The Hustler
Vicious suspected that Spike was a hustler from the first time they walked side-by-side into the billiard hall, standing close enough for Spike's holster to brush against his hip. It was just too easy, the way he held the cue, the way he smirked when he missed a shot. The most telling clue was that Spike could never quite let himself lose at the end of the game.
Until Julia.
When Vicious brought Julia to the hall, his hand resting on the small of her back as he guided her to their usual table, something about Spike's demeanor changed. There was a gleam to his eyes in the dim light, a contrast to his blustering and bragging and being Spike. Even at the game's end, his aim was sloppy.
Julia, her expression cool, won the game with a shot to the corner pocket. After, she teased Spike, her lips forming that secret smile that Vicious only knew in private. He felt his breath catch quietly in his throat, lodged there as Julia gently pushed Spike in the shoulder, laughing lowly, and Spike complimented him on his taste.
He knew then—perhaps even before Spike did—that Spike was a hustler.
