Chapter Fourteen
Selena
It’s like old times in the best way possible.
Free-flowing booze, cursing loud and dirty enough to make these military boys blush, and a beat-up jukebox blaring classic rock, dirty blues, and raspy-voiced country.
Jarrett and I execute our plan to perfection. It’s one we’ve used several times before all around Reno, when he and I were nothing more than two drunken, fighting, fucking thieves terrorizing the area.
Back then, he said he did it all for me, so that I’d have a little something extra after we’d knocked over the Devil’s Den and I’d finally bought my freedom. He wanted me and Jake to have enough to start life off right and to be able to leave all the shit behind.
I think he did it for himself as much as anything. Doing something good helps him quiet his nerves while keeping out of trouble.
The first hour we’re there, all we do is loiter at the bar, tossing back pints and downing our fair share of whiskey and bourbon. Liquor flows like water and we make a scene. In everyone’s eyes, we’re getting shitfaced.
We learn the bartender’s name — Reggie — along with his age, family history, and that he likes to spend his free time restoring an old cropduster his grandfather flew after WWII. It’s a Grumman AG Cat biplane built in the mid-1950’s.
When he finishes the paint job, it’ll be cherry red.
The two of us drink, and we don’t even glance at the pool tables until we’re each on our fourth beer.
When it’s apparent to everyone who doesn’t know us that we are plastered, we head to the tables.
“You want to play a game, babe?” he says to me in his put-on drunken slur. “I think I’ve had just enough that I can put some of the balls in the holes this time.”
Did he call me babe?
That’s new.
I put on a smile, though I don’t have to try too hard. Or at all, really.
“All right, honey,” I say, exaggerating the name and fighting back a laugh as he nearly winces. “Let’s rack ‘em up.”
We play the first game awful. On his third shot, Jarrett sends the ball flying off the table, caroming against the hardwood floor and rolling to a stop at the foot of some piss-drunk twenty-something airman sitting at a table with a few other young men who have the obvious military look around them.
“Oops, sorry,” I say as I scamper over to pick up the ball from the airman’s feet. “Sometimes my boyfriend gets carried away. Especially when he’s had a few.”
The airman squints over in the direction of the pool table. “You two play pool?”
No shit, dingus. Really doing the Air Force proud with your observation there, huh?
“I mean, kind of,” I say. Then I giggle — fucking giggle — just to play it up for the flyboy. “It takes a while. And sometimes he forgets whether he’s on the stripes or solids. But it’s all about the fun, right?”
“You two ever play for cash?” he says, squinting again.
Maybe his eyes are defective.
“Like, gambling?” I say. Then I do my best to affect being sober, in the way only a drunk person can. “Are you trying to hustle us?”
“Oh, no ma’am,” he says, holding up his hands.
“It’s just for fun. The cash makes it more exciting,” says another man to his right.
“Ok. You and your friend can play me and my boyfriend next game. We want to finish this game and have a few more drinks first, ok?”
The two men share a look and one of them has a sharklike look in his eyes. Jarrett and I have to seem like the easiest, dumbest targets in the world. We’re chum to these wannabe predators.
“Sure,” says the man who first picked up the ball. He can’t hide the eagerness in his voice. “Take your time, have a few drinks. It’s all good.”
I give them both a drunk-white-girl hug and then turn around and head back to the table, ball in hand and wide grin on my face.
“Those nice boys over there want to play the next game with us,” I say to Jarrett while gesturing over to the table. “And they want to put a wager on it.”
He misses a shot, wide, and curses loudly. “I’m going to need a few more fucking beers before I’m ready for that.”
The two of us finish our game, play up being the stupid drunk couple out slumming it, and we have a couple more beers. Soon enough, Jarrett and I are racking up across from the two airmen and slapping fifty bucks each down on the table.
It’s a small bet. But it’s all part of the plan.
“Ready, babe?” Jarrett says.
“Yeah, hun, let’s do this,” I say, bouncing with enthusiasm.
We lose.
Hard.
It isn’t even close. We sink two striped balls by the time the airmen sink the eight ball.
“Another game?” one of them says, big shit-eating grin on his face.
“Well, I can’t let you embarrass me in front of my woman like that. I gotta have a chance to redeem myself,” Jarrett says.
“Are you sure, man?” the other one says. He’s got a concerned expression as real as crocodile tears on his face.
“What’s your name, kid?” Jarrett says.
“Senior Airman Michael Tomlinson,” he says.
“And your friend?”
“Staff Sergeant David Klein,” he says.
“Well, Mike, Dave, I’m damn fucking sure I want another chance,” Jarrett says. “Double or nothing this time.”
We rack up again.
We lose. Even worse this time. Jarrett plays the drunk and embarrassed boyfriend perfectly. When Mike and Dave sink the eight ball this time, Jarrett goes beet-red in the face and looks like he’s about to snap the pool cue over his knee.
“One more game,” he says.
“Are you sure? Seriously, man, I don’t want to keep taking yours and your girlfriend’s money,” Dave says.
“One more. Five hundred each,” Jarrett says, slamming a wad of cash down on the table. I dig the same amount out of my wallet — while keeping a look of fearful disappointment on my face — and put it down alongside his.
Dave and Mike trade a look. But they both reach for their cash.
“Are you sure?” Mike says.
Jarrett dips his head and leans in “Come on, man, I can’t back down now in front of my lady. Help me, out please?”
“Sure, buddy,” Dave says. He and Mike both have an eager light in their eyes.
We rack.
I break.
I sink one ball.
“Look, honey, I got one. First try! We’re stripes,” I say excitedly.
“Good job, babe. Stripes are lucky,” he says, putting his hand on the small of my back and helping me line up my next shot. I take my time — his soft touch on the small of my back sends tingles down my spine. I smile at him over my shoulder and he winks at me. “You always were a better shot than me.”
The smile on my face isn’t an act. And I can’t tell if he’s putting up an act, either. All I know is this feels good in the kind of way that makes my heart full and makes all my cares and concerns seem just a little bit less worrisome.
It’s the kind of thing I want to last.
I can hear Dave and Mike chuckle to themselves. Especially after I miss my next one.
They sink three before it’s our turn again.
Now Jarrett’s up.
And he takes his time. Going from corner to corner, cajoling and coaxing the cue ball to be good to him. It’s almost a minute before he’s got himself lined up and committed to a shot.
It’s perfect. A heavy shot that sends a striped ball rocketing into the pocket.
Jarrett stares at his cue stick in disbelief. “Holy shit, boys,” he says to Dave and Mike. “Maybe I’m just drunk enough to play.”
He sinks another and then another.
Dave and Mike share a concerned look that doesn’t disappear until Jarrett misses his next shot wide right and the two of them breathe a sigh of relief.
“Looks like your luck’s run out,” Dave says.
They sink two more.
Now it’s my turn.
“You can do it, babe,” Jarrett says to me. His hand is on my back again and I have to take a moment to steady myself because there’s enough heat in his voice it’s distracting.
He means it.
And I like that he means it.
“Thanks, honey,” I say to him with a little more enthusiasm than I should.
Ok. Focus. You’ve got this.
I nail the last few shots and sink the eight ball.
Easy.
Before I can blink, Jarrett wraps me up in his arms and presses his lips to mine.
This isn’t part of the con.
This is the last thing I should be doing.
It’ll fuck up everything for me.
That isn’t part of the plan.
But, fuck it, this feels good.
I shut my eyes.
Whats the harm in one real kiss?