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 who 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.”