“You ever been to the island before?” He asked as I sipped my Corona.
“Was born here,” I said. “Folks were military.”
“Ahh, gotcha. You came from the mainland though, didn’t you? California?”
“Hawaii.”
“Could have sworn someone said you were from California.”
“Once.” I replied before stuffing one of the delicious banana donuts in my mouth.
“How long ago?”
“Long enough.”
“What brings you back?” he asked, persistently pressing for more than grumbles and short answers.
Nosy much? Damn. I really needed to just beat his ass all over the pool table so I could enjoy the rest of my night. Grunting around a bite of shrimp fritter, I growled and let that be my answer, determined to polish off the rest of my food in peace.
“I’ve been here six years now,” he said. “Got me a spot down on the beach. Living like a king, I tell ya. No better sunsets anywhere in the world.”
Fine, if he wanted to talk, he could talk while I finished my food and let my mind wander away from the conversation like I did when I was underwater. At least in the hazy fade of pleasant memories, his words filtered in and out. Judging by his scent, musky with an overture of muddy earth and marsh weeds, he was a land shifter. Even more reason to avoid prolonged time in his company.
No, it wasn’t me being elitist; more like exceedingly cautious considering the fear and misconceptions many of them harbored for the creatures of the sea, especially my species.
“Got me a boat a year ago,” Braggadocios declared, draining the last of my patience as I drained the last of my Corona. “Now all I do on my days off is a bit of snorkeling and deep-sea fishing. I can take you out on it sometime if you’d like.”
Aw, hell. So this whole chatting me up thing wasn’t just about a game of pool. Great. I shook my head when I spotted the bartender heading our way, popped the last banana donut into my mouth, and scarfed my last two fritters.
“You ready for that game?” I asked, hopping off the barstool as he started telling me about the time he’d spotted a design flaw in the renovation plans for someplace called Palm Paradise and had his team fix it on the fly so as to not slow down the project timetable.
“Yeah, sure,” he replied, sounding a bit flustered by my sudden enthusiasm. “You still want those pointers?”
“No, I think I’ll just wing it,” I declared as I spied the rack of sticks and headed that way.
I took my time selecting the least warped stick from the collection available, many of which appeared to be in desperate need of replacement. Had I come in here intending to play pool, I would have brought my stick, since I hated playing with the ones everyone handled. I didn’t care if they were inanimate objects or not; when you played with the same one over andover, you formed a bond with it. You knew how it was going to handle the trickier shots, some of which I’d probably be afraid to try with the stick in my hands.
The one I was currently chalking was passable at best. I just hoped he was overexaggerating his skills on the table to the same degree as he overstated his importance on the job site.
“Do you want to break, or do you want to rack ‘em?” he asked as he wrapped up a lengthy diatribe about how he’d jumped the cue over a ball once to gently tap the eight into the corner pocket without touching his opponent’s three.
“You can rack,” I said as I gritted my teeth and counted backward from twenty rather than ask him to please shut up.
“So, how long is a while?” he asked as he positioned the balls in a rack.
His question caught me so completely off guard I was left clueless as to what he was asking about. “Huh?”
“Since you played last. How long isawhile?"
“Couple months.”
“That’s not so bad then.”
I split the triangle of balls apart on my break and sunk the two in the process before dropping three more before caution got the best of me and I missed so I wouldn’t tap one of the odd-numbered balls I’d left for him. He was all power, slamming the stick into the cue ball, trying to jam the balls in the pocket on his next two shots. Fortunately for me, that also meant he sent one of mine in too and ended his turn. Eager to be done with him, I threw caution to the wind and ran the rest of the table on him, dropping the eight with a beautiful triple bank shot that didn’t even come close to clipping one of his.
“Did you just hustle me?” He snarled as he slammed his stick down on the table.
“Nope, hustling involves money, and I don’t recall either of us putting any on the rail.”
