Eight Ball & Bruises: A Competitive Enemies to Lovers Romance by Amber Kane

In the neon glow of a dive bar, a high-stakes game of pool turns into a battle for dominance. Amber hates losing, but when the wager involves submission, she might just enjoy the penalty…

— by Amber Kane —

Blacklight Tavern was packed that night—the kind of crowded where the air turns thick with sweat, spilled whiskey, and the low thump of bass I felt rattling my ribs. Neon from the signs outside bled through the windows in pulses—red, blue, electric pink—washing the crowd in colors that made everyone look half-dangerous.

Six games down, six wins, and my pocket was heavy with crumpled bills. I was leaning over the far table, lining up an easy corner pocket on the eight-ball, when I felt it. Not a glance. Not a casual look. Watching.

I sank the shot clean, straightened slow, and turned.

Jax Harlan.

He was leaning against the bar rail like he’d been there all night, one elbow propped, a rocks glass halfway to his mouth. Tall. Dark hair a little too long, falling into his eyes. Sleeves pushed up to show forearms that looked like they’d done real work—scarred knuckles, a faded tattoo I couldn’t make out from here. Leather jacket slung over the stool behind him, worn-in jeans, boots that had seen some miles.

But it was the scar I noticed first. Thin line slicing clean through his left eyebrow, white against tan skin. Old. The kind you get in a fight that mattered.

I’d seen him before—three, maybe four times over the past month. Always quiet. Always alone. Always betting big on the games he played, and I’d never seen him lose. He had the kind of stillness that made you wonder what he was thinking, and the kind of eyes that didn’t look away when you caught him staring.

Tonight, he wasn’t playing. He was watching me.

I smirked, chalked my cue, and called out loud enough for the whole bar to hear. “Next game’s open. Hundred bucks. Loser buys drinks all night.”

The crowd shifted. A few regulars laughed—the usual Blacklight mix of leather and ink, people who came here because nobody asked questions. Lou, the bartender, shook his head from behind the taps like he’d seen this routine before. Gruff bastard never said much, but I caught the hint of a smile before he turned back to pouring.

Jax pushed off the bar and walked over. Didn’t ask if the table was free. Just set his glass down on the rail, picked up a cue from the rack, and started racking the balls with steady hands.

“Make it two hundred,” he said. Voice low, rough around the edges. Not cocky. Just certain.

I felt the first real spark then. Not annoyance. Heat.

“Done.”

We didn’t bother shaking on it.

Game One

I broke hard. Balls scattered like they were scared of me—two stripes dropped clean. I ran three more before I had to bank a tough shot off the far cushion. Missed it by half an inch.

Jax stepped up calm as hell and cleared four solids without blinking. When he leaned over the table for his fifth shot, I caught the flex in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened in focus. The scar through his eyebrow pulled when he squinted down the cue. I wanted to touch it.

He sank the shot. Then the next. By the time he was lining up the eight-ball, I was leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, watching him the way he’d been watching me.

He pocketed it clean, straightened, and met my eyes. “Your break,” he said.

I laughed—short, sharp. “Tied at one-nothing isn’t exactly winning, Harlan.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Didn’t say I was winning. Just said it’s your break.”

I grabbed my cue and stepped up to rack. He didn’t move. Just stood there, close enough that I could smell leather and something else—faint cologne, maybe, or just the heat coming off him. When I bent to set the triangle, I felt his eyes drop. Good.

I took my time standing back up, letting my tank ride up just enough to show the cut of my abs. Turned my head, caught him staring, and grinned.

“See something you like?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Your break’s sloppy. You’re telegraphing the shot.”

I wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. Maybe both.

Instead, I stepped up and broke so hard the cue ball nearly jumped the table.

Game Two

This one was closer.

We traded shots, trash talk climbing with every round. I leaned over the table more than I needed to, letting my jeans pull tight across my ass. He noticed. Didn’t stare—just a flicker of his eyes before his next shot went wide.

I grinned, called my pocket loud, and sank the stripe clean.

“Tied,” I said, stepping close enough that my cue brushed his hip. “Want to make this interesting?”

He tilted his head, and the scar through his eyebrow caught the neon glow bleeding in from Emberline Street—red light washing across his face, turning his eyes darker.

“How interesting?”

“Double or nothing,” I said. “Four hundred. Winner calls the shots after close.”

The bar had gone quieter now. Not silent—never silent at Blacklight—but the crowd around us thinned, conversations dropping to murmurs. Even Lou stopped wiping down glasses to watch.

Jax didn’t blink. Just held my gaze, and I swear I felt the weight of that stare between my legs.

“Five hundred,” he said. “And the winner decides what happens in the back office.”

My pulse kicked. Hard.

I should’ve told him to fuck off. Should’ve walked away. Should’ve taken my winnings and called it a night.

Instead, I smiled sharp and said, “Deal.”

Game Three

This one hurt.

We were both sweating now—jackets off, sleeves rolled. The bass from the jukebox synced with my heartbeat, and every time I bent over the table, I knew he was watching the line of my back, the way my tank clung to my ribs, the flex in my thighs when I braced for a shot.

When he leaned in, I watched the way his shoulders moved, the tightness in his jaw, the scar pulling when he focused. I wanted to trace it with my tongue. Wanted to see if it was as rough as it looked or if the skin there was soft.

The score stayed neck and neck. Him pulling ahead by one. Me clawing it back. The crowd that was left had stopped pretending not to watch. Someone turned the music down halfway through, and the click of balls, the scrape of chalk, the low murmur of our voices—it all felt louder than it should.

I had one ball left. Then the eight. He had two.

I lined up my shot—a straight sink into the corner pocket. Easy. Should’ve been automatic.

But I was watching him instead of the table. Watching the way he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Watching the way his eyes stayed on me, unblinking.

I pulled the shot. Scratched.

Fuck.

The room exhaled. Someone whistled low. Lou shook his head and poured a shot for himself.

Jax stepped up to the table. Calm. Didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just ran the rest of the table. Clean.

The eight-ball dropped into the corner pocket with a soft, final clack.

Last call had come and gone. The lights flickered to half-strength—neon bleeding through the windows the only real color left in the place. The handful of people still lingering started filtering out, but no one said a word to us.

Jax picked up the stack of bills from the rail—five hundred in crumpled twenties and fifties—and walked over. Slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t hand me the money.

He slid it into my back pocket, fingers lingering just long enough to press against my ass through denim.

“Drinks are on you,” he said quietly. “But I’m calling the shots.”

I should’ve shoved him off. Should’ve told him where to stick his winnings.

Instead, I felt my pulse in my throat and between my legs, and I laughed—low, rough, the sound scraping out of me like I’d already lost something I hadn’t meant to bet.

“Back office,” I said. “Now.”

Lou had already disappeared into the back. The last stragglers were gone. The bar was dark except for the neon bleeding red and blue through the windows.

I walked ahead of him, hips swaying deliberate, and I heard his boots on the floor behind me—steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

The back office door was half-open. I pushed through, and he followed.

I locked the door behind us.