EXCERPT: Le Regole de Gioco (Rules of Engagement, Italian translation)

Title: Le Regole de Gioco
Author: L. A. Witt
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Formats: ebook

Quando la barista si chinò a prendermi la Bud Light dal frigo sotto al bancone, la camicia le si aprì rivelando l’ampia scollatura. La donna alzò lo sguardo e mi lanciò un sorriso a trentadue denti.

“Ecco la birra,” fece. Nel prenderla, le sfiorai apposta il dorso della mano. La donna guardò le nostre mani, poi me; ammiccai e lei ricambiò.

Un attimo dopo era sparita a servire altri clienti e io mi appoggiai al bancone con un sorriso compiaciuto. Mi guardai intorno: tutte le bariste del locale flirtavano con i clienti. Era un gioco innocente e, di solito, bastava e avanzava a farmi eccitare. Non che ci volesse molto, in effetti.

D’istinto mi portai la mano sull’anulare sinistro: subito il mio buonumore si dissolse come nebbia al sole, rimpiazzato dalla solita morsa alle budella. Non avevo nessun motivo per sentirmi in colpa; il divorzio non era stato ancora ufficializzato, ma il mio matrimonio era finito da un pezzo – anche se per ora non riuscivo a superarlo.

Sospirai e bevetti un lungo sorso. Forse non era la serata giusta per cercare di rimorchiare qualcuno. Mi era già successo altre volte e non c’era niente da fare.

Oh, beh. Ormai ero uscito, tanto valeva che mi divertissi un po’, invece di andare a casa a ubriacarmi.

Grida e fischi al biliardo in fondo alla sala attirarono la mia attenzione, e mi voltai per vedere cosa stesse capitando. Un tipo col cappello da cowboy fissava inebetito il tavolo – la bocca spalancata e le spalle curve – e scuoteva la testa incredulo. Il suo avversario – un bastardo arrogante, con la camicia mezza aperta su una t-shirt bianca – aveva una mano stretta intorno alla stecca e l’altra tesa verso il cowboy. Stava dicendo qualcosa e aveva un ghigno dipinto sul volto. Il cowboy alzò gli occhi al cielo e se ne andò, sbattendo forte la sua stecca sul tavolo.

Il vincitore prese i soldi in palio e se li infilò in tasca. Si guardò intorno, con un sopracciglio inarcato, e si rivolse agli altri spettatori. A giudicare dal modo in cui questi distoglievano lo sguardo, o addirittura si allontanavano, l’uomo stava cercando un’altra vittima. Lo vidi sorridere e passarsi una mano fra i capelli scuri, che gli sfioravano appena il colletto. Persino il taglio era presuntuoso: curato, in ordine, ma lungo quel tanto che bastava a dichiarare “Non me ne frega un cazzo della tua opinione”.

Una ragazza in canottiera blu emerse dalla folla e prese una stecca dal muro. Sorrise allo squalo e fece ondeggiare il seno. Dovetti bere un sorso di birra – come qualsiasi altro uomo nella stanza che la stesse guardando. Qualsiasi a parte lo squalo, che non si scompose minimamente. Lo vidi passare il gesso sulla punta della stecca, sorridere alla donna e dirle qualcosa che la fece arrossire.

Scosse la testa per spostarsi una ciocca di capelli dal volto e la fissò mentre eseguiva il primo tiro. Quando sorrise, negli occhi azzurri comparve una scintilla diabolica.

Dalla mia posizione non potevo sentirli, ma a giudicare dalle espressioni la discussione si stava facendo animata. Mi avvicinai per guardare la partita, lieto della distrazione.

“Vacci piano con lui, Josie,” fece uno spettatore alla ragazza.

“Nah,” rispose lo squalo, chinandosi per colpire la bilia. “Metticela tutta.” La luce sul tavolo gli proiettava un’ombra sotto gli zigomi alti e gli illuminava i capelli, sottolineando riflessi ramati che mi fecero pensare a colpi di sole. Da quando noto certe cose? Cercai di concentrarmi sulla partita.

“Forse è lui che dovrebbe andarci piano,” fece qualcun altro. “Stasera hai perso almeno una partita?”

Lo squalo ridacchiò e mandò in buca la bilia sei. “È una settimana che non perdo.”

“Goditela finché dura,” rispose Josie. La ragazza ostentava sicurezza, ma quando lo squalo buttò in buca la bilia tre, la vidi vacillare impercettibilmente.

“Forse hai ragione. Forse fra poco perderò…” L\'uomo posizionò la stecca. “Ma non questa partita.” Come a sottolineare la frase, colpì la palla bianca e mandò in buca la uno e la quattro con un’unica, splendida mossa.

“Distrailo,” suggerì a Josie uno spettatore. “Fagli vedere le tette.”

“Non funzionerebbe.” Lo squalo diede un’occhiata al tipo che aveva parlato. “Ma potresti ottenere qualche effetto se mi mostrassi le tue.” Rise e, mentre tornava a guardare il tavolo, incrociò il mio sguardo.

“Magari ti batterebbe, se la lasciassi giocare,” osservò qualcuno.

“La lascerò giocare,” rispose lo squalo. “Appena sbaglio un colpo, sarà il suo turno.” Si sporse sul tavolo.

