L. A. Witt - Rules 1 - Rules of Engagement (16 page)

B
RANDON
leaned against the arm of his couch, watching me at the pool table. “So how was the wedding?”

I groaned, partly from the memory of the wedding, partly because I’d just missed an
easy
shot on the table. Tapping my cue against the side of my shoe, I cursed under my breath. “Your shot.”

Brandon laughed, picking up his cue. “That good, huh?” I shrugged. “I’m a few months into a nasty divorce. Weddings are, by nature, not going to be pleasant.”

“I’ve never found them all that pleasant anyway.”
“I don’t know, I used to enjoy them.”

“They’re nice enough,” he said, knocking the fifteen into the side pocket. “Except when you see how stressed, exhausted, and bankrupt most people are by the time they get to the actual wedding. They always look like they’re just ready to get the bloody thing over with.”

“That’s about the size of it,” I said.
“I take it yours was no walk in the park?”
I winced. “I can think of very few days when my mother and my

wife were
less
tolerable.”

He grimaced, looking up from staring down the cue ball. “I hope the honeymoon was marginally better?”
“Marginally.”
“Ouch.”

I shifted my weight. “So yeah, my wedding wasn’t fun. But the one yesterday….” I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Christ, I probably could have dealt with it if everyone and their mother—and
my
mother—wasn’t trying to hook me up with everything that moved.”

“Everything
female
that moved, I assume?”
“Exactly.”

He paused, looking up at me. “Do any of them have a clue? About—” He gestured at himself, then me. “This?”

I exhaled sharply. “No.”
“How do you think they would take it?”

“Not well.” I avoided his eyes. “Not well at all. My mother would absolutely shit bricks, and my brother….”

 

He glanced up. “Your brother, what?”

“My brother has got to be one of the biggest homophobes I have ever had the displeasure of knowing,” I said. “I love him to death, but that’s one thing that’s always bothered me about him.”

Brandon’s cue snapped forward, and another ball dropped. Walking around the table to take his next shot, he said, “So I take it he has no inkling at all that you’re anything but perfectly heterosexual?”

“Absolutely not. No one in the family does, as far as I know.”

He paused, seeming to focus on nothing for a moment, then looked at me. “Is this the first time
you’ve
ever had any inkling that you’re not perfectly hetero?”

I swallowed. “First time in my life.”

He smiled. It was more a look of understanding than amusement, but there was a devilish twinkle in his eyes as he said, “Well, you seem to be catching on quickly.”

Laughing, I said, “Apparently I’m in good hands.”
“I do the best I can.” He winked.

“I’m not complaining.” I watched him take his shot as I put chalk on my cue. “So when did you figure out you were bi?”

“On my twenty-first birthday,” he said with all the nonchalance of someone who’d just been asked where he bought a pair of shoes, not when he made a startling discovery about his sexuality.

“You remember the exact day? Wow.”
He gave me a knowing look. “Don’t you?”
“Touché.”

He laughed. “You don’t forget stuff like that. Mine just happened to be on my birthday.” He paused to take a shot. The cue jerked forward, the cue ball cracked against the thirteen, and the thirteen obediently dropped into the corner pocket. His eyes darted around the table. Then he stood and looked at me, shaking his head slightly to get a stray strand of hair out of his face. “So you want to know how it happened?”

“Well,” I said, “you certainly know how it happened with me.”

“Indeed I do.” He winked. Folding his arms across his chest, his cue resting in the crook of his elbow, he leaned his hip against the pool table. “Some friends took me out for my twenty-first, because, of course, being the pure and innocent saint that I am, I hadn’t had a drop to drink until that point.”

I coughed to mask the word “bullshit.”

He laughed. “Christ, I drank like a fish back then.” He smiled, his eyes distant for a moment, as if pausing the reminisce. “Anyway, we went out to a club. I don’t even remember how much I’d had to drink, but I was the only one in my group that was still standing without the support of furniture or other people.” He shrugged, and I swear his cheeks turned a little pink. “We ran into each other on the dance floor. Had a few dances. Had a few more drinks. Next thing I knew, we were in her apartment and out of our clothes.”

“Wait, did you say—”

“Her. Yes, you heard right.” He winked and turned his attention back to the pool table. “That was the first time I was ever attracted to a woman.”

“So you were—” I paused. “You were gay, then bi?”

He shrugged again. “They’re just labels, Dustin. Think of it this way.” He leaned over the table, his eyes fixed on the cue ball even as he continued speaking. “If you’re attracted to blondes, then one day a brunette catches your attention, does it mean you’re somehow different?”

I pursed my lips. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“Society likes to put us all in neat, tidy little categories, but—
son of a bitch
.” The cue ball followed the nine into the side pocket. “Your shot.”

“About damned time,” I said, fishing the ball out of the pocket. He grabbed my ass as he walked by. “Enjoy it while it lasts.” “Fuck you,” I laughed.

“Again?” He rolled his eyes and groaned theatrically. “Jesus, Dustin, give me a few minutes to recover.”

 

I put an arm around his waist, pulling him close enough to kiss. “And if I don’t want to wait a few minutes?”

 

He swallowed. “Well, if you put it like that….” He put his hand on my face and kissed me.

 

Then I slipped out of his grasp and grinned. “Pity we have a game to finish.”

 

He smirked. “Tease.”

 

“Learned from the best.” I turned back to the table. A moment later, I cursed as the two narrowly missed the corner pocket. “Maybe you should learn from my—”

 

“Shut up.” I laughed and kissed him again before stepping away from the table so he could finish slaughtering me.

