Play It Safe Page 3

  My eyes moved and I saw her at the bar. I didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to look at her but I did. I’d seen a lot of her kind in my life, what with my profession. A shade too much makeup. Not put on well mainly because she was drunk when she put it on and this was because, in some way, she was always drunk. Decent clothes also not well-taken care of but she tried. She had a cardigan on now, a tight skirt. Later that cardigan would come off, she’d show skin. She’d try for attention or spend some time when she was relatively sober telling herself she wasn’t going to go for it, wasn’t going to do that to herself again. Then she’d get drunker and she’d want company, she’d want to talk, she’d want someone to convince her that her life wasn’t in the toilet and swirling. She’d want someone, even if for an hour, to make her think she was pretty. She’d give him a blowjob for it. She’d do anything. She’d do more if he bought her a couple of drinks.

  Barfly.

  I saw that in my future like I had a crystal ball and the gift.

  I saw it and it terrified me.

  I looked down at my beer. Then I lifted it as if to extend a big middle finger to my life and my future and took a drag.

  Happy bartender came back then leaned into me. “Order’s in.”

  “Cool,” I said quietly. “Thanks but sorry. They probably weren’t happy getting a last minute order.”

  Her twinkling, hazel eyes left me and scanned the bar then came back to me. “Thursday. They haven’t exactly been run off their feet and they need me to have the extra five bucks in my cash register.”

  Her cash register. As usual, I was right. She owned the joint.

  “Right,” I said and took a sip of beer.

  Her brows drew slightly together. “You the new waitress at Jenkins?”

  I shook my head and dropped my hand.

  “The new teacher?” she went on.

  I wish.

  I didn’t even have a high school diploma. I could hardly be a teacher.

  “Nope,” I answered.

  “I’m Janie,” she introduced herself, stretching out a hand I took and squeezed while she kept talking. “Good place to settle, Mustang.” I let go of her hand and she dropped it but kept going. “Followed a man here, got shot of that man, he got shot of Mustang, thank God. I got the town in the break up.”

  “So you came out on top,” I noted and she grinned again.

  “Definitely. Also got me a Mustang man. He’s way better.”

  I again grinned back. I liked that for her.

  “You got a man?” she asked curiously but still friendly. I was in her bar the night before, came in alone, left alone. The same tonight. I was young. She thought I was new in town. She probably wanted to fix me up with someone.

  But I didn’t have a man. I didn’t have anything. I had three pairs of jeans, four t-shirts, five long-sleeved shirts two of those being henleys like what I had on now, a heavy sweater, a lighter cardigan, two tank tops, half a dozen pairs of undies, three bras, two nightshirts, seven pairs of socks, two pairs of cowboy boots, one pair of flip-flops, three pairs of shorts, a bikini, three books, a watch, a jeans jacket, a scarf, seven bottles of perfume (my only splurge, I loved scent), some makeup, assorted cheap jewelry and not much of it and a brother.

  That’s all I had in this world. All of it.

  I had nothing else except my life, my health and a special talent that made enough money to eat, keep ceilings of cheap hotel rooms over our heads and gas in Casey’s tank.

  I lifted the bottle to my lips, my eyes slid away and I murmured, “Nope.”

  “Pretty girl like you?” she asked and my eyes slid back to her as I took a sip.

  I didn’t answer.

  Then I dropped the beer.

  Then, as much as I wanted to talk to a pretty, friendly, happy bartender I knew the drill.

  So she had to know it too.

  I turned and dug in my purse at my side, pulled out a bill and slid it on the bar. The tip was decent, more than I could afford, as much as she deserved.

  “Keep it. Gonna shoot some pool,” I told her, not meeting her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Janie.”

  Then I grabbed my bag, jacket and scarf, slid off my stool, tagged the bottle of beer and wandered along the bar, through the scattering of tables and up two steps to the platform that held two pool tables, their felt red.

  I liked the red. It gave a warm feel to the space.