Risi. “Sembri molto sicuro di te.”

Inarcò un sopracciglio e sorrise, sardonico. “Piuttosto che farmi sconfiggere da una donna, stai sicuro che ce la metto tutta.” Si concentrò sulla palla bianca.

“Ci sono cose peggiori.”

Mi guardò. “Ah, sì?”

Feci spallucce e bevetti un sorso di birra. “Tipo farsi sconfiggere da qualcuno che sa giocare.” Josie mi fulminò con lo sguardo, ma non la degnai di un’occhiata.

Stavolta, quando lo squalo mi guardò, colsi qualcosa nella sua espressione che mi fece trattenere il respiro. Durò appena un istante: un secondo dopo, l’uomo era già tornato a concentrarsi sul gioco. Tirò e la bilia due mancò la buca di un soffio. L’uomo imprecò e cedette il posto a Josie.

“Era ora,” commentò questa. “Adesso ti insegno io come ci si sente a essere sconfitti da una donna.” Si sporse sul tavolo, i jeans tesi sopra le sue gambe. Tutti gli uomini del locale la fissavano ipnotizzati – me incluso. Quando si mise in posizione e si fermò per prendere meglio la mira, bevetti un sorso di birra.

Nello staccarmi dalla bottiglia, gettai un’occhiata allo squalo.

Mi stava guardando.

Aveva un’espressione curiosa in volto, una combinazione di stupore e presunzione. Mi stava squadrando, valutando, soppesando mentalmente, come per decidere se sfidarmi o meno.

Trattenni la birra in bocca per un istante e, quando deglutii, fui certo che mi stesse fissando la gola. Poi tornò a guardarmi negli occhi, stavolta con risoluzione.

In quell’istante seppi con certezza assoluta che, appena finito con Josie, sarebbe stato il mio turno.

La ragazza riuscì a mandare in buca quattro bilie prima di sbagliare. Il suo – e presto mio – avversario la sconfisse con facilità, imbucando tutte le palle che restavano prima di dedicarsi alla otto.

“Bella partita,” disse, porgendole la mano oltre al tavolo.

Josie la strinse e sorrise, ma con un che di rigido e irritato nei gesti. Si accomiatarono e la donna se ne andò.

Lo squalo guardò me e indicò il tavolo. “È ancora presto. Ci stai?”

Sorrisi e presi una stecca dal muro. “Quanto scommettiamo?”

Sollevò la birra e rispose “Cinquanta.”

Tirai fuori i soldi dal portafoglio. “Da quant’è che non perdi una partita?”

Lo squalo rise e sistemò le palle nel triangolo. “Qualche giorno. Ma succede anche a me, di tanto in tanto.”

“Bene,” risposi. “Almeno ci sei abituato.”

Fece un sorriso ampio e mi guardò fra gli occhi a fessura. “Mi piace la sicurezza.”

Posai la birra e passai il gesso sulla stecca. “Spero che ti piaccia anche perdere.”

“Non saprei, cosa si prova?”

Feci per replicare con qualche battuta, ma mi accorsi che non mi stava guardando. Teneva gli occhi fissi sul gesso stretto fra le mie dita. Lo strofinai lentamente sulla punta e guardai i suoi occhi seguirne il movimento, finché non lo staccai.

Si schiarì la voce e prese a sua volta il gesso. “Spacca tu.”

Annuii. Una tensione anomala mi attanagliò le budella mentre appoggiavo la palla bianca sul tavolo. Presi la mira e mi sforzai di rimanere concentrato, di ignorare il suono ruvido del gesso contro la punta della sua stecca. Deglutii, aggrottai la fronte e mi preparai a colpire.

La bilia dodici andò in buca. Al colpo successivo, la dieci.

“Rigate, eh?” Non sembrava affatto nervoso. Era convinto di avere la vittoria in tasca. Vedremo.

“Già,” risposi, valutando i tiri possibili. Poi lo guardai. “Non preoccuparti, le faccio sparire subito.”

Ridacchiò e si portò la bottiglia alle labbra. “Che gentile.”

Il mio lato esibizionista voleva compiere un qualche tiro spettacolare per conquistare la folla, ma quello competitivo sapeva che non era il caso di rischiare. Contro un avversario del genere, la cosa migliore era attenersi a tiri semplici e sicuri; il punteggio finale era l’unica cosa importante, e ai due bigliettoni da cinquanta non importava in che modo avessi vinto.

Evitai il suo sguardo e mi preparai al tiro successivo. Ostentavo sicurezza, ma mi sentivo nervoso. Non solo perché lo squalo era un giocatore eccezionale; c’era qualcosa, nel suo sguardo, che mi disturbava. Come se non mi stesse valutando solo come avversario.

Concentrati. Sta cercando di spaventarti. Inspirai a fondo e tirai, mandando in buca la bilia quattordici. Mi spostai intorno al tavolo per seguire la palla bianca e mi arrischiai a guardarlo. Incrociai appena il suo sguardo, ma bastò a levarmi il fiato.

Forse era solo una strategia per mandare in crisi gli avversari, ma non avevo mai visto niente del genere. Quando i nostri occhi si incrociarono, per una frazione di secondo, lo vidi sconvolto quanto lo ero io. Mi domandai se anche a lui il cuore era schizzato nel petto.

