More confidence.
More freedom to be himself. And those black eyes were getting to me. They were like magnets clinging to my every move. I swallowed discreetly and tried to ignore the queasy tap dance in my stomach. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something about Patch wasn’t right. Something about him wasn’t normal. Something wasn’t … safe.
“Sorry about the hang-up,” Patch said, coming beside me. “The reception’s not great down here.”
Yeah, right.
With a tilt of his head, Patch motioned the others to leave. There was an uneasy silence before anybody moved. The first guy to leave bumped into my shoulder as he walked past. I took a step back to balance myself and looked up just in time to receive cold eyes from the other two players as they departed.
Great. It wasn’t my fault Patch was my partner.
“Eight ball?” I asked him, raising my eyebrows and trying to sound completely sure of myself, of my surroundings. Maybe he was right and Bo’s wasn’t my kind of place. That didn’t mean I was going to bolt for the doors. “How high are the stakes?”
His smile widened. This time I was pretty sure he was mocking me. “We don’t play for money.”
I set my handbag on the edge of the table. “Too bad. I was going to bet everything I have against you.” I held up my assignment, two lines already filled. “A few quick questions and I’m out of here.”
“Jerk?” Patch read out loud, leaning on his pool stick. “Lung cancer? Is that supposed to be prophetic?”
I fanned the assignment through the air. “I’m assuming you contribute to the atmosphere. How many cigars a night? One? Two?”
“I don’t smoke.” He sounded sincere, but I didn’t buy it.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, setting the paper down between the eight ball and the solid purple. I accidentally nudged the solid purple while writing Definitely cigars on line three.
“You’re messing up the game,” Patch said, still smiling.
I caught his eye and couldn’t help but match his smile—briefly. “Hopefully not in your favor. Biggest dream?” I was proud of this one because I knew it would stump him. It required forethought.
“Kiss you.”
“That’s not funny,” I said, holding his eyes, grateful I didn’t stutter.
“No, but it made you blush.”
I boosted myself onto the side of the table, trying to look impassive. I crossed my legs, using my knee as a writing board. “Do you work?”
“I bus tables at the Borderline. Best Mexican in town.”
“Religion?”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question, but he didn’t seem overjoyed by it either. “I thought you said a few quick questions. You’re already at number four.”
“Religion?” I asked more firmly.
Patch dragged a hand thoughtfully along the line of his jaw. “Not religion … cult.”
“You belong to a cult?” I realized too late that while I sounded surprised, I shouldn’t have.
“As it turns out, I’m in need of a healthy female sacrifice. I’d planned on luring her into trusting me first, but if you’re ready now …”
Any smile left on my face slid away. “You’re not impressing me.”
“I haven’t started trying yet.”
I edged off the table and stood up to him. He was a full head taller. “Vee told me you’re a senior. How many times have you failed tenth-grade biology? Once? Twice?”
“Vee isn’t my spokesperson.”
“Are you denying failing?”
“I’m telling you I didn’t go to school last year.” His eyes taunted me. It only made me more determined.
“You were truant?”
Patch laid his pool stick across the tabletop and crooked a finger for me to come closer. I didn’t. “A secret?” he said in confidential tones. “I’ve never gone to school before. Another secret? It’s not as dull as I expected.”
He was lying. Everyone went to school. There were laws. He was lying to get a rise out of me.
“You think I’m lying,” he said around a smile.
“You’ve never been to school, ever? If that’s true—and you’re right, I don’t think it is—what made you decide to come this year?”
“You.”
The impulse to feel scared pounded through me, but I told myself that was exactly what Patch wanted. Standing my ground, I tried to act annoyed instead. Still, it took me a moment to find my voice. “That’s not a real answer.”
He must have taken a step closer, because suddenly our bodies were separated by nothing more than a shallow margin of air. “Your eyes, Nora. Those cold, pale gray eyes are surprisingly irresistible.” He tipped his head sideways, as if to study me from a new angle. “And that killer curvy mouth.”
Startled not so much by his comment, but that part of me responded positively to it, I stepped back. “That’s it. I’m out of here.”
But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they weren’t true. I felt the urge to say something more. Picking through the thoughts tangled in my head, I tried to find what it was I felt I had to say. Why was he so derisive, and why did he act like I’d done something to deserve it?
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I said, making the under-statement of the year. “More than you should. You seem to know exactly what to say to make me uncomfortable.”
“You make it easy.”
A spark of anger fired through me. “You admit you’re doing this on purpose?”
“This?”
“This—provoking me.”
“Say ‘provoking’ again. Your mouth looks provocative when you do.”
“We’re done. Finish your pool game.” I grabbed his pool stick off the table and pushed it at him. He didn’t take it.
“I don’t like sitting beside you,” I said. “I don’t like being your partner. I don’t like your condescending smile.” My jaw twitched— something that typically happened only when I lied. I wondered if I was lying now. If I was, I wanted to kick myself. “I don’t like you,” I said as convincingly as I could, and thrust the stick against his chest.
“I’m glad Coach put us together,” he said. I detected the slightest irony on the word “Coach,” but I couldn’t figure out any hidden meaning. This time he took the pool stick.
“I’m working to change that,” I countered.
Patch thought this was so funny, his teeth showed through his smile. He reached for me, and before I could move away, he untangled something from my hair.
“Piece of paper,” he explained, flicking it to the ground. As he reached out, I noticed a marking on the inside of his wrist. At first I assumed it was a tattoo, but a second look revealed a ruddy brown, slightly raised birthmark. It was the shape of a splattered paint drop.
“That’s an unfortunate place for a birthmark,” I said, more than a little unnerved that it was so similarly positioned to my own scar.
Patch casually but noticeably slid his sleeve down over his wrist. “You’d prefer it someplace more private?”