
Ten at night. There’s no way to pretend that this isn’t a booty call. Every sensible voice in my head is screaming at me to turn him down.
“Ten,” I whisper, quieting those thoughts with ruthless efficiency. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
13
If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Daniel:
I wake up Friday morning with a smile on my face. I can’t wait for tonight.
Bailey had been so beautiful on Wednesday. Her face had been flushed with triumph, her smile victorious as she watched the eight ball roll into the pocket. My dick had hardened when I saw Sebastian kissing her, and I had to kiss her myself and taste her sweetness. And just as I’d anticipated, it had taken real effort to pull away from her after that kiss. I had to struggle to keep from sweeping her out of the club, into a cab, and to my house.
My smile fades as I scroll through my email. One from my Uncle Cyrus jumps out at me. ‘Call me ASAP’ is the ominous subject line, and the body of the message is empty. Damn it.
Wandering into the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee before I dial his number. When he answers, he sounds apoplectic with rage. “I thought I told you to stay out of the news,” he snaps.
“Hello to you too, Cyrus,” I say coolly. “I have no idea what you are talking about, so perhaps you can fill me in.”
“I told you to keep a low profile,” he rants. “I warned you that we are at a crucial state in the negotiations.” I can feel his glare sear at me through the phone. “Your photo is in the New York Times.”
“Hang on.” My laptop is in my bedroom, so I head back there and turn it on. We don’t talk as I navigate to Google and search for ‘Daniel Hartman New York Times.’ Before I manage to find it, a beep in my inbox announces an email from Sally in Corporate Affairs, who manages my public presence. She has a link to the article in her message, but there’s nothing in her email that expresses concern.
Okay. If Sally’s not worried, Cyrus is overreacting. I sip at my coffee and scan the article. Sure enough, it’s a completely harmless piece on the history of the Maxwell Club, and I’m only mentioned in passing. I remember the journalist who has written it, a young guy called Oliver. Marty, the club president had introduced him around about a month ago, and Oliver had several fascinating things to say about the club history that I didn’t know about.
“Cyrus,” I sigh into the phone. “This article isn’t even about me.” I glance at the alarm clock. Ten after six. “Did you wake up at the crack of dawn to yell at me about this?”
“Your photo is in the paper,” he repeats. “I thought I told you to stay out of the tabloids.”
I lose my patience. “The New York Times is not a tabloid. All I’m doing in the photo is playing pool with a group of people. Even in Kansas, I’m sure that’s an approved activity.” I need to calm down. In my head, I count to ten before continuing. “I told you I won’t do anything scandalous. I never promised to quarantine myself until Ryan Communications’ board made up their mind about our offer.”
“Fine,” he exhales. “I’m going to be in Kansas City tomorrow playing golf with Wayne Ryan. I’ll smooth this over.”
There’s nothing to smooth over, Cyrus.
“Which reminds me,” he continues, not noticing my frigid silence. “Sophie said you were unavailable, but I have some numbers about this deal to go over with you. I’m booked solid in meetings until eight in the evening. Let’s meet after that?”
“Nope, that’s not going to work. I’m busy tonight.”
“You are?” His voice sharpens with surprise.
“Yes, Cyrus,” I say with forced calm. “It is Friday night. Some people use the onset of the weekend as a way to wind down.”
“What can be more important than this deal? Is it a woman?”
“That’s none of your business,” I snap. “Send me an email if you absolutely need me to look at something, but I’m not available to meet tonight. And in the future, when Sophie says I’m busy, you should listen to her.”
I hang up on him, then I stare into space, my pulse still pounding from my phone conversation. I’m thirty four, and my uncle wants to ground me for the good of the company. And the last minute meeting about some mysterious numbers? I know Cyrus well enough to know that this is just another attempt to control me.
And in the past, you’ve allowed him, my conscience reminds me. Cyrus is acting this way because you’ve set a precedent. What’s different about tonight?
The answer is stark in its simplicity. Bailey. Bailey is what’s different. I’m fascinated by her. Fantasies of her in my bed, writhing between Sebastian and me, moaning, whimpering as she succumbs to pleasure fill my head. I wonder what tonight’s going to be like. Will she show up interested in exploring the obvious sexual energy that flows between the three of us?
Or will she be coy? I can’t see her in that role. She’s completely unaware of her appeal, but at the same time, she’s not shy, and her joke about steady long strokes suggests she’s not a blushing, virginal type. Thank heavens, because the things I’m thinking of doing with her over a pool table are far from innocent. I can’t even enter my rec room anymore without sporting a semi.
* * *
As I eat breakfast, I’m not thinking of Bailey and sex, though I wish I were. Instead, I’m thinking morose thoughts about Cyrus and the sacrifices I’m expected to make for Hartman & Company.
I became the CEO of the company seven years ago when my father died of a heart attack. Since then, everything’s come second to running the firm. I haven’t dated anyone seriously - I don’t have the time. The crazy adventures I used to have with Sebastian have all been shelved for more profitable pursuits. Friends have fallen away, to be replaced by lackeys and sycophants.
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