  I also liked that the tables were freebies. No sign that said you had to get the balls from the bar. No slot to insert coins or bills. Balls available. Cues on the wall. Proof Janie was friendly. She wanted people to come to her bar and stay awhile. It was just a bonus that when they did, they had to buy beer.

  I set up the balls and chose my cue.

  I’d broke and downed half a dozen of them by the time Janie came up the platform with my red, oval basket, its white waxed paper, my sandwich and fries with matching, plastic, squeezy bottles of ketchup and mustard, red and yellow, these in one hand with fingers expertly wrapped around.

  “You’re good at that,” she noted, putting my basket on the high table by the wall in between the two pool tables, three stools around.

  “Thanks for delivering the food,” I told the table, lined up, pulled my hand back and let fly.

  Down went the six.

  She hesitated, I felt it then she moved.

  I glanced and I knew she wouldn’t see. I could watch for hours and people wouldn’t know I was watching them. I’d perfected the art. I didn’t, I wouldn’t get paid.

  Her face had changed. Slightly disappointed, slightly miffed. I wasn’t as friendly as I’d seemed. It was a slow night and slow could be boring. But mostly, she liked friendly in her bar. She thought she’d like me. She was wrong. So she didn’t like me in her bar.

  But she’d take my money.

  I shook it off. It hurt, always did but I was used to it. Then I played pool alternately eating.

  One could not say I’d had the finer things in life, any of them. Not once. But I’d been on the road long enough to eat in enough diners and bars to have some really good food.

  That pulled pork sandwich, at bite one, hit my top five, maybe top three.

  It wasn’t excellent.

  It was superb.

  I finished it, finished my beer and went down to Janie to buy another one. She didn’t make another attempt at friendly. This was when I knew she’d worked that bar awhile. She got me.

  I bought it, no tab, and wandered back to the table.

  I was executing a difficult shot with no problem when they showed, moving up the platform with their beers toward the other table.

  My eyes slid through them and I read them in an instant.

  They were Gray’s age, maybe a bit older. They were the bullies in school. Athletes, undoubtedly. Not out of school long enough for their bodies to go to pot but at least for one of them, it was starting. He was likely married or had a steady girl he knew would never leave. The other two were still looking for “the one” or just the one who would get them off for a night. Therefore, they felt the need to keep in top form, wanted attention, wanted to get laid and often. Made an effort. Clothes, haircuts, bodies. It said it all.

  But their eyes were eyes I never liked to see in anyone. Entitled. I couldn’t say they weren’t good-looking. They did not have the looks or manner of Gray, nowhere near. But they weren’t hard to look at and knew it. They either came from money or made it. They went to college. They’d had the finer things in life. They were looking forward to having a life filled with finer things. Maybe not daily but they’d have their toys. They’d have their hot pieces. They’d marry one. She might go to pot after the second or third kid but she’d do her damnedest to keep herself together so she’d keep hold. She’d fail mostly because they’d cheat. They were used to having what they wanted and they’d take it. She’d know it then she’d lose it one way or another then lose them.

  Divorce in their thirties or forties. Replacement hot piece wh
o would also go to pot eventually either when they finally let go of the glory days or she did.

  Kids bounced around.

  Ending life in Arizona or Florida close to a golf course.

  I didn’t want them playing pool by me.

  I’d been playing pool for ten years, lots of it. Boris Becker could play tennis and won Wimbledon at seventeen. I could play pool and wipe the floor with absolutely anyone by fifteen. It was a gift. I couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t even practice. I just saw the table, saw the shots, felt them, knew how to take them and did. I’d pocketed balls in shots world-class players couldn’t execute.

  And it was lucky I could. It kept my brother and me fed, clothed and in gas and hotels.

  I was a pool hustler and that was likely all I’d ever be.

  But not that night. That night, I had a good sandwich in my belly and a cue in my hand.

  I was playing just for me.

  I cleared the table, set it up again then cleared it again, in my zone, ignoring them. Ignoring everybody.

