Tattered Love (Needle's Kiss)

filled.
    “How long were you with special ops then?” I figured I had to take this slow, and then maybe he’d give me something to work with.
    “Six years roughly. How long have you been a tattooist?” His answer was brief, steering the conversation back again.
    “I got my first tattoo here at eighteen.” I pointed to the ink on my bicep. “After that, I was hooked. I started my apprenticeship almost straightaway. Haven’t looked back.” He grabbed my arm and looked a little closer, the contact of his rough calloused fingers bringing the flush back to my cheeks.
    “An engine?” he asked with raised brows.
    “My dad and I we built cars from scratch; it was our thing. We always had an old engine we’d be fixing up.”
    “The Cobra? You did that?” I’d seen him eyeing my car appreciatively.
    “Yep, took us about six months, but she was well worth every second.”
    “And the shoe?” he questioned, tipping his head to the side slightly. Looking back to my tattoo, I smiled. It was cute, an old car engine with a high heel sitting on top; this particular piece was all me.
    “I have a slight obsession for heels. Well, any cute shoe really,” I mumbled, looking down at the table. I looked up when I heard him chuckle.
    “I like your shoes; they make your legs go on forever”.
    Trying to steer the conversation back, I asked more about his job. He let on a little bit, but no matter how I approached, I learned very little about Mace, other than he’d been doing tours all round; the last taking him away for over two years. There was something soothing about the way he spoke about it, an almost pained vibe though. It got to a point where he told me in a very indirect way that the topic was over. I could tell that he clearly didn’t like talking about himself. Constantly steering the conversation back to me and answering questions with questions was starting to irritate the shit out of me. Fortunately, Mace suggested a game of pool just before I was about to go all “I am woman hear me roar” on his ass.
    “Come on, babe. I’ll show you how to play,” he told me while heading toward the vacant table.
    I hate how he does that!
    I should have been miffed that he assumed I couldn’t play, but instead, I figured I’d go along with it. Little did Mace know that I had played with my father as a kid and more recently, I beat his younger brother at least once every week. Trip, Remy, Teeny and I had a ritual after closing time each Friday. We’d stop at Bob’s to shoot pool, have a few drinks and embrace the weekend. Trip hated losing to me, yet he managed to take it like a man almost every time.
    Deciding I could have a lot of fun with this, I walked up real close, leaning past him to grab a cue, and whispered—with practiced innocence and a bat of my eyelashes—“I need a stick-thingy. Wait. We should make a bet, right? That’s what they do on the TV shows.”
    He smirked. “Babe, I’m not taking your money. It would be damn cruel to kick a pup while she’s down.” With a small smile, he turned and started racking the balls up. I bit my lip to keep from laughing and concentrated damn hard-on keeping a straight face.
    I whined, “But I really wanna bet. Just fifty dollars. C’mon, it’ll be fun, and if I lose, you can buy me drinks with it anyway. C’mon, Mace. Please?”
    He looked about to roll his eyes when he muttered, “Alright. But only one game of betting, babe. I’d hate for you to be upset all night.”
    Cocky asshole!
    It was kinda cute how he thought he could beat me. Call me smug, but I knew I was good. Damn good, actually. I just hoped he wasn't better.
    “How do I know which balls are mine though?” I asked, sounding clueless.
    “Whoever sinks the first ball gets that set” He pulled me close to where he stood at the table and picked up two balls. “See, this one is smalls, this one is bigs.” Pointing out what I already knew.
    Biting my lip with what I hoped came across as a clueless look, I asked, “What does that mean?”
    “Stripes and solid, see? There’s a set of each.” He smiled, a cocky look taking over his face.
    “Oh I get it! Wait. Who gets to hit the balls first?” I was laying it on thick.
    “The pretty lady does.”
    “Flattery might just get you to second base. Tell me how to hit them. Do I just poke ‘em with the stick-thing?” I asked, turning my back a little so he wouldn’t see the laugh I was trying to hold down.
    He smiled at me and shook