Free Lennox by Dallas Cole Page A

realize.
    He leans over the table, lines up his shot, and breaks. The balls
scatter wide at the far end of the table, and two drop right into the
pocket. Solids both. He points toward the six ball with his cue,
then, wordless, indicates the pocket he’s aiming for. I nod to
accept his call. Then he sinks the six ball in, calm as can be.
    “That was some mighty fine driving the other night,” Rory
says, as he walks around the table. His teeth click together as he
surveys the lay of the game.
    “Thanks.” We’re in a semi-private section of the
pub, but I try to keep my tone low, all the same. Not that it matters
much, I suspect. The McManuses probably own every damn person in this
bar. I roll my shoulders back, trying to loosen up. “You loaned
me a mighty fine ride.”
    Rory gestures to the four ball and the far corner. Lines up, but his
angle is off; the cue ball skips to one side. He snarls, his smooth
face suddenly contorted in rage, and lets loose a sharp swear. Grips
his cue with both hands like he’s about to snap it over his
knee.
    I take a step back. If this were my old crew, Jagger acting up or
Nash snapping at me, I’d tell him to chill the fuck out. That
it’s just a game. But we don’t have that kind of trust.
And outbursts like this aren’t about to instill it.
    Then, just as quick as he flew into a rage, he’s all calm and
easy smiles once more. “Go ahead.” He gestures to the
striped thirteen, not far from a side pocket. “That one looks
ready to pop.”
    I nod and move to line up my shot, but my stomach is turning inside.
Something about being this close to Rory McManus feels a little too
much like swallowing poison.
    “Yeah,” Rory drawls, “the Mustang’s a beaut.
Pieced her guts back together off of some cars we nicked down in
Taos.”
    I cringe at how casually he’s referencing grand theft. Mama
McManus owns this pub, I know, but still—it’s one thing
for everyone to know something, but quite another to say it out loud.
    “Taos is a fucking gold mine,” Rory continues. He’s
hardly paying attention to the game or the shots I’m
indicating. Is he just enjoying hearing himself talk, or is he
waiting to see if I’ll try to cheat him? “So many
goddamned yuppie tourists just begging to get fleeced.”
    “Mmhmm.” I make the most non-committal noise I can. I’m
not about to indict myself—not with my parole officer lurking
around every goddamned corner—but I need the McManuses too much
to disagree. Once they vetted me, Mama paid off my grams’s
long-overdue medical bills without batting an eye. “Sounds like
a good time.”
    I miss my shot, and shrug it off. Rory snorts to himself and circles
the table like a hungry predator. Once more, I can’t believe
I’ve let myself get mixed up with this creep. He’s a far
cry from Drazic. From Elena . . . But any chance I
might’ve had with her was blown three years ago. She was sweet
to offer me her forgiveness the other night. But it wasn’t hers
to give. Not while Alexander Cartwright holds one leash on me, and
Mama McManus holds the other.
    God, but she grew up so gorgeous. As if I’d had any doubt. That
silky dark hair, stubborn tilt to her chin, and then the nervous way
she let her fingers dance across my skin—Fuck. Even in the
darkest, loneliest nights in prison, I never imagined her quite like
this.
    “The yuppies, though . . .” Rory
interrupts my thoughts of Elena with his smug tone. “They have
their uses. Especially those spiritual vision quest types.” He
easily sinks the three ball. “They act all high and mighty, but
really, they just loooove to get high.”
    Suddenly, I have a terrible feeling where this painful conversation
is going.
    “All right. Eight ball. Here we go.” Rory hunches over.
Tests his angle a few times. Tests it again. I lean against my stick,
trying my best to act casual. But I know what’s coming. I know
what’s coming, and I know I have no fucking choice but to go
along with