Luke stepped into the crowded, smoky bar with Jake and Aaron. Neon signs hawking various brands of beer decorated the walls. They didn’t see any empty pool tables, so they wandered up to the bar for some longnecks.
Luke took a lengthy draw on his beer and followed his buddies to watch some pool. He saw a few Tigers uniforms among the players. He glanced around the room, but didn’t notice Cato among them.
Fuck him anyway. Luke had given him two openings and the man had shot them down. Fine, so he likely wasn’t Cato’s type—not the end of the f*****g world. He wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t going to make a third play for the man, either.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about the stuck-up little prick? Why did he keep reliving their shared moans back at the Ninth Street Arcade? Or the feel o