Se era una tattica per innervosirmi, stava funzionando alla grande.

Mi sporsi sul tavolo, col cuore che mi pulsava nelle tempie. Proprio mentre tiravo, qualcuno mi colpì da dietro e la palla bianca superò la nove senza neanche andarci vicino. Imprecai sottovoce.

Lo squalo mi porse la battente. “Rifallo.”

“Grazie,” brontolai. Mi voltai a vedere chi mi aveva colpito e intanto allungai la mano verso la palla.

La sentii cadermi nel palmo e, allo stesso tempo, lo squalo mi sfiorò il polso col pollice. Guardai le mani, poi lui, e capii subito che l’aveva fatto apposta. Rabbrividii e chiusi le dita intorno alla palla, con un sospiro.

Lo squalo deglutì ma non distolse lo sguardo, come se mi sfidasse a farlo per primo. “A te.”

“Grazie.” Quasi mi strozzai. Mi schiarii la voce e rimisi la palla al suo posto. Controllai di non avere nessuno alle spalle, dopodiché ritirai.

Stavolta nessuno mi toccò, ma mi tramavano le mani: la bilia nove colpì in pieno il bordo e rimbalzò in mezzo al tavolo. Mi tirai su con un sospiro e guardai il mio avversario.

“Tocca a te,” dissi sconsolato.

Lui annuì con un ghigno. Bastardo arrogante. Non potevo credere che fosse riuscito a mandarmi in tilt. C’ero cascato in pieno e avevo sbagliato un tiro davvero facile.

Analizzò il tavolo in cerca del tiro perfetto, probabilmente calcolando ogni possibile colpo da ogni possibile angolatura, studiando la situazione come fa un giocatore di scacchi. Nel frattempo tamburellava con le dita sul bordo ed ebbi l’impressione di scorgervi un lieve tremito. Aggrottai le sopracciglia e mi concentrai su quella mano, cercando di capire se me lo fossi immaginato.

Smise di tamburellare, ma continuò a tremare.

Quando alzai lo sguardo, vidi che anche lui mi stava fissando.

Deglutii e stavolta fui certo che il suo sguardo seguisse il movimento della mia gola. Si passò appena la lingua sulle labbra, ma subito tornò a concentrarsi sul gioco. Feci un passo indietro, fissando le bilie senza vederle.

Di qualunque cosa si trattasse, non era un gioco. Altro che tentativo di mettermi fuori uso: lo squalo faticava quanto me a rimanere concentrato.

“Tocca a te.” La sua voce mi fece trasalire.

Guardai il tavolo e ricalcolai il punteggio. C’erano ancora quattro palle rigate, tre piene, e la otto. Cristo, era riuscito a mandarne in buca quattro senza che neanche me ne accorgessi. Forse non era poi così nervoso.

Ne imbucai due, poi sbagliai. Lo squalo ne mandò in buca una delle sue. Poi un’altra io. Il tutto mentre cercavamo di non guardarci e di restare concentrati sul gioco.

La folla di spettatori si fece più numerosa. Alcuni erano impressionati dal fatto che stessi dando del filo da torcere allo squalo, ma altri si accorsero – come me n’ero accorto io – che l’uomo non era al massimo della forma. Non stava giocando come al solito, come aveva fatto con Josie e con il tizio vestito da cowboy.

Mi domandai se qualcuno potesse percepire la strana tensione nell’aria, che sembrava non avere niente a che fare con la partita.

“Cazzo,” mormorò lo squalo quando la bilia bianca finì in buca insieme alla due. La pescò e me la porse.

Stavolta gli sfiorai il palmo con le dita e lo vidi trattenere il fiato. Faceva un caldo boia nel locale, ma ero felice di aver scelto una camicia a maniche lunghe. Chiunque, altrimenti, avrebbe visto che avevo la pelle d’oca.

Mandai in buca la bilia undici, portandoci in parità: ci restavano una palla a testa e poi la otto.

Sbagliai il tiro.

Subito dopo, sbagliò anche lui.

Imprecai sottovoce e mi preparai a colpire di nuovo. Stavamo entrambi giocando da schifo, ma perché? Cosa diavolo stava succedendo?

Mentre mi concentravo sulla palla, vidi qualcosa con la coda nell’occhio. Alzai lo sguardo giusto in tempo per osservare lo squalo che passava il gesso sulla stecca, prima di soffiarne via la polvere in eccesso. Mi si mozzò il fiato in gola.

Cristo santo, che cazzo mi succede?

Mi sforzai di concentrarmi e riuscii a mandare in buca la tredici. Lo squalo strinse le labbra e alzò un sopracciglio. La palla otto era vicinissima al buco. Era un tiro facile; avevo vinto e lo sapevamo entrambi.

Sempre che riuscissi a far funzionare le mani. Avrei voluto prenderlo in giro, fare qualche battuta sagace, ma di colpo lo vidi passarsi la lingua sui denti e istintivamente lo imitai. Rimanemmo a fissarci. Un brivido mi percorse dalla testa ai piedi, rendendomi le gambe di burro, e un’improvviso calore fra le gambe mi rivelò il senso esatto di tutto quel nervosismo.

