Cuffs - Cara Lockwood Page 0,24

moved to the table.

“How about I beat you both?” Mags grabbed a pool cue and swung it under one arm.

“How about you let the boys play this round?” Clint said, shaking his head, never looking away from Gael. Mags nearly rolled her eyes. She hated pissing contests.

“If I can’t play, then I’m getting a drink,” Mags said. She glanced at both men, but they didn’t seem to care about her threat to leave. It was just as she thought: some men were more concerned about competition with one another than the woman in the room. She hated that feeling of exclusion, that she was little more than a trophy for one of their shelves.

Gael, seeming to sense her disapproval, glanced quickly at Mags.

“This won’t take long,” he promised.

Mags didn’t answer. They could take as long as they wanted. In her mind, she’d already decided she’d order a new beer and if she finished it and the two men were still trying to fight for her damn attention, she’d leave. She knew this was partly her fault. She’d brought Gael to Clint’s bar. What did she expect? For Clint to play nice? For boys not to be boys?

But the fact that Gael was going to take Clint’s challenge was irksome. She felt abandoned, ignored. She trudged to the bar, sat herself down and ordered another Bone-crusher. It came, cold and crisp, and she took a deep drink. She wasn’t going to be here long. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Gael got the first shot. That was Clint’s mistake. She smirked to herself, wondering just when Clint would lose his temper. Mags took another swig of beer even as she tried to put her back to the pool table. Though, out of the corner of her eye, she watched Gael move, smooth and unconcerned, that unshakable confidence making him steady.

Gael was taller than Clint and had a bit more muscle. That surprised her, somehow. How Clint didn’t just look smaller. He looked...weaker. On his back heel. Maybe it was the quiet self-assurance that ran through every move Gael made. He was a man who wasn’t afraid. Strangely refreshing, too. He probably wouldn’t send Angus to break up with her. He wouldn’t be afraid of her. That lack of fear was what made her want to submit to him, wasn’t it? That was why she wanted to give him the reins—because she knew he could hold them.

She smiled at the thought and secretly rooted for Gael to clean Clint’s clock. She was not surprised to see Gael wiping the table. She wondered how Clint would take it and then decided she didn’t care. Gael could take care of himself.

Mags swiveled around to face the bar, still keeping an eye on the men in the mirror behind the bourbon. Not that she cared, she told herself. This was their problem. She eyed the eight ball, the only one left on the table. It was a challenging shot. Some would say even an impossible shot. The chances were slim to none he’d make it. And Clint was letting him know it.

Mags heard rather than saw Gael sink the eight ball and froze, wondering when Gael would get a pool cue across the head. She tightened her grip around her pint glass. Perhaps she ought to leave right now. Before things got ugly. Before she felt the need to try to help Gael. She braced for the fight, but instead, she heard...laughter.

She turned, puzzled, and saw Clint clap Gael on the back. What the hell...? She forgot her beer entirely and swiveled in her chair, watching the two men come back to the bar, laughing. Like they were best friends. She watched as Clint went behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of expensive Irish whiskey, the kind he kept for special customers, and pour out three shots. Gael slid onto the empty bar stool next to her.

“What the hell happened?” she whispered to Gael.

“Clint’s buying us shots,” Gael said.

“He’s...what?”

But Clint appeared with those expensive shots and handed one to Gael, one to her and one to himself.

“To fucking bastards!” he said and raised his shot glass. Mags, still confused, glanced at Gael, who already had his shot glass in the air.

“Fuck ’em!” Gael cheered, and then the two men downed the whiskey. Mags, puzzled, drank hers, hoping the whiskey would help her make sense of what the hell was happening.

Clint wandered off. Mags stared at Gael. “You going to tell me why