Kinged(15)

There was nobody hanging around outside Drake’s, but music spilled from the dim windows. It was some old country song I didn’t recognize, and I laughed to myself at how cliché it was for this bar to play crappy country. I pushed open the door and let the warmer indoor air run over me.

Inside, the place was as dim and smoky as the last time. It was somewhat crowded, although it was still only nine on a Saturday night. I scanned the pool tables and booths, until I spotted Rex sitting alone at the bar in the same seat I had sat in last time.

I crossed the room and came up behind him

“Hey, stranger,” I said over the music.

Rex was wearing another tight black T-shirt and the same cutoff shorts. He turned back to look at me, and his face broke out into a devilish smile. I let out a small gasp when I saw his black eye and the fresh red cut along his right brow.

“Hi there, spoiled chick,” he said.

I wanted to reach out and touch his face, but I restrained myself.

“What happened?” I asked.

His smile turned into a grin. “What, this? Fell down some stairs.”

“Seriously, that looks bad. Are you okay?”

He waved his hand, dismissing my worry. “I’m fine. Sit down,” he said, and turned back toward his drink. I took the seat next to him as he ordered me a whiskey and Coke from the bartender. I was impressed that he remembered.

“Seriously, that eye looks bad. What happened?” I felt bad pressing him, but he looked seriously hurt. I noticed both of his hands were wrapped in white bandages.

“It’s nothing. Part of my job.”

“I thought you worked here, at the bar?”

He gave me a sideways look that I couldn’t read. “I do, in a way.”

“Quit being so mysterious.”

He broke out his wicked grin again. “Can’t help it. Drink your drink.” The bartender placed the glass in front of me and nodded at Rex.

I lifted the glass to my lips and sipped it. He downed his beer and gestured for another.

“What’s your job, then? Stopping cars with your face?”

“Not cars. Trucks. It’s tough, but it pays well.”

I laughed. “Yeah, doesn’t look worth it though.”

He didn’t respond as his new beer was placed in front of him. He picked it up and drank half in two big gulps. There was a short lull in our conversation as my mind ran through the possibilities. Did he get in another fight since I last saw him? Maybe he really was too dangerous for me, too violent. I had to admit that the black eye and busted fists terrified, but also thrilled me.

He gave me another look. “Do you play pool?”

I had an ex who played pretty well, and he tried to teach me once. I was awful.

“Yeah, better than you, I bet.”

“Oh, you think so? Want to make it interesting, then?”

I shrugged, playing it cool. “What did you have in mind?”

He thought for a second. “Winner gets to ask the loser for one favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Any kind of favor they want.”

My mind buzzed at the possibilities. “Alright then, you’re on.”

Rex smiled, grabbed his beer, and then stood. I picked up my drink and followed him. We wound our way through the small crowd, back toward the pool tables, and we put our drinks down on a side ledge built into the wall. He picked out two cues, and racked the balls. I watched him, and was impressed by how precise and smooth his movements were. I knew I was about to lose, but I didn’t care. I noticed he was favoring his one side, as if his ribs were bothering him, and I wondered then what other injuries he had that I couldn’t see, and what had happened to him.

“You can break,” he offered. I shook my head.

“Only losers break,” I said. He laughed, and lined the cue up. He took a few short practice strokes, and then slammed the cue into the pile, balls flying everywhere. He obviously knew what he was doing, and one solid ball fell into a side pocket.

“You’re stripes,” he said, as he lined up his next move. I watched him for a few minutes, his careful movements and precise shots, and I was impressed. Part of me wondered what kind of favor he was going to ask for. Finally, he missed a shot, and I stepped up to the table.

“Prepare to be amazed,” I said. He grunted as he drank his beer. I lined up a shot with the intention of hitting a striped ball into the corner pocket, took a few practice strokes, and then banged the cue into the wrong ball, sending them scattering all across the table. He laughed out loud.

“That’s some serious skill,” he said.

I shrugged and moved away while he lined up his shot. “I’m just hustling you.”

We played like that for the next fifteen minutes. I made a few balls, but the game was all but won after that first break. Eventually, he sank the eight ball, despite my trash talk and attempts at distracting him. As the final ball rolled into the pocket, he looked up at me with a smile.