Cercai di respirare, di concentrarmi sul tiro – di capire come fosse possibile che un uomo mi facesse quell’effetto.

“Palla otto.” Avevo la bocca asciutta. Mi concentrai sulla bilia bianca: solo la bilia bianca, niente squalo, niente erezione, niente assurdi effetti collaterali. Grazie a Dio non solo avevo indosso una camicia a maniche lunghe, ma l’avevo anche lasciata fuori dai pantaloni; sperai che fosse abbastanza lunga da evitarmi una figuraccia.

Tirai e la palla cadde nel buco.

La folla che osservava la partita eruppe in grida fragorose, applaudì la mia vittoria e lanciò frecciatine allo squalo, che aveva appena perso dopo chissà quanto. Lo vidi scuotere la testa incredulo e prendere i soldi dal tavolo.

“Bella partita,” disse. “Davvero bella.” Me li passò e mi porse l’altra mano. “Brandon Stewart.”

“Dustin Walker.” Gliela strinsi. Gli strofinai il dorso col pollice e lui fece lo stesso. Entrambi ci irrigidimmo, prima di sciogliere la stretta e schiarirci la voce.

“Quando ti va di darmi la rivincita,” disse, reggendo il mio sguardo a fatica – curioso, considerato che di solito era così arrogante. “Sai dove trovarmi.”

Deglutii. “Ti prendo in parola.”

Indicò il tavolo. “Quando vuoi.”

“In realtà, adesso devo andare,” risposi. “Ma vengo qui spesso. Appena ti ritrovo, stai sicuro che non mi lascerò sfuggire l’occasione di umiliarti.”

Sorrise e mi fece l’occhiolino. “Quando e dove vuoi.”

Ci scambiammo un’altra stretta di mano. Poi finii la birra e mi diressi all’uscita, cercando di capire che diavolo fosse appena successo.

EXCERPT: Rain

Title: Rain
(sequel to Rules of Engagement)
Author: L. A. Witt
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Format(s): eBook,

EXCERPT:

Rhythmic rainfall tapped my office window, the gentle monotony adding to my late afternoon fatigue. I pushed a stack of exams aside and leaned back in my chair as I rubbed my tired eyes. Two more weeks of giving and grading tests, and then this semester would be over, and not a moment too soon.

I glared at the exams. When I was sure the bastards weren’t going to grade themselves, I sat up and picked up my red pen once again. As soon as I started reading, though, the words on the page started to run like rain sliding down glass.

A Red Bull. That’s what I needed. Maybe two.

I didn’t have any change in my pocket for the vending machine, so I leaned down to fish around in my desk drawer.

Come on, come on, I know I saw a few quarters in here the other day. There has—

Someone knocked. I rolled my eyes, cursing under my breath. I didn’t have any student appointments this afternoon, so whoever this was, they’d better hope it was quick.

“It’s open.” I continued rifling around for change as the door opened. I wasn’t out to be rude, but damn it, I needed that Red Bull stat.

“Dr. Stewart?”

My hand stopped moving. It was a stranger’s voice, but something about it was familiar enough to make my blood run cold. When I looked up, even colder.

The family resemblance was undeniable. The same dark hair and darker eyes. The same sharply angled jaw and chiseled cheekbones. The same broad shoulders, which were currently bunched with tension beneath a brown leather jacket.

“Yes, I’m Dr. Stewart.” I sat up and swallowed hard. “Can I help you?”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “Yeah, I….” He paused, setting his jaw and looking me in the eye. “I’m Tristan Walker.” Another pause. “Dustin’s brother.”

The introduction wasn’t necessary. He was a couple of inches taller than my boyfriend and lacked the goatee, but he was as close to a doppelganger as any twin could have been.

We looked at each other in silence for a moment. He didn’t extend a hand. Neither did I.

I cleared my throat. “This is… unexpected.”

Tristan shifted his weight. He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. “Yeah, I—” He paused, looking at me. “I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I?”

“No, no, now is fine.” I pushed the exams aside and gestured at the chair in front of my desk. “Nothing that can’t wait. Please, have a seat.” My heart pounded. So much for needing that emergency Red Bull.

He hesitated for a moment before accepting my invitation. The muffled squeak of his leather jacket was the only sound in the room as Tristan eased himself into the chair situated on the other side of my desk. Most of the teachers and professors here had their guest chair at the end of the desk. I preferred to have people sitting across from me, and my rather cramped office didn’t allow for the more traditional configuration anyway.

Now, with my boyfriend’s estranged brother sitting across from me, I was more than a little thankful for the desk between us.

Tristan leaned heavily on the armrest, thumbing his chin as his eyes darted around my office. I didn’t speak, just let him take in his surroundings. I’d watched a few nervous students do the same thing during pauses in conversation. I knew the visual trajectory by heart, and Tristan followed it just like everyone else did: motivational poster. Bachelor’s degree. Doctorate. State-issued teaching certificate. The plaque from last year’s faculty billiards tournament.

When he got to the framed photo on the file cabinet, his lips tightened into a bleached line and he immediately shifted his gaze to the floor. To anyone else, it was just a picture of the grinning first- and second-place winners of another pool tournament.

Tristan knew better. The arm around my shoulders in the picture was, I had no doubt, why he was here.