  But it wasn’t a surprise when a male presence hit the end of the table as I was bending over it to break yet again and I heard, “Honey, you got a way with a stick.”

  My eyes went up but not my head. It was a pickup line and a rude one. A different kind of girl, he’d lead in another way. But he saw the scuffs on my boots. He saw the quality of my henley. He knew my jeans were faded because I’d had them for years not because I bought them that way.

  And he watched me play pool.

  He thought I was the woman at the bar, younger, less rough around the edges, able to hide that I was used to being rode hard and put up wet.

  I hated him on sight.

  I looked back at the table, muttered, “Yup,” and let fly.

  Balls scattered, two went in pockets.

  I searched for my shot, lined it up, took it and the ball went down.

  I shifted, moving the opposite direction as him as he stated, “Hundred dollars says I can take you.”

  He was rude, entitled and cocky. He’d seen me play.

  Stupid schmuck.

  I opened my senses. It was getting later. There were more people in the bar. I felt them. There was a slight hum, not much. Not busy. But more populated. I’d garnered some attention; I felt eyes on me and not just the eyes of the four men at the table next to mine.

  “Thanks, but no,” I murmured, bent, lined up my shot, took the tap and it went in.

  “Seems easy money for you,” he noted.

  He was right. And I needed it. Badly. A hundred dollars I could stretch a long way.

  The answer was still no.

  He had trouble written all over him, trouble I didn’t need.

  “Just want a little private time, me and a table,” I told the table, shifting around it, eyes to it, not giving him anything.

  “Two hundred, one game,” he pushed.

  Darn.

  Two hundred I could stretch a long way.

  “Thanks, but no,” I repeated, found the ball I wanted to take, leaned over the table, took it and it went down.

  “Five hundred, best of three,” he went on and my eyes went to him.

  Five hundred was another week. Five hundred was a lot of money. Five hundred wasn’t breathing easy but it was breathing easier.

  I still wasn’t going to buy his kind of trouble.

  “Seriously, no offense, but I’m looking for a quiet night. Just me, a beer and the table.”

  He grinned. Short-cropped dark hair. Plaid shirt that wasn’t bought at a western wear store but in the designer section of some posh department store and not the one across from the front of the courthouse. Jeans not faded. Soft hands.

  He worked a desk. Daddy was probably in the manager’s office.

  “All right, gorgeous, I’ll buy your beers, five hundred, best of three.”

  I sighed. Then I stated the obvious, “I’m really good.”

  He grinned.

  Totally cocky. His grin was nothing like Gray’s. It didn’t warm his eyes. He had no dimple to make his male beauty cute. I wanted to curl my lip but I didn’t.

  “You haven’t seen me.”

  Double entendre.

  He kept talking. “Got a pool table at home, have since I was a kid.”

  Well la-dee-dah.

  And he wasn’t done. “I’ll give you a run for your money.”

  I studied him then my eyes went through his friends. Two were watching. One was bent over their pool table pretending he wasn’t listening. Cocky Guy was the best looking of the lot, knew it and so did they. They were his sidekicks and probably had been since junior high.

  Five hundred dollars.

  We’d wasted three days with nothing to show for it.

  It would be easy and it would double our bank.

  Tomorrow, we’d be gone.

  Hells bells.

  “Best of three, you buy my beers,” I agreed.

  He smiled and his eyes got lazy. He thought he was in there. He wanted to watch me leaning over a table. Then he thought he was going to take my money. Then he thought he’d likely get me drunk then take me and he also thought I’d remember it happily for the rest of my life.

  Idiot.

  “Janie! My girl here needs a beer!” he shouted and I looked toward the bar.

  Then my chest seized.

  Gray was sitting on a stool at the bar on the side closest to the pool platform, Janie was at the bar opposite him but his back was to her, his boots to the rungs, his eyes on me.

  Darn.

  I turned my attention to the table.

  “Got a name?” Mustang’s resident playboy asked and my eyes went back to him to see he was pulling balls out of the pockets.

