Fragile Eternity (Wicked Lovely 3)

With that in mind, she walked the half dozen blocks to Shooters. The h in the sign was out, so it read sooters—which was far better than when the first s had been out.

It had been weeks since she’d even stopped in. Guilt hit her again—and fear that she’d no longer be welcome. The regular crowd at Shooters worked hard and relaxed with equal enthusiasm. They were all older than she was—some old enough to be Grams’ long-ago classmates—but they didn’t draw age or class or race lines at Shooters. It was a place where everyone was welcome as long as they didn’t start trouble.

Before everything changed, Denny, a pool hustler somewhere in his twenties, had taken her on as a project of sorts. Denny handed her lessons off to his friend Grace when he felt like working a mark, and between their combined tutelage, Aislinn had become a pretty decent shot. She’d never be able to run tables like he did, but that sort of mastery came from shooting every day. Most of the regulars were cool to talk to or shoot with, but it was Denny and Grace whom she’d truly missed.

When she went inside, she saw Denny right off. He was at a table with Grace. When Grace looked up and saw her, her face folded into a smile. “Hey, Princess. Long time, no visits.”

Denny took his shot before he lifted his eyes from the table. “Out without either of the Princes Charming?”

She shrugged. “Girl time. I’m meeting Carla.”

“Grab a cue or a seat.” Grace’s voice had a cigarette-and-whiskey rasp to it that contrasted with her body. She sounded like a woman who should be a lithe singer in a vibrant scarlet dress, breaking hearts and inciting lovers’ quarrels, but Grace was a different sort of trouble. Wearing black boots, faded jeans, and a man’s button-up shirt, she was all muscle and just as able to handle any fights as the men in the room. She took immense pride in the fact that her Softail Custom was outfitted with more chrome and louder pipes than Denny’s.

“You want to shoot teams when Carla gets here?” Denny circled the table to reach his next shot. He’d tied his hair back, but the loose ponytail was already coming undone and falling into his face.

“Only if I get Carla,” Grace said. “Sorry, Ash, but the two of them together would kill us.”

Aislinn cracked a grin. “She already set stakes. Ten a game.”

“So, twenty then, for teams?” Denny cleared two balls in a complicated shot that Carla could explain by way of geometry and simpl

e angles, but which Denny executed as a matter of precision and practice. Aislinn had neither geometry nor sufficient practice.

“Or ten still, even splits.” Grace opened a bottle of water.

“We might break even, if you have Carla,” Denny said. Then he finished clearing the table.

“Or not,” Grace muttered.

He grinned. “Or not.”

Something bluesy kicked up on the jukebox; Aislinn had been there often enough to recognize classic Buddy Guy. Across the hall, murmured conversations rose and fell among the clack of balls. Cries of defeat and victory broke into the familiar hum of Shooters. It’s good to be here. She’d spent too much time with faeries; hanging out with friends was the change she needed.

By the time Carla arrived, Aislinn could almost convince herself that life was as it had been before. Not that before had been perfect, but sometimes it seemed like things had been a lot clearer then. Contemplating eternity, a job she had no idea how to do well, and a relationship that was heading toward uncrossable lines—it wasn’t relaxing.

But Carla was there, Denny and Grace were there, the music was good, and the laughter was easy. The rest of the night was reserved for friends and fun.

“Game,” Carla crowed. She did a little victory shimmy that made Denny look away and Grace smirk.

“Somebody’s keeping a secret,” Aislinn murmured to Denny.

Denny narrowed his eyes. “Leave it alone, Ash.”

Grace and Carla were chatting as Grace racked the balls. Aislinn put her back to the table and kept her voice low. “Age is relative. If you—”

“No, it’s really not. Maybe someday when she’s had a chance to live a little more…but she hasn’t, and I’m not going to steal that chance.” Denny glanced at Carla as he sat back on one of the stools against the wall. “You two have years to enjoy your freedom before you settle down. I’m already at the point of wanting that.”

“So how old is too old?”

He grinned. “Don’t get prickly. Seth’s not too old for you. A year or two isn’t a big deal.”

“But…”

“But I’m almost a decade older. It’s different.” Denny pushed away from the stool. “Are we going to shoot or do each other’s hair now?”

“Jerk.”

He grinned. “Yet another reason you shouldn’t encourage me.”