Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)
S. A. Lelchuk
To my parents, Alan and Barbara, for everything
WEEK ONE
1
The bar was over in West Oakland. Just a squat block of concrete sitting in a parking lot. Neon Bud Light signs threw blue light over a dozen beat-up cars and trucks parked in front. I’d never been. Probably never go again. I pulled up at the edge of the lot, on the outskirts of the lights. Cut the engine of the red Aprilia motorcycle I was on. I walked in. Early side of a Friday night, just past nine. A half-dozen rough-looking men sat at the bar, another few at tables, and two shooting pool. Only one other girl. She was half of a couple wedged into a dark corner booth, a pitcher of beer in between them. She had a nose ring. I’d always wondered if nose rings were as painful as they looked.
I stood at the bar. “Heineken.”
“That’s five dollars.” The bartender was a big, paunchy guy, better side of fifty, graying hair. He eyed me without bothering to hide it. So did the rest of the bar. So what.
I took the beer, took a swig, headed into the ladies’. The smell of Lysol and floor polisher. Stared into the chipped mirror and took a careful look at myself. I was tall, five foot eight. Taller with the heavy motorcycle boots I wore. I smoothed out my auburn hair from the helmet. I’d never be called skinny, but I kept my body toned. I looked over my tight stonewashed jeans, and a black, scoop-necked tank top under an unzipped black leather bomber jacket. A touch of shadow around my green eyes. A touch of red lipstick I’d never ordinarily wear. I looked okay.
I could start.
I headed over to the pool table. Threw a quarter on the table. “Next up,” I said.
The two men playing were about my age, thirty-three. They gave me that hungry look that men give women. Predatory, almost. As though they wanted to snap me up in a quick bite. As though by talking to them I’d walked up and nibbled on an earlobe, whispered something dirty. The taller one held his cue casually in one hand. Turned back to the table. He wore a backward black-and-silver Raiders hat. Aimed carefully and sank the final stripe ball. Hitting harder than he needed to. Men did, usually. Only the really good players were able to resist the temptation of shooting hard, showing off. He aimed again. Shot a bit slower, the white ball glancing off the eight and sending it softly into a pocket. Game.
He turned back to me. “You’re up, then.” Started to bend to put quarters in.
“I’m challenging. My dime.”
He stopped and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
I took my quarter off the table and three more from my pocket. Set my purse next to my beer and bent to put the coins in. Could feel the whole bar staring at my ass in the tight jeans. I racked.
“You know how to hold a stick?” his friend asked me. Leering as he said it, emphasis on stick. Shorter, a beer gut hanging over a stained T-shirt. Like his question would make me want to take him into the bathroom for a quick hand job. I didn’t bother to answer. Just went over to the rack, pulled the straightest-looking cue, rolled it on the table. Seen better days, but it would do.
“You play for kisses, honey?” This from my soon-to-be opponent. Raiders Hat. The same shit, every bar in the country, probably. Every bar in the world.
I looked up at him. “I want to make out with someone, I’ll go to prom.”
“Playing tough,” he said, like I was flirting. “But you all warm up eventually.”
I kept my eyes on him. “I don’t play tough. I play for money. Unless you just want to play for drinks. Your table. Your call.”
When I said that, he didn’t have a choice. “I don’t usually take money from girls.”
I reached into my back pocket. Threw a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “Smallest I got.”
He exchanged a look with his friend. Wondering.
The bar was watching us.
Good.
“Fine.” He fumbled in his wallet. Put down two twenties and a ten. “I break.”
When money was down people always woke up a bit. He hit a good break. Sunk two solids and got lucky on the roll. Made another two before missing a midrange bank shot. Which put him about at par for the kind of pool players found in any bar that had a table. Not really bad, not really good. Average. That was fine. The first game wasn’t really about winning. More about finding out what kind of things the other person wanted to do and how likely it was he could pull them off. Winning was secondary.
I took a big swallow of beer and ran half the table without saying a word.
Gentle, unhurried. Letting each shot position itself for the next one. Sequential. One move setting up the next. Thinking not about what I was doing but about what I wanted to do next. The balls making polite little clicks across the scuffed green felt. They said the only thing that separated amateur chess players from the grandmasters was how many moves ahead they could see. Pool was like that, a little, I’d always figured.
When I missed he took his cue up with a resolved look in his eyes. Focused. Seeing he had more than a pretty ass on his hands and not wanting to lose his fifty bucks. I didn’t blame him. I’d never met anyone who liked losing money.
He shot and missed. Nerves, maybe. More people were watching now.
I was feeling good. Easy. Relaxed. Ran the other half of the stripes. Tapped the far corner pocket with my cue, aimed at the eight, not saying a word.