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The sound of a glass slamming on wood echoed through the noisy pub, and I glanced at the bar to see my newest victim had finished his second pint. He’d been drenched from head to toe when he stumbled into the hotel, booked a room, and slid on to an empty barstool.
He wasn’t the typical businessman I’d come to expect over the last few days. The ones who frequented this hotel did so because it was close to the municipal airport and had private jets for those with money to spend. They were my targets, men who were always willing to show a pretty girl like me they could win. It gave them the complex they needed to make it through their trips, and a fun story for them to tell their colleagues when they got home—even if it always ended with them paying me. I much preferred them to the college boys near campus who would rather spend Mommy and Daddy’s money on weed and Adderall.
The man at the bar thought he had nothing to lose.
If I had to guess, he was in his late thirties, and while he wore slacks and a button-down like many of the businessmen, he didn’t look like a man trying to score before heading back to his wife and white picket fence.
Not him.
He held a dark sadness in his eyes that had depths deeper than the Mariana Trench. Most girls my age wouldn’t give him a second glance, and he’d likely claim he was far too old for me, but I couldn’t ignore the way his broken soul called to mine.
I wasn’t your typical twenty-one year old. Cliché I know, but it’s true. I wasn’t brought up in a wholesome family home with social constructs of right and wrong, nor was I interested in playing the part of the prim and proper. I was raised in bars dingier than this one, with random middle aged men providing guidance and life advice.
Between turns at the table, my eyes kept drifting back to where he sat nursing his drink. I was intrigued, but not enough to interrupt my game. It wasn’t until this perfect specimen of a man leaned over the bar and ordered another two shots of whiskey and a beer chaser that my eyebrows shot up and my mouth went dry. His shirt pulled tight with the movement, revealing the sculpted muscles in his broad shoulders, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to scrape my fingernails across the taught skin beneath.
Holy hell, I needed to get a grip. Or get laid. No. I had one goal, and it wasn’t to be distracted by the tragic soul sitting at the bar—despite how badly I wanted it to be.
He sank back onto the barstool, and though I willed my eyes to look anywhere but his direction, I couldn’t control the damn things.
The more I stared, the more interesting he became. He ran a hand through his dark brown, tousled hair, still wet from the rain, and scrubbed his stubble-covered salt and pepper chin like it would somehow pull the stress from his mind. His eyes wore dark circles beneath them, and his gaze was locked on the empty glasses in front of him.
He didn’t give a shit about the women at the opposite end of the bar that kept eyeing him, or the game on the television above him that had every other man in the bar groaning. He was a man hell-bent on completing the mission he’d set forth upon when he slid on that stool: finding the bottom of the bottle.
He was my favorite kind of broken.
Call it a flaw, but I took a perverse enjoyment in the morose. I wanted to dissect people like him and find out what made them tick. It was the artist in me, or maybe I was just fucked up enough that I believed I was meant to cross their path.
I tried to save them or take their money; either way I walked away with a story to tell, and the more I stared at him, the more I knew I’d be following Mr. Robert Frost on the road less traveled. In just a few stolen glances, this man had sparked a reckless streak in me that made me want to throw caution to the wind… regardless of what it cost.
“Take your shot, sweetheart,” Bible name crooned beside me, shaking me from my thoughts.
I sighed inwardly at responsibility calling, and returned my eyes to the prize.
Three carefully planned shots later, and we were both going for the eight ball. I set up an impossible shot for Bible, knowing he’d show off if I flashed a little cleavage. Men were so predictable. In every pool hall, pub, or dive bar across America, it was all the same. Why should a small college town suburb in New York be any different?
After he missed, all I had to do was toss my hair, wiggle my ass in my daisy dukes and take the winning shot.
“Corner pocket,” I giggled as I lined up the wooden stick and set the tip to the outer right side of the cue ball. It rolled with deadly precision, and seconds later, the black ball was in the pocket I’d called.
“You got lucky,” Bible declared, forcing a smile. He was older, maybe in his early thirties, and handsome in a wholesome kind of way. Definitely not my type.
I twirled my finger around a lock of my wild red hair and folded the fifty dollar bill he’d handed me before pushing it into my bra. “I’ve never been lucky. Maybe you’re my good luck charm. Wanna go again? You can show me how to bank the ball like you did on that last shot.”
God, I was fucking cringe-worthy. But money was money, and it didn’t grow on trees for girls like me which was how I ended up there, hustling for money to attend Our Lady of Sorrows University so I could make the salary I wanted someday. I wasn’t going to rely on luck and end up like my father—a washed up musician that never graduated above honkytonks and dive bars. The money wasn’t in being the front man anyway. I learned at a young age it was those who wrote and produced the songs that made the steady income, so I worked my ass off to get a scholarship to the top school in the nation for songwriting and music production. I didn’t expect it to be an off the beaten path Catholic university frequented by society’s elite, but I wasn’t about to turn away my golden ticket just because they were rich and believed in a higher power. I did, too; mine was just rooted in music and spirituality, not a book written by a man. As long as they didn’t ask me to subscribe or sign on the dotted line and give them my soul, I’d be fine.
Plus I was pretty sure the devil had already laid his claim on me.
“You’re too expensive for my taste, sweetheart, but I bet you could get Hank to take you for a spin on the table. He’s a sucker for redheads, and the best billiards player bar none.”
Oh I’m sure he thinks he is.
I glanced past Bible at his buddy. He was a bit older, probably Bible’s boss or mentor in whatever business they practiced. I’m sure they mentioned it, but it wasn’t important to remember. I popped my hip and offered the pool stick to him with a bat of my eyelashes. “What do you say Hank? Same bet? Think you could beat me at a man's game?”
His eyes traced down my body as he sipped his gin martini, lingering on my chest for too long before he took the stick. “I’ll rack if you get us drinks.”
“Deal,” I said with an award winning smile, and sashayed my hips as I glided toward the bar.
All they saw was tits and ass. It was like taking candy from a baby.
