The crack of the cue ball hitting the wrong angle echoed through the men's club. Adrian watched with irritation as the striped ball skimmed the edge of the pocket, barely missing before rolling uselessly toward the center of the table.
"Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath.
His friend chuckled and stepped in with an easy confidence that annoyed Adrian even more. "Move over, Vale. Let a real man fix that shot."
Adrian straightened, tugging lightly at the silver cufflinks on his shirt. He plastered on a casual grin, but his jaw twitched as he stepped back from the table. He reached for his scotch, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the lounge.
It was a typical Sunday at the club. The air carried a lazy haze of cigar smoke, and the smell of polished leather lingered around the billiard tables. Men in pressed shirts with loosened ties leaned over their cues, laughing too loudly at their own jokes.
