The Kingston Bar was located in a rougher part of town. Half the male customers were bikers, and not one of the leather vests had Tarkio MC on the back. Despite wearing her short jean skirt and a clinging tank top, she had more clothes covering her body parts than all the other women—including the servers who wore bikini tops with a pair of biker shorts.
A man fell into her table. She grabbed her case and swung her legs out of the way, staying out of the fray. At the same time, one of the pool players approached her. Going toward what was familiar to her, she stood and joined him at the pool table.
"Did you want in on a game?" The man leaned close, bending his tall frame, so she could hear him.
"What's the play-in?" she asked.
The man held up two fingers, then five. Twenty-five? Two hundred and fifty?
She hadn't noticed any exchanges while watching the games, but that meant nothing. Most people exchanged the payments and winnings in private if the bars weren't hosting a scheduled game.
Either way, she could play.
"I'm in." She reached into her pocket, taking all the money she'd brought with her tonight, and held out her hand.
He shook, taking all two hundred and fifty dollars. "I'm Mike."
"Joey," she said, opening her case.
"You'll open and keep playing as long as you're winning." Mike pointed. "You'll go against Boomer in the first round."
"What's the payout?" She ran her hand down the stick, checking for any imperfections.
"If you make it to the last round, the pot is fifteen hundred." He leaned down. "Good luck."
Excitement built inside of her. No longer doubting her decision to try out a new spot for the night, she put the noisy crowd out of her mind and approached the table. She could do this.
Winning the flip, she broke the balls and called solids. She'd cleared half the table before she missed.
As she moved back to give Boomer his turn, one of the other players approached her with a drink. She never consumed alcohol when she played, but she kept that information to herself and accepted the glass, holding it while introductions were made.
Al was a talkative man, filling her in on everyone playing, including himself. She half-listened until it was her turn. Wanting to get through the night and closer to holding the pot, she hit every ball and ended with a difficult angle on the eight-ball.
Then, Boomer choked.
She called the shot and won the game.
The rest of the night went the same way. She concentrated on her play, never going easy. Cash figures filled her head as she estimated how much more money she'd save if she came to Kingston Bar once a month on top of staying at Riverside Bar on Fridays. If she played at the top of her game, she'd have enough money by the end of September. The deadline to sign up for Blackfoot Tournament was the first of November.
With two balls on the table, her opponent had three. It was her shot.
She walked around the table, steadying her breathing. It would only hurt her if she let her nerves get the best of her. She was close, almost tasting the win.
Bending down at the corner, she eyed the shot. It wasn't the easiest, but if she missed, she'd be blocking. She straightened and chalked the end of her stick when a large body stood in the background of the pocket.
She raised her gaze and found Wyatt staring at her. His intense look threw her off.
What was he doing here?
"Take your shot, honey." Keith, the last opponent she had to beat, stood behind her, trying to intimidate her.
Walking away, she pretended to look over the table, when all she was doing was taking the time to calm her racing heart and still the quiver in her body. She hadn't had a chance to talk to Wyatt after she'd left him to deal with family problems surrounding Jess and a boy yesterday.
By the look on his face, he was still angry. At her or someone else, she had no idea. He couldn't fault her for coming here and playing pool. He worked late during the week and then needed to look after his kids and make sure they finished their homework. Her time was her time, even if they were together. It wasn't like she was on a date or flirting with anyone.
She slowly exhaled, hiding her nerves. Taking up position at the table, she leaned over and sighted the stick.
A low cat-call whistle came from behind her. In her peripheral vision, she was aware of Wyatt moving around the pool table. She rushed the shot. The moment the ferrule made contact with the cue ball, she stepped away, knowing she'd overshot.
Not showing her frustration, she stood to the side of the table. She wasn't feeling lucky, and that's what she'd need for Keith to miss and give her another chance. Damnit.
Why had she wasted two hundred and fifty dollars? All she was doing was digging herself into a deeper hole.
Angry at herself, she gasped when Keith scratched. Luck on her side, she studied the table while chalking the end of the stick. The crowd, her opponent, the music, and Wyatt pushed out of her mind, she thought of all the advice her grandpa used to whisper to her.
Steady. Keep her focus. Loosen her fingers. Plant her stance. Then, ghost ball the shot.
Concentrating, she made her call, pulled back her arm, and judged the strength, and shot. The solid connection felt right. She followed the ball from the side rail, across the table, and fall into the left corner pocket.
Yes. She turned and held out her hand to Keith.
"Good game." Keith held her hand too long.
She pulled away and went to Mike, who handed over the winning pot and an unenthusiastic congratulations. She put the wad of money in her pocket, knowing anyone looking could see the lump in her tight jean skirt.
Stepping
