But the Department of Anthropology isn’t well-funded, and my chances for tenure are quite slim. Besides, the need for revenge burns hot in my blood.
Gabby opens the door and comes back in. “You are in,” she announces. “The team meets Wednesday nights at the Maxwell Club. Get there at seven and ask for Clark. He’s expecting you.” She reaches for a sandwich and munches it before speaking her next words. “Clark can be annoying,” she says. “But he tells me their team is very, very good.”
“They know I’m not, right?” I want this to be clear. If they are expecting some kind of pool shark, they are going to be sorely disappointed. I’ve never been sporty. I was the kid that always had her nose buried in a book. When I bend over the table, my breasts knock the balls out of place.
Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe I am hopeless. Maybe wanting to beat him is just some kind of pipe dream. Then the advice from my dad sounds once again in my head. Don’t you want to know what lies ahead? If you stay right here, how will you find out?
He’s right, and Piper’s right as well. I probably am never going to be any good at pool, but I owe it to myself to find out.
Gabby nods. “He said they need some players that aren’t experts. It has to do with some kind of handicapping system.”
I know what she’s talking about. Having lived with Trevor for five months, I’ve learned much more about the mechanics of pool leagues than I ever wanted to know. If there’s a finite amount of memory in my head, knowing about the equalizer system that the American Poolplayers Association uses has probably replaced something more important in my brain. If you find me walking around gibbering like an idiot, blame Trevor.
Gabby’s grinning to herself, a secret little smile that means that something’s afoot. “What?” I ask her, pointing my finger at her. “I know that look. What aren’t you telling me?”
Her reply is airy. “I was at the Maxwell Club one night when Clark’s team was playing,” she says. “Let’s just say that your teammates are very easy on the eye. I predict a rebound fling.”
I normally keep the details of my sex life private, but I’m also on my third drink, and the rum has loosened my tongue. “A rebound fling sounds really good,” I sigh. “Trevor was… underwhelming.”
Everyone leans forward for more dirt. The last time we giggled and spilled the beans about our sex lives was two months ago, when Gabby regaled us with the story of her ménage à trois with two guys she met in a bar. Ménage à trois. It even sounds exotic. “What do you mean, underwhelming?” Wendy asks.
“Missionary with the lights turned out, precisely twice a week.” I make a face as I remember my lamentable sex life. “Once in a while, if he was being adventurous, I was allowed to get on top and do all the work.”
Shrieks of horror greet my answer. “Seriously?” Katie sounds astonished. “Not even doggie?”
I snort inelegantly. “Doggie? Trevor preferred to pretend I didn’t have a butt. He called it the ‘out hole.’”
Gabby almost chokes on her rum and coke, she’s laughing so hard. “I’m assuming anal was out of the question, then?” she quips. “So tell me again, why were you with him?”
“I thought there should be more to a relationship than sex.” I gulp back the rest of my drink. “Stupid me. Instead, I got a shitty relationship and a lackluster sex life. That’ll teach me. A rebound fling is exactly what I need. Wild crazy sex? I’m in.”
They all giggle and the talk turns to Wendy’s last blind date from the internet. I laugh and make conversation, but underneath all of it, my resolve hardens. Trevor was a mistake - a bad one. I was ready to move on until he sent me that stupid bill. Now, I want to kick his ass in front of all his friends. A rebound fling does sound nice, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m not going to get too worried. I am going to Argentina in September, and I have my career to worry about. Guys are a distraction, and anything more serious than casual sex isn’t what I need right now. I’m too busy for love.