I resisted the urge to tap my fingers on my desk. He unnerved me, and I didn’t want him to see it. Not until I had some idea of exactly why he was here. He was impossible to read just now. Every move he made spoke of tension, but what kind? Was he hostile? Nervous? I didn’t know what to make of his presence. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in two years because of our relationship, and here he was in my office. His quietude could have been from his own uneasiness, or it could have masked something more menacing.

The hand stuffed into his jacket pocket made me nervous. He could be hiding a gun. Another weapon. A balled-up fist. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten a fist in the face from someone unhappy about his brother’s sexuality. To be fair, that angry brother was mine, but I still didn’t draw an easy breath, even as Tristan pulled his hand out of his pocket and laid it across his lap.

The silence was about to drive me insane, so I shifted slightly and cleared my throat. “Well, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

My voice startled him. His eyes flicked up and met mine for a fleeting second before he dropped his gaze again.

“Listen, Dr. Stew—”

“Brandon.”

He stiffened slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed once and he fidgeted in his chair. First-name familiarity probably made him uncomfortable. I couldn’t say I particularly cared.

“Listen, Brandon,” he said at last, “I… I wanted to talk to you. About… my brother.”

“I figured as much.” He and Dustin hadn’t spoken in two years. Not since he’d found out we were dating.

Drumming his fingers on the armrest, he looked me in the eye with what seemed like a tremendous effort. “I understand you and Dustin are getting….” He trailed off. Cleared his throat. Shifted in his chair. “That you’re….”

“Engaged?”

He grimaced. “Yeah. I guess that’s the word.”

I shrugged. “Engaged, getting married, doing a commitment ceremony.” I narrowed my eyes and couldn’t quite resist injecting some ice into my voice as I added, “Whatever option hasn’t been denied us by society’s collective disgust.”

He leaned back in the chair and ran a hand through his hair—exactly the way Dustin often did—before looking me in the eye again. “Okay, so, apparently this… what you guys…. It’s not…” He swallowed. “Not temporary, I guess.”

“After two years, you’re just now assuming it’s not temporary?”

“Sorry,” he growled. “It’s not exactly an easy thing to get my head around.”

I raised an eyebrow. “My apologies,” I said through my teeth.

Tristan sighed and broke eye contact, looking past me instead of at me. “How did—” He paused, his lips suddenly twisting into a scowl before he dropped his gaze to the desk between us. That photo must have caught his eye again. Focusing on something presumably safer—the neglected stack of exams, probably—he went on. “How did he not know all that time? That he was gay?” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Twenty-eight years old and he suddenly figures out he’s into men? I don’t get it.”

I shrugged. “I seem to recall he was busy for most of the preceding decade being the faithful half of a fucked-up marriage.”

“Okay, but—”

“Listen, your brother’s sexuality isn’t up for debate.” I folded my hands on my desk and leaned forward, inclining my head slightly. “I assume there’s a reason you went to the trouble of finding me and coming into my office?”

He was silent for a moment. “When are you guys—” He paused. Swallowed. “Getting married?”

“We’re not sure yet. Still making plans.”

His eyes narrowed. “This is going to kill my mother.”

I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. “And the cold silence from half his family hasn’t been killing your brother for the last couple of years?”

He flinched and dropped his gaze. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed the back of his neck. When he looked at me again, I expected anger and hostility, but nothing of the sort met my eyes. He looked nothing if not… pained.

“Look,” he said quietly. “I don’t really even know why I came. I….”

“That makes two of us.” I hadn’t intended to sound quite so cold that time, but I didn’t apologize for it. His presence still made me uneasy, and his intentions were still unclear. The defenses were staying up until he gave me reason to drop them.

“Maybe I was too quick to blow Dustin off,” he said quietly. “I thought….” He looked down. Ran a hand through his hair again. Then he blew out a breath and looked at me again. “Could I ask a favor?”

I cocked my head. “What favor?”

He pursed his lips. “Would you just ask Dustin to give me a call?”

I blinked. “I, um, yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” I wet my lips. “Does he have your number?”

“It hasn’t changed,” he said. “But just in case, let me give it to you.”

I pushed a pen and notepad across the desk. Tristan quickly scribbled his number down and handed it back to me.

“I’ll pass the message on to him.” I folded the piece of paper in half and held it between my fingers. “Can’t promise he’ll call.”

Tristan nodded. “Well, I hope he does.” He rose, his leather jacket creaking with the slow, tentative motion. “That’s, um, that’s really all I came for.”

“Okay.” For lack of anything else to say, I gestured with the piece of paper with his phone number on it and said again, “I’ll pass it on.”

“Thanks.”

We looked at each other in silence for a long, awkward moment. Neither of us made any move toward a parting handshake.

Tristan took a step back. Then another. Without a word, he left, and when the door closed behind him, I released my breath and leaned back in my chair. Absently, I pulled Dustin’s dog tags, which he’d given to me early in our relationship, out from under my shirt and ran them along the chain.

Well, that was weird.

Staring at the ceiling, I tried to make sense of our bizarre encounter. Though several of his comments, not to mention his estrangement from Dustin, spoke of ignorance and bigotry, there was something genuine about him. About his desire to get in touch with his brother. And, more than that, his regret about where their relationship stood now.