He chuckled. Then his expression turned serious as he looked down his cue at the ball. I loved the intensity in his eyes when he played, that slight furrow of his brow, the way his eyes narrowed with concentration. He took the shot and turned his attention to me, evidently completely confident that the eleven was going to drop into the corner pocket, which it did.

“So, anyway, what I was saying about society putting us into little categories,” he said. “Everyone wants to label everyone else. Straight. Gay. Bisexual.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I fuck who I want to fuck, I love who I want to love, and the rest of society can suck my left nut if they don’t like it.”

I snorted with laughter. “You’re so eloquent about these things, Brandon.”
He grinned. “It’s true. I mean, think about it. Since we’ve been seeing each other, are you a different person? Or are you still Dustin Walker?”

“Good point.”

“You’re still the same person you were then.” He was scowling, talking through gritted teeth, but his eyes were fixed on the table. He moved back and forth, apparently trying to figure out how to take the particular shot. And still he continued. “You just happen to be fucking a man now instead of a woman.”

“There are people in my life who might see that distinction as a bit more than just semantics,” I said.

Moving his cue to his other hand and leaning in to take the shot left-handed, he said, “Like I said, if people don’t like it, they can suck my left nut.” As if to emphasize his point, the cue snapped forward, and the ball dropped.

“Damn it, you’re even beating me left-handed?”

He grinned. “I’ll beat you with whichever hand I choose, and you’ll like it.” His gaze swept over the table. “Why, look at this. It seems I’ve run out of balls.”

“That’ll be the day,” I muttered, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

He wiggled his eyebrow at me. “Well, I guess I’ll have to go for some of yours, then.” He put his finger to his lips, cocking his hips as he pretended to give it great thought. Then he pointed at the eight ball. “Do you mind if I go for that one? You know, to help you out?”

I rolled my eyes and rubbed my lower lip with my middle finger. “Oh, do go ahead.”
“You’re such a gentleman.”

“Not really. I just like watching you bend over the table.” “Is that why you let me win?”

“Let you?” I ran my cue up the inside of his leg, chuckling as he glared over his shoulder at me. “You know I always give you a run for your money.”

He shrugged as he lined up his shot. “You hold your own.” “Keep being cocky, and you’ll be holding
your
own.”

He didn’t even flinch. The eight ball fell in, then Brandon turned around and said, “Empty threat.”
“Is it?”

He kissed me and squeezed the front of my jeans, making me gasp. “Yes, it is.”

“Be careful, or I’m going to bend you over that table, and it won’t be so you can knock the eight ball in.”
He gave me one last squeeze, then released me and reached for the chalk. “Rack ’em.”

As I racked the next game, I said, “How about a friendly wager this time?”

 

“A wager?” His eyebrow lifted, and he grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

I picked up the rack and set it aside. Leaning against the table, I made a casual gesture with one hand. “Maybe something other than cash this time?”

He snorted. “Tired of losing money?”
“Cocky bastard.” I rolled my eyes. “You know I can beat you.” “Sometimes,” he said, nodding. “So what did you have in mind?” “Oh, I don’t know.” I pretended to give it serious thought. “How

about the loser sucks the winner’s cock?”

He blinked, then laughed. “Now, if there’s a blowjob at stake, you’d better have your A-game on.”
“So you’re game?”

He leaned over to break, pausing to give me his cockiest smirk. “Oh, you’d better believe it.”

I returned the look, winking at him. “Can’t promise I’ll play fair with a blowjob on the line.”
He narrowed his eyes as he laughed. “Dustin, you
don’t
want to play dirty with me.” He kissed me quickly. “Rest assured, I
will
win.”

Sliding my arm around his waist, I leaned in for another kiss and, against his mouth, growled, “Bring it on.”

“Oh, it’s on.” He raised his chin as if coming in for another kiss but instead snapped his teeth an inch away from my mouth. Laughing at my startled reaction, he reached for his cue. “You can play dirty if you want, but only if you want to get stomped.”

He turned towards the table and lined up a shot to break. I held my hand over the end of his cue, almost closing my fingers around it but not actually touching it. Just as he went to take his shot, I grabbed the cue, keeping it from moving.

“What the—” He glared at me and stood. “Ooh, it’s going to be like that, is it?”

I held my hands up, feigning innocence. “I didn’t do anything!” He chuckled and pointed sharply at the other end of the table. “Now get over there so I can see you. I’m not turning my back to you while I’m playing.”
“Scared?”

“Scared I might have to beat you with my cue,” he said, watching me walk to the other side of the table before resuming his break. “And this fucker was expensive, so if I broke it over your head, I’d have to take it out of your hide.”

I gestured below my belt. “I’ve got your pound of flesh right here. All you have to do is ask.”

He snorted with laughter just as he took his shot. The cue ball ricocheted off of the racked balls. It still broke, but it was definitely not his most impressive break.

“Your shot,” he said through his teeth, obviously trying not to laugh.

 

“Oh my, I guess it is,” I said, smirking.

 

Brandon was right: Playing dirty against him was not in my best interest if I wanted to win.

I groped his ass while he took a shot. He ran a finger under the waistband of my jeans while I leaned over the table. I slid a hand around the inside of his thigh, startling him but not even remotely screwing up a perfectly executed bank shot.

He, however, got behind me and flicked his tongue across the back of my neck just in time to fuck up what should have been a simple shot. I swore when I watched the cue ball breeze past the three and drop into the corner pocket.
Shit
. We were down to five balls on the table: three of mine, one of Brandon’s, and the eight ball. I was fucked.