“Heroin? You’re pumped on heroin?”
“Yeah, man. Got me some good dope tonight.” Randy’s eyes rolled backward.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Slick snow had stacked up earlier in the week, so had the wrecks. Two days later the sun, along with a light drizzle, had melted everything. Even the usual small piles of dirty snow in the gutters had washed away. Now, the January-February cold had set in.
In case he ended up working the wrecker again, Cain had resorted to buying a set of insulated coveralls, plus an extra pair of ski gloves and a couple of face masks. Not for everyday use, but just in case…although just in case what, he wasn’t sure. Lately he felt as if he wasn’t sure about anything.
He’d thought Randy would have been a lead headline on the local radio station. Instead, he’d been a short two-paragraph blurb in the local twice-weekly newspaper. No thanks to the local community, Randy had made a recovery and even entered rehab. Time would tell on that front.
Shooting pool for the second Friday night in a row, he was losing his game of eight ball against Betsy once again. Once she’d beat him on the lag for the break, the game had been like a replay of last week, with her running the table. All she had left to sink was the black eight ball.
He tossed the chalk on the side rail, then stood his cue against the wall. Maybe tonight she’d at least let him buy her a beer.
After accidentally-on-purpose running into her every time he was at Peyton’s to work on his truck for the past week, she’d crept into his bones. Not enough to change his plans for leaving Crayton and opening his own security business in St. Louis, but enough that he wanted to spend time with this woman any way he could. For as long as he was in town…and later. After all, St. Louis was less than three hours away.
Betsy tapped the eight ball, sliding it across the green felt along an invisible straight line with precision. Slower…and slower…until it stopped.
A collective throat clearing went up from the usual Friday night crowd gathered around. The win-or-lose eight ball rested tight at the point of the pocket. Hugging the rail like a kiss, while blocking the pocket like a concrete traffic barrier.
“Oh, I hate to see that. Looks like you get to play after all.” Betsy stepped back from the table, picking up the chalk he’d just laid down.
Not an ounce of humor graced her expression. As usual, she was all business where he was concerned, but he’d caught a hint of sass in her tone. And the worst player in the world could have made her shot. She was a million times better than that.
“Why, thank you, Betsy,” Cain said.
He knew she thought she had him beat. Trouble was, he never gave up even when the odds were against him. Seeing as how she’d given him grief ever since he’d pulled her from a wreck up on the mountain over two months ago. Tonight, he planned to beat her at her own game.
She moved off to the side, then leaned against the small high-top table before sliding her bottom onto one of the stools. “Now don’t mess up. You only get one chance.”
Who did she think she was fooling? Certainly not him. She’d laid the ball up on purpose. The one woman in town he knew better than to push had given him a pity shot, one he’d take for all it meant. The game on the table. The game going on between them. One, he knew he could win. The other seemed completely out of his control.
Seated at one of the hi-top tables surrounding the game area, Marcy smiled as she raised her mug of root beer to toast her sister Betsy. “Good shot.”
JB got up from beside his wife and walked over to stand by Cain. “You know Betsy set you up? Right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Need any advice?” JB walked to the end of the pool table and gave a look at the lay of the game.
Shaking his head, Cain chalked the tip of his cue. “Nope. I got this one.”
Raised voices from across the room caused the two men to turn and look at the same time. Seated at a table in the shadowed corner of the pool room were Earl Millerton and a couple of other men from town. No sign of Steven and his friends tonight. Earl and another man seemed to be having a disagreement.
“Wonder what’s up with them?” Cain asked.
“Probably just blowing off some steam.” JB braced his arm against the wall. “I’d bet their wives have gone on a shopping weekend in KC or St. Louis. That’s usually when the guys hang out around the lake.”
Cain glanced back at the table where the other two men from the group looked anything but happy. He figured whatever was going on was more serious than steam because the tone of voices had changed to belligerence on Earl’s side.
Betsy tapped the bottom of her cue stick against the floor. “Are you guys gonna stand there and talk all night?”
“We’re not talking. We’re strategizing.” Shaking his head as if he wasn’t already dead-on sure of his next shot, Cain pointed to the far pocket. “You’ve left me in a world of hurt with that eight ball blocking the pocket.”
JB pointed and angled and leaned, all the time trying to give the impression he was laying out shots. “Cain, with my expert guidance I do believe you’ve got this game won.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking his side, JB.” Marcy pretend-complained. “You better remember how cold it is outside, because the way you’re going, you’re gonna find yourself walking home.”