It was odd that he’d gone to the trouble to find me and taken the time to drive halfway across town to the community college where I worked. All of that effort, when he could have simply asked Kari or Rick for their brother’s phone number. He could have gone by the gym where Dustin had worked back then and still worked now.

He could have, but he didn’t. He came to me.

Maybe in his mind, all I’d been was this nebulous someone, a nameless face he once saw in a grainy, incriminating photo from a camera phone. The reason for the fissure between two brothers who’d been close all their lives. The catalyst.

It occurred to me that he might have shown up intending to confront me but backed down once we were in the same room. Once he could no longer deny that I was real.

Surprise, Tristan. I’m human.

I clicked the dog tags together between my fingers and looked at the piece of paper on my desk. This was going to catch Dustin off guard, that was for sure. The loss of his relationship with his brother was a wound that had only just begun to heal. I didn’t know if this would help heal it, or if it would reopen it.

Tristan must have heard about our engagement from one of their other siblings. I knew their mother had caught wind of it, and to say the least, she wasn’t happy about it. Our engagement had only served to drive another wedge between Dustin and his mother, but maybe it had the opposite effect on Tristan.

I dropped the tags back under my shirt. Sighing, I picked up the piece of paper and tucked it into my wallet. Our relationship had created more than its fair share of ripples in Dustin’s life. It had been touch and go for a while, but he’d adjusted. We’d adjusted. When we decided to make this a more permanent arrangement, the ripples started again. Those who’d managed to ignore us suddenly wouldn’t, and those who’d accepted us suddenly weren’t so sure. Putting a pair of gold bands on our fingers was evidently as horrifying as putting handcuffs on each other in the bedroom.

I rolled my eyes and put my wallet in my back pocket.

Fucking prudes. Oh well. At least they didn’t know about the handcuffs.

EXCERPT: Rules of Engagement

Title: Rules of Engagement
Author: L. A. Witt
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Format(s): eBook, paperback

EXCERPT:

THE bartender leaned down to pull a bottle of Bud Light from the refrigerator beneath the bar. As she did, the front of her shirt fell forward, giving me an eyeful of her ample cleavage. Glancing up, she gave me a grin that almost made my heart stop.

"Bud Light," she said. As I took the bottle, I deliberately brushed my fingers across the back of her hand. Her eyes darted to our hands, then back to me. I winked, and she returned it.

A moment later, she was gone, tending to other patrons, and I smiled to myself as I leaned against the bar and looked around the club. All of the bartenders in this place flirted with their customers. It was just some harmless, playful fun, and usually more than enough to get me spun up and horny. Not that I needed a lot of help with that these days.

Before I realized what I was doing, I thumbed the place where my wedding ring used to be, and that familiar knot of guilt sank deep into my gut, pulling my good mood down with it and dulling the excitement from my brief exchange with the bartender. I had no reason to feel guilty; the divorce wasn't final, but the marriage was long since over, even if I wasn't over it.

I sighed into my beer bottle before taking a long drink. Maybe tonight wasn't a good night to be out on the prowl. At least nights like this were getting fewer and farther between, but they still happened, and it was happening now.

Oh well. I was already out for the evening. I might as well have a good time instead of going home and drinking the wife away.

Some cheering and shouting caught my attention, and I craned my neck to look at the pool tables on the opposite end of the room. A guy in a cowboy hat stared slack-jawed at the pool table, his shoulders slumping and head shaking as if in disbelief. His opponent - a cocky-looking bastard in a half-buttoned denim shirt over a white T-shirt - held his cue in one hand and reached across the table to shake hands. With a smirk on his face, he said something to the cowboy, who then rolled his eyes, slammed his cue onto the rack, and stormed off.

The winner picked the ante up off of the corner of the table and pocketed it. He lifted his eyebrows and spoke to the onlookers, asking a question by the looks of it. Judging by the way most of them avoided eye contact and even backed away, he was looking for another victim. He smirked and ran a hand through his dark hair, which fell to just above his collar. Even the way his hair was kept seemed cocky: perfectly trimmed and managed, but just long enough to say "I don't give a fuck what you think of it."

A girl in a blue tank top shimmied out of the crowd and plucked a cue off the wall. She grinned at the pool shark, wiggling her shoulders just enough to jiggle her breasts. I - and damn near every man in the bar - immediately took a drink. The pool shark, though, didn't seem fazed. He put some chalk on his cue and grinned at her, saying something that brought a little extra color to her cheeks.

He tossed his head to get a stray strand of hair out of his face and looked up at her as he took a shot. When he grinned, the devilish sparkle in his clear blue eyes was visible even from across the room.

From where I stood, I couldn't hear anything, but there must have been some serious shit-talking, if their expressions were to be believed. Satisfied that this would be more entertaining than wallowing in self-pity, I moved closer to watch the game.

"Go easy on him, Josie," one of the guys said to the girl.

"Nah," the pool shark said, leaning over to take a shot. "Give me all you've got, girl. I can take it." The light above the pool table added a soft shadow below his prominent cheekbones and illuminated his hair, picking out hints of copper that made me wonder if he'd had his hair highlighted. Since when do I notice these things? I pulled my attention away from him and tried to focus on the game.

"Maybe he should go easy on her," someone else said. "Have you lost a game tonight?"

