Porter laughed, taking a sip of his beer. “You always have to know a guy that knows a guy. Comes in handy. Especially when you’re a foodie.”
Porter was a foodie. A real deal foodie. It dawned on me: He didn’t take me to these amazing restaurants like this place or the sushi spot because I was a size 22 and looked like I loved food. He took me to fancy spots because he was trying to impress me. And dammit, it was working. I got another forkful of fries and put them on the plate. Porter looked on with delight as I took another bite. I was in heaven, or at least on the way to a chili-cheese-fry coma.
“Goodness! These fries are better than sex.” So much for not thinking about sex. I swallowed my fries that now were forming a cold lump in my throat.
A cough strangled Porter’s laugh as he rested his hand on his chin. “Better than sex, huh? I mean, they’re good, Ari, but if they’re better than sex, then you’ve had some terrible sex.”
I gulped, moving the lump of fries finally, and averting my eyes from his piercing gaze. Was I drooling? I wiped the corners of my mouth. Please let this be a reaction to these bomb ass fries and not this man. I had to get out of this somehow.
“Do you play pool?” I asked, standing up and maneuvering out of our booth before he could answer. Luckily, he followed my lead.
“I sure do. My daddy was a pool shark,” Porter said, his face serious.
I raised my eyebrow. “Really? Like Minnesota Fats?”
Porter bit his lip, trying to contain his laughter. “Okay, I’m lying. But I’m good.”
“Well, we will see about that!” I said, egging him on. I walked toward the concierge desk, paid for a couple of games, and collected a rack of balls from the attendant.
“I could have paid for that, Ari,” said Porter, annoyed.
“No. You get the food. I get the games,” I said. “You’ve earned my trust with your taste in food.”
Porter shook his head and took a sip of his beer that he was holding. He sat the frosty glass on the edge of the pool table, grabbed a pool cue, and began chalking it up with such a sensual motion that in that moment, I wished that the pool stick was my clit.
“Come on, Grandpa! You done babysitting that stick? Let’s play!” I yelled over the raspy vocals of Eddie Vedder that were pleasantly assaulting my ears in the pub.
Porter raised a brow. “Grandpa? Oh, I got your grandpa. I’m going to make sure you eat those words, Ari James. Rack them.”
“Already done. We’re playing 10 ball.” I positioned the balls in the middle of the table. I stood back, admiring my handiwork. I motioned to Porter to take a shot.
“Ladies first,” Porter smirked, throwing up his hands.
I bent over the table with my cue to break. I looked over at Porter, who was slyly looking at me, then looked away. Suddenly, I wished I had taken his lead and worn slacks to work because I’m sure my ass was looking like two baked hams leaning over this table. But I didn’t mind. Besides, ham is delicious. Porter looked like a man who appreciated both ham and ass. And I had a nice ass.
“Six ball, corner pocket,” I said after I had already released my stick and hit it perfectly.
“Damn,” said Porter in disbelief.
My game was going well as just about everything I called made it in. I even did one trick shot behind the back. To which Porter said, “Okay, now you’re just showing off!” I laughed. After we both took our shots, we were in the last round. All that was left were the 10 and the 9 balls.
I stood up to assess my strategy. Just then, I felt the warmth of spicy, vanilla-tinged breath on my neck and the hairs of my nape stood at attention.
“You know, if you just ease into it, you can get the 9 ball…left corner pocket.”
His voice was low and gruff, like the cloth on the pool table. I felt my breath quicken, then settle in my chest. I tried to make my shot…and scratched. Porter broke out into riotous laughter.
“Oh, so you did that on purpose?” I pouted playfully, putting down my pool stick. I didn’t enjoy losing. But this time, I’d make an exception.
“Hey, what can I say? I like to win and sometimes you got to get dirty,” he said as he retrieved the balls for a new game.
The bar was getting crowded. It was a mixed crowd of young and old, Black and White. Atlanta still partied like it was the fifties on most weekends, with everything being segregated. But in Hemingway’s, it looked like a little post-racial utopia. I sipped a freshly poured beer and watched Porter play. His muscular forearms rippled with every shot. He had a real command of the table. I thought about pulling a stunt on him like he did to me, but I was too busy looking at his arms, his thick thighs, and most of all, that ass. I think my earlier hypothesis about the quarters and nickels was right.