Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
When Emma had died, they’d made halfhearted attempts to include him in things, but when he’d declined they hadn’t pressed, no doubt relieved. After a while, not a long one, they stopped calling and this had suited Jack.
Yet it was disconcerting to admit he’d never felt much of a connection with anyone, not since Luke. So why had he agreed to shoot pool with Will Spencer? Especially with Will, since he was pretty sure the guy was gay.
Jack had always considered himself open-minded, and told himself it didn’t matter if Will were gay or straight. He liked the guy. He was smart and worldly, but he never talked down to Jack the way so many college-educated types did, just because Jack earned his living with his hands.
He actually reminded Jack of Luke—with his green eyes and wavy brown hair. Will was good-looking by anyone’s standards. Even if he were gay, there was no way he was interested in Jack, who had a face only a mother could love. Not that Jack wanted him to be interested.
No. Since Luke he’d never looked at another man, and what had happened between them barely counted, since they’d been drunk and very, very young. He’d never looked at another woman since Emma, for that matter. Monogamy was hardwired into him, he supposed. He had promised to be faithful to Emma, and so he had been.
But now Emma was gone.
Though at forty-four he couldn’t call himself young, he still had plenty of good years left ahead of him. It had been two years. Maybe it was time to start looking again—to start living again.
Luke’s words from so long ago came back to him as an echo of what might have been. I want to explore all kinds of things. Then, as his hand had dropped to Jack’s thigh, sending volts of electricity directly to Jack’s groin, he’d repeated, “All kinds of things.”
Maybe now, a lifetime later, Jack was at last ready to do the same.
~*~
They were on their second game of eight ball. The first game had been quick. Jack had allowed Will to break. Will scratched on his first shot. Jack proceeded to sink all his balls before Will got a second chance. Will hadn’t really minded. He liked watching Jack bend over the table, his face twisted in concentration as he mentally calculated angles and trajectories, or whatever it was one calculated to hit the ball into a pocket.
Will broke again, this time at least managing to keep the cue ball on the table. Jack stood just behind him. “If you hold the cue stick like this,” he said, reaching around behind Will and touching his wrist, “you’ll have better control over it.” He leaned closer, his chest against Will’s back.
“Instead of hitting the ball with that jerking motion, it’s better to stroke it, like this.” As he spoke, he touched Will’s elbow, gently guiding it forward to demonstrate. Will resisted the strong urge to lean back against Jack. He tried to concentrate on his game and did manage to do better than the first time, though Jack still easily beat him.
They ordered a pitcher of cola, which they carried, along with two frosted mugs, to a booth. They slid in on opposite sides. “Sorry I’m not much of a challenge,” Will said apologetically.
“You were all right. You just need some practice. It’s a matter of visualizing what you want and then making it happen.”
Will grinned in spite of himself, harking back in his mind to Paul’s similar comment. Could he just close his eyes and will Jack to step into his arms?
“What’re you smiling about?” Jack asked, tilting his head.
“I was just thinking how great it would be if we could really do that. I mean, just close your eyes and wish and change the world.”
“That would be nice,” Jack said, smiling. “But that isn’t what I meant. I meant you need to focus. To line your eye with the ball and visualize where it’s going to go. It matters where you hit the ball, which side. It matters the force of the stroke and the angle at which you hit it. You have to think ahead, to see in your mind’s eye where the ball will go, and how it will affect the setup for the next shot. I suppose you could say it’s a metaphor for life—everything you do impacts what happens next.”
“And sometimes,” Will added, “it’s just plain, blind luck.”
“Sure,” Jack agreed. “Though the longer I’ve lived, the more I think the harder we work for something, the luckier we get.”
They drained their mugs and Jack filled them again, at home in his own environment. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting kind of hungry. They have good pizza here, if you like plenty of salty cheese and grease.” Jack grinned.