The pool shark snorted as he took a shot and pocketed the six. "I haven't lost a game all week."

"That's going to change tonight," Josie said. Though she sounded cocky, the crease between her eyebrows betrayed her lack of confidence as she watched him drop the three.

"Maybe tonight." He lined up a shot. "But not this game." As if to emphasize his point, he hit the cue ball and pocketed the one and four in a combo that could only be described as a thing of beauty.

"Distract him," one of the guys said to Josie. "Show 'im your tits."

"That won't work." The shark looked over his shoulder at the guy who had made the suggestion. "Might trip me up if you show me yours, though." Laughing as he turned back towards the table, he caught my eye, and we exchanged the briefest glance.

"You know, if you'd let her play, she might beat you," someone said.

"I will," the shark said. "As soon as I miss a shot, the table is all hers." He leaned over the table.

I chuckled. "Spoken like a man who always hits where he's aiming."

His eyebrows lifted, as did the corner of his mouth. "When there's a possibility of being beaten by a girl, you'd better believe I do." His eyes shifted to the cue ball.

"I could think of worse things than being beaten by a woman."

He looked at me again. "Oh?"

Shrugging, I lifted my beer to my lips. "Like losing to someone who actually knows how to play." I sensed Josie glaring at me from the sidelines, but my eyes were locked on her opponent.

When his eyes came up this time, there was something unreadable in his expression, something that lodged the breath in my throat. An instant later, he focused on the game again. He took his shot, and the two narrowly missed the corner pocket. Cursing, he stepped back from the table to let Josie take her shot.

"About damned time," she said. "Now let me show you what it feels like to be beaten by a girl." She leaned over the table, straining the seams of her painted-on jeans. She had damn near every man in the bar mesmerized, myself included. When she lined up a shot and paused to adjust her grip on the cue, I went for my beer.

As I tilted the bottle back, I glanced at the pool shark.

He was looking right at me.

There was an intriguing look on his face, something that appeared to be a combination of amusement and cockiness. He seemed to be reading me. Sizing me up. Mentally scrutinizing me, as if trying to decide whether or not to challenge me.

I rolled a sip of beer around in my mouth for a second, and as I swallowed it, I swore he was watching my throat. Then he met my eyes again, and I got the feeling he'd made his decision of whether or not to challenge me.

I knew in that moment that, once he finished with Josie, I would be playing the next game.

Josie managed to drop four balls before she missed a shot. Her - and soon to be my - opponent soundly trampled her after that, knocking in every remaining solid ball before sinking the eight.

"Good game," he said, extending his hand across the table.

She shook it and smiled, but her smile was thin-lipped with annoyance, and her grip on his hand looked stiff and forced. They exchanged terse pleasantries, and she left.

He looked at me and gestured at the table. "I've got plenty left. You game?"

I smirked and took a cue off of the wall. "You're on. What's the ante?"

Picking up his beer, he said, "Fifty."

Fishing the money out of my wallet, I eyed him. "So how long has it been since you lost a game?"

He chuckled as he racked the balls. "A few days. But I have been known to lose on occasion."

"Good," I said. "Then at least I know you're used to it."

His grin widened and his eyes narrowed. "Confidence. I like that."

I set my beer down and put chalk on my cue. "I hope you like losing too."

"You'll have to tell me what it's like."

I looked at him to make a smartass retort, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the chalk. At my fingers holding the chalk. I turned it slowly on the end of the cue and watched as his eyes followed when I set the chalk down.

He cleared his throat and picked up the chalk. "Your break."

I nodded. An unfamiliar tension crept into my gut as I set the cue ball on the table. Lining up my shot, I struggled to focus, forcing myself not to follow the muffled grinding sound of my opponent putting chalk on his cue. Swallowing hard, I furrowed my brow and stared the cue ball down.

I broke, and the twelve dropped. On my next shot, the ten went into the side pocket.

"Looks like you're stripes." He didn't sound in the least bit nervous. As far as he was concerned, he had this game in the bag. We'll see about that.

"So I am," I said, eyeing the table and sizing up the available shots. Then I glanced at him. "Don't worry. I'll get mine out of the way for you in just a second."

He snorted as he lifted his beer to his lips. "How considerate."

The cocky side of me wanted to go for a fancy combo shot to impress the gathered crowd, but the competitive side of me knew better than to risk it. Against someone like him, it was best to stick to the simple, straightforward shots. The final score was all that mattered, and the two fifty dollar bills on the end of the table didn't care how it happened.

I avoided his eyes as I lined up my next shot. In spite of my confidence, he made me nervous. It wasn't just that he was an incredible player; there was something else in the way he looked at me that unsettled me. Something that said he was still sizing me up and not just as an opponent.

Focus. He's just trying to intimidate you. I took a deep breath and made my shot, knocking the fourteen in. As I moved around the table toward the cue ball, I chanced a look at him. Our eyes met briefly, but it was enough to make it difficult to breathe.

Maybe it was just some sort of technique he used to psych out an opponent, but I had never seen anything like it. When his eyes locked on mine for that instant, he startled as much as I did. I wondered if his pulse jumped the way mine did.

If he was trying to make me nervous, it was working.