  “Yup,” I answered and said no more.

  He waited. Then his face grew confused. He didn’t get me and what he didn’t get was that I seemed immune to his charms. He thought a girl like me took one look at a boy-man like him, his looks, his clothes, his obvious money and my dreams would soar even though he had no intention of giving me anything other than a couple of beers and a little attention.

  Yep. Idiot.

  I went to the chalk and put it to the tip of my cue.

  He kept trying as he racked the balls, “Been in town long?”

  “Nope,” I answered, putting down the chalk.

  He looked at me. “Staying in town long?”

  “Nope,” I repeated and Janie came up with my beer. I looked at her, took it, smiled and muttered, “Thanks.”

  “You bet,” she replied then got closer in that way girls can do, that was to say without looking like she was and she whispered, “Careful.”

  I caught her eyes as she moved away and slightly tipped up my chin.

  Then I took a sip of my Corona.

  Then I looked at Cocky Guy. “Flip to break?”

  “Ladies first.”

  Total idiot.

  “Seriously, flip to break,” I said again.

  He pulled the rack off the balls and grinned. “You go, honey.”

  I studied him and tried not to think of Gray watching me. But I knew he was. In fact, I knew everyone was.

  As usual, I didn’t disappoint. I broke and then approximately seven minutes later, I pocketed the eight ball and there were three extremely difficult shots where I knew Cocky Guy thought he had me but I made without hesitation.

  I went back to my beer and took a sip, put it down on the shelf on the wall and stated, “This time, you break.”

  He wasn’t looking cocky anymore. He was looking pissed. Not only did I clear the table in seven minutes, I didn’t look at him once.

  Then I moved around the table, pulling out the balls. He made me rack them this time. He moved to the head of the table, watched me and waited. I set them up, pulled the rack away and went to my beer.

  He executed a solid break. Then he downed three balls. He wasn’t bad but his options dried up and he flubbed the fourth ball.

  I took a sip of beer, st
epped to the table and in approximately seven minutes, cleared my stripes and pocketed the eight ball.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered.

  I lifted up, put the butt of my cue to the floor and said, “Best of three. Five hundred dollars.”

  His eyes came to me. “Best of five, a thousand.”

  Darn!

  I shook my head. “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “I barely got a shot in,” he returned swiftly.

  “You saw me play. I offered you the flip. That’s the breaks.” I lifted a hand, palm up. “Five hundred dollars.”

  His eyes narrowed and he accused, “You’re a hustler.”

  He did not lie.

  Still, I didn’t hustle him.

  “I’m good at pool, you knew it and you made the bet,” I replied, hand still lifted. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “This is stupid,” he hissed.

  “Five hundred dollars, Bud.” I heard from behind me, I twisted my neck to look over my shoulder and saw that Gray was three feet away at the top edge of the platform.

  “Stay out of this, Cody,” Cocky Guy warned.

  “You made the bet, you lost, you pay. Five hundred dollars,” Gray stated, taking another step forward on the platform.

  Cocky Guy glared at him as his brethren closed ranks.

  This was not good.

  Hells bells.

  I felt Gray close in on my back.

  Hells bells!

  “Bud, five hundred dollars. Now,” he said low, his voice almost a growl, his patience clearly waning.

  I wanted to look at him to assess and compare. I knew he knew this guy; they probably went to school together. But somehow his maturity and masculinity had eclipsed Cocky Guy’s about seven thousand times. He was all man. He was losing patience, this vibe filled the space and not only Cocky Guy but his buddies were all taking it seriously. They didn’t like it but they were taking it seriously.

  Maybe they weren’t total idiots.

  Finally, Cocky Guy muttered, “I don’t have it on me.”

  “Then get it. Cash machine on the corner. We’ll wait. You’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll be collecting,” Gray returned.

  Wow. That was nice.

  Cocky Guy continued glaring over my shoulder at Gray then his eyes flicked back and forth between him and me.