Carson shook his head. “Yes, you are. But whatever, don’t tell me why.” He stepped back and gestured for Becker to break the neatly arranged balls. “At least tell me what happened with Jane.”
“Nothing. It didn’t work out.” Averting his eyes, Becker bent forward, pulled his cue back and sent the white ball smashing into the others, making them scatter on the green felt like frantic rats.
He straightened his back and examined the table, annoyed to see that despite the excessive strength he’d put into the shot, not a single ball had landed in a pocket. Behind him, he heard Carson let out a frazzled breath. “What do you mean, it didn’t work out? She wasn’t interested?”
Before Becker could answer, he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision. An irrational knot of anger coiled around his insides as Ryan Evans and Matt O’Connor strode up to the pool table. They knocked fists with Carson, but didn’t offer the easygoing gesture to Becker, simply nodded in greeting.
Becker forced himself to nod back. Forced himself not to glare at Evans, or even worse, unleash an upper cut into the younger man’s jaw. Ryan hadn’t done anything wrong. So what if he’d slept with Jane? No matter how much the notion infuriated him, he couldn’t blame Ryan. Fuck, he couldn’t even blame Jane, either. After all, he was the one who’d broken things off with her.
Still, it took a considerable amount of willpower, maintaining a civil attitude toward Ryan. Just looking at the guy, Becker couldn’t help but imagine him in bed with Jane. Which brought a wave of discomfort to his gut, since he and Jane had done just that, hadn’t they? Imagined Ryan in bed with them. The uncomfortable ache faded back into anger, as he realized the fantasy had come true—for Jane, at least. She’d wasted no time climbing into bed with Ryan. Becker’s chest hurt just thinking about it.
“One of you grab me a beer, will you?” Carson said to the two newcomers.
“Get your own beer,” Ryan said, rolling his eyes.
“Come on, please? I’m about to kick Beck’s ass here.”
Matt took pity on Carson and headed toward the long chrome counter on the other side of the bar. As Carson leaned forward to take his shot, Ryan turned to Becker and said, “Have you heard from Jane?”
Becker’s entire body tensed. Seriously? Evans was actually bringing up Jane, to him, the man who’d been fucking her only the day before Ryan?
“No,” he said stiffly. “I haven’t.”
Ryan must have sensed Becker’s hostility because he backed off, and wandered over to Matt, who was returning with the beers. Evans and O’Connor went to stand by Carson, leaving Becker free to focus on the game. He bent to take a shot, forcing himself to relax. Wasn’t Ryan’s fault things hadn’t worked out with Jane.
He sank a couple of balls, zoning out the conversation of the other guys, then missed what could have been a sweet combo. He straightened up, waiting for Carson to shoot, and that was when he caught the tail end of Ryan’s comment to Matt.
“—like, incredible head. That blowjob should go down in history, pun intended.”
Becker pressed his hands to his sides, fighting back a rush of rage. Was Evans such an asshole that he’d talk about this shit in front of him? And to give O’Connor details about what Jane was like in bed, that was sleazy as hell.
Matt laughed. “Did you spend the night?”
“Naah. Awesome BJ aside, the sex wasn’t all that great.”
Beck’s fingers curled into fists. Okay, this was fucking disrespectful. If Evans said even one more word…
“I like my women moaning and squirming and you know, getting into it. She just lay there, looking bored, making me do all the work.” Ryan shrugged. “She was tight as hell, though—”
Becker snapped. One second he was standing by the pool table, the next he was shoving Evans hard against the wall. He seized the other man by the collar and shook him hard, his vision nothing but a hazy red.
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that,” Becker growled.
Shock flooded Ryan’s face, accompanied by a spark of fear in his blue eyes. “What the fuck are you doing, Lieutenant?”
He shook the younger guy again, his jaw so tight that his teeth started to hurt. “This isn’t a locker room,” he spat out. “Show her some goddamn respect.”
A hand suddenly clamped down on Becker’s shoulder. “Beck, let him go,” came Carson’s even voice.
Becker didn’t ease his grip. Glaring at Ryan, he said, “If I hear you talking about Jane in that way again—”
“Jane?” Ryan interrupted, his eyes widening.
“What, you forgot her fucking name already?”
There was a short pause, and then Ryan sighed. “We weren’t talking about Jane, man. We were talking about Cynthia.”
Becker blinked. “Who?”