“This isn’t going to end well, is it?” Elise asked.
Cody shook his head and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Nope. Not at all.”
Marsh had strutted into the bar with probably more arrogance than he’d deserve if he didn’t have Tabris at his back. The other choirboys knew, of course, that having Tabris at one’s back meant taking a chance, because Tabris was all about chances, but when Marsh was in a mood like this, he didn’t care.
The pool game started off well enough; Marsh was cautious, but the others could see tension lining his every limb, taut in every motion. He won a little, lost a little, came out marginally ahead. And then he slipped up, showed off, proved he had too much skill for an easy bar game like this.
The fools betting money on a pretty blond dandy like Marsh regretted it quickly, quickly enough for Marsh to earn a black eye and a split lip before he dove into the fray.
“He always did say he liked to use his hands,” Elise said.
“I don’t think,” Kyle said, “that’s what he meant.”
Cody shrugged. “Sometimes meanings change.”
(194 words)
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