Blood pounding in my ears, I leaned over the table. Just as I took my shot, someone bumped into me from behind, and the cue ball whizzed past the nine with room to spare. I cursed under my breath.

The pool shark caught the cue. "I'll let you shoot that one again."

"How kind," I muttered, looking over my shoulder to glare at the intruder while I reached out to take the cue ball.

The ball landed gently in my palm, and the soft warmth of his thumb grazed the side of my hand. I looked at our hands and then at him, and I instantly knew that it was deliberate. I shivered and closed my fingers around the cue ball, exhaling as we broke contact.

He swallowed, eyes still locked on me as if daring me to look away first. "Your shot."

"Thanks." I almost choked on that single word. Clearing my throat, I set the cue ball back in its place on the table. Glancing behind me to make sure no one was going to bump into me this time, I set up my shot.

No one touched me, but my hands were still unsteady from that unnerving exchange, and in spite of lining up the perfect shot, the nine bounced off of the side and came to rest in the middle of the table. Sighing, I stood and looked at my opponent.

"Your shot," I said.

He nodded, smirking. Cocky bastard. I couldn't believe he'd managed to psych me out, that I'd fallen for his head games and let myself get too rattled to take such a simple shot.

His eyes flicked around the table, looking for just the right shot, probably calculating every possible outcome from every possible angle, analyzing the game the way a chess player did. As he did, his fingers drummed the side of the table, and I'll be damned if there wasn't just a hint of unsteadiness in his hand. I furrowed my brow, focused on his hand, trying to decide whether or not it was just my imagination.

The drumming stopped.

The trembling didn't.

And when I looked up, he was looking at me.

This time, when I swallowed hard, I was sure his eyes followed the ripple down the front of my throat. The tip of his tongue swept across his lips, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the game. I stood back from the table, turning my eyes towards the scattered balls but not actually looking at them.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn't a game. It wasn't an attempt to psych me out. If anything, he was struggling as much as I was to stay focused.

"You're up." His voice startled me.

Looked around the table, I mentally tallied the score. Four stripes left, three solids, and the eight ball. Christ, he'd managed to drop four while I wasn't even looking. Maybe he wasn't as distracted as he let on.

I knocked two in before I scratched. Then he dropped one before missing. Then I got one more. All the while, we avoided each other's eyes, focusing on the game.

The crowd around us had thickened. From some of the murmurs, people seemed impressed that I was giving the nameless pool shark a run for his money, but others noticed - as I did - that his technique was faltering. He wasn't playing the way he usually did, the way he had when he stomped Josie and her cowboy predecessor.

I wondered if any of them felt the puzzling tension that didn't seem to have anything to do with the game at hand.

"Fuck," he muttered as the cue ball followed the two into a corner pocket. He fished it out and handed it to me.

This time, I let my fingertips brush the heel of his palm, and he sucked in a breath. In spite of how stuffy and hot it was in the club at that point, I was secretly glad I'd chosen to wear a long-sleeved shirt. Any less, and everyone in the club would have seen the goose bumps he raised on my arms.

I pocketed the eleven, and the score was even: we each had one left besides the eight ball.

I missed.

Then he missed.

Cursing under my breath, I took my next turn. Neither of us were playing nearly as well as we could, but why? What the hell was going on?

I focused on the cue ball, but movement at the opposite end of the table caught my eye. My breath caught in my throat as I looked up just in time to see him take the chalk away from his cue and blow the excess off.

Fucking hell, what is the matter with me?

Forcing myself to concentrate, I knocked the thirteen in. He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. The eight ball was sitting in front of the side pocket. It was an easy shot. He knew he was toast.

Assuming I could convince my hands to work, that is. I tried to shoot him a smug look, was just about to talk some shit, when the tip of his tongue swept across the inside of his upper lip. Without thinking about it, I did the same, and he looked at me just as I did. The nervous ripple that ran down the front of his throat turned my knees to water, and the sudden ache below my belt told me exactly what this tension was all about.

I tried to breathe. Tried to focus on my shot. Tried to comprehend that it was a man having this effect on me.

"Eight ball, side pocket." My mouth was dry. I concentrated on the cue ball, focused on it, tried to think of anything other than the pool shark and the hard-on he was giving me. Thank God I'd not only worn a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the goose bumps, but I'd left it untucked, which I hoped was enough to save me some embarrassment.

I took the shot, and the eight ball dropped.

The crowd around us broke into cheers, applauding me for beating the pool shark and ribbing him for allowing his streak to be broken. He shook his head in disbelief and picked up the money from the end of the table.

"Good game," he said. "Fucking good game." He handed me my winnings and then extended his other hand. "Brandon Stewart."

"Dustin Walker." I shook his hand. In the same instant that I let my thumb run across the back of his hand, he did the same to mine. We both tensed and then released each other's hands and cleared our throats.

"Anytime you're up for a rematch," he said, holding my gaze with what seemed like an unusual amount of effort for someone who was usually so cocky. "You know where to find me."

I swallowed. "I may take you up on that."

He gestured at the table. "Ready when you are."

"Actually, I'd better get going," I said. "But I come here a lot. If I see you again, I'll gladly take you up on another chance to wipe the floor with you."

He smirked and winked. "Anytime. Any place."

We shook hands again. Then I finished my beer and headed for the door, trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.