Hollow Promises

8 Ball in a Corner Pocket

You begged the lump in your throat to go down. Within a moment you regained your composure, but not before Sam saw your true distress, "Check it out," you nod towards the back of the bar, "Wanna play some pool?"

Sam knew you were changing the topic, "Only if you want a royal butt kicking," he twisted in his seat on the bar stool.

Bless the man. You cross the planked floors and set everything up. It seems like people are more interested in watching compared to playing, "Who gets the break?"

A smile toys with your lips when Sam does a little bow and takes a step back. The overhead lamp makes his eyes wink with light.

You stand at the opposite end of the table, crouching low and lining your cue with the ball. All of your attention was on the game, not posture. Your spine curled down into your jeans, and not to brag, but it made your butt looked good. You drew the cue back and rammed it forward, sending balls flying and sinking two solids.

The few men with empty beers teetering on their table toasted to you, emptying more of their mugs.

Sam had an eyebrow raised as he observed the table, "Interesting..." His fingertips splayed on the red velvet table. He wasted no time in shooting a successful combo, "Finally, a worthy opponent."

You each made another ball in without speaking, the silence and competition was comfortable. Until he screwed up your shot.

You cast Sam a playful glare as you stalked around the table, "You just couldn't resist, hmm," no matter how you looked at it, it still sucked.

"Don't think I'll make things easy," Sam examined his cue, "I'd hate to be a stereotype."

"So much for chivalry," you chuckle, the huff that followed was laden with frustration. Screw it, I don't care who sees this. You stand next to the long side of the table and you lean over, the hand polished wood was cool on the strip of your stomach. Even nearly laying down, you still couldn't quite reach the shot you wanted, you reached to the tips of your once white converse for that extra inch. The laugh behind you broke the utter seriousness of the moment, "Don't judge me, not all of us have limbs that go on for days, giraffe legs."

The crinkles around Sam's eyes deepened with his lazy smile. A piece of chalk danced in his fingers while he watched, unknown to you, the fabric of your burnout t shirt was sheer enough for him to notice the telltale dark spot of a tattoo.

You missed a curious look Sam sent you before he took his turn. Shamelessly you checked out the way his back muscles shifted beneath his shirts. Look away Y/n. Now. You blinked and tilted your body away from him. Feelings are bad for business.

"Y/n," Sam's voice hums across across the table, "You never did say what happened to your brother."

Oh God, anything but that, your lips trembled. You bent to look at a potential combo while Sam leaned on the table next to you.

More people were coming into the bar and the noise grew. As did the smell of tobacco and Heineken. 

It was a battle to keep your face straight, "The Greens and Coleridges...they report to Thana and Xavier Labeau, our Lords of Siberia. Sam," you pull away from the table, "They're nastier than both Green and Coleridge put together; "

Sam stilled your arm before the shaking was mistaken for a seizure. His features were laced with hate for the bloodsuckers, but such a softness turned his greener eyes towards your pain. He made his final shot before stepping back. The only thing left was the 8 ball.

His closeness acted as a vice to your breathing, yet even with the distance, the gravel in your lungs condensed, "It was them...they bit my little brother, my Tyler, and smiled as he bled out at their feet," You don't look, don't calculate, just aim and fire. Heavy stones crash against each other while the black ball sails wildly. It loses steam when it reaches the lip of the corner pocket, but somehow, it tips over. You won the game.

Victory was dampened by the conversation; you needed your inhaler. Now. You turn around but Sam loomed about a foot away from you.

He looks down in a gentle giant manner, shuffling his feet so there was hardly space for air. The move wasn't invasive.

You didn't feel trapped, only one of his hands rested on the table behind you. The other was clearing stray strands of hair from your forehead, "I'm so sorry Y/n," Again, there was no pity.

Our stories truly aren't so different, you find it in you to see him in a new light.

He knew loss, it was the only explainable way Sam could sympathize with you in earnest and not out of obligation, "This means nothing coming from a stranger, but I wish I could fix it all for you."

"No," the muscles in your face remember how to smile, "That very reason gives me hope. You care so much for someone you don't know."

Sam's inhale hitches when your hand curls around his forearm. More thoughts were eating him up inside, but he did not voice them. His head tilted forwards. His skin touched your hairline, "Whether you live or die in the next two days is something I care about. Greatly."

That story killed you to acknowledge it, but nothing felt better than letting Sam's words washing over you. Until you got a whiff of his cologne.