Rack 'em up

She wears her darkness on her sleeve, a supple black leather second skin. Her breathing, her movements, her being—everything she is is an extension of the night—the twinkling blue party lights, the rhythmic salsa beats, the thriving, pulsing lounge that surrounds her, even the strangers who've come for the show.

Intention crackles, a live wire firing along Saleha's spine. She slips round to the long side, having all but run the table. Only two balls remain, the one in the way and the cold black eight ball. It's still her turn. One shot should do.

Looking through the crowd, Saleha spies Jacob's absence. She shakes it off. Her natural long black lashes sweep away the neon glow.

"There's no way," an older man donning a Fedora postulates for the benefit of his high rent night owl in stilettos. She clings to his hairy forearm. As if on cue, she shakes her platinum ineptitude in enthusiastic endorsement, oblivious, but remarkably beautiful in that way that renders intellect almost dispensable.

A Spaniard with bright green eyes and shoulder length walnut hair takes notice as he slides a sheet of cigarette paper from hand to hand. He licks an edge and drops a spill of tobacco into the fold. "Tomaré esa apuesta," he offers, eyeing the gentleman in the hat, tossing an appreciative nod up and down the elder statesmen's radiant escort. After licking sealed his hand-rolled cigarette, he flicks his Bic and, for good measure, repeats himself in English. "I'll take that bet."

A little crowd gathers round, drawn in by the little crowd already gathered. Electricity flows, sweet and intense, as the last of the evening's wagers are placed. The newly mingled rabble collectively salivates wanton jealousy for the one who owns the night. They drool like no one's watching, tonguing their ice cold beers, whisky neats, and bold old fashioned's.

Tonight belongs to her. To Saleha. The talk of the town.

She doesn't deign to notice. Her gaze is focused. Her pupils narrow, constricting. Her mind concentrates. That mass of long black hair threatens to jump ship. Her thick straight locks accept no part of the twisted Viking knots that crown her, splendid in their precision, row upon row. One strand resists the fray successfully, straggling, unwilling to be tucked behind an ear. That tendril she blows gently out of her line of sight.

The competition, if Robb can be called that, begins to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. He can't take the waiting. Not here. Not seated like a proper loser in the second player's chair. Never even had a crack at the table.

Robb can't do the math, not in his head like that. But it's bad odds. Terrible odds. All those wagers. Coming due. Tonight. And with Danny missing.

"Let's move it along." Robb tries to hiss, his tone landing softer than he'd intended. He'd meant to intimidate Saleha into making one simple mistake. But, no. That's not his luck. Not Robb's.

Saleha smiles her acquiescence. No use waiting for Jacob now. He'd be here by now, if he were coming back.

Fingering the green felt ever so lightly, she settles her perfectly balanced cue for the long string. Slowly she wiggles, millimeters at most.

Her tall hips slide into place inside tailored black short-shorts that ride miles high above her twice laced thigh-high boots.

She breathes slowly. Positions her dangerous frame just so. Sees it coming into view. The perfect shot.

Her sleek torso hovers, delicately, as her indiscreet breasts idle, racing toward the table, contained but barely within a lacy pushup beneath her favorite dark gray tee. Saleha feels the eyes but she can't be distracted by her body's language. Not now. Not when Jacob is elsewhere, and there's money on the line.

She works the calculus one last time, thinking through the angles and the edges, the textures and conditions, her warm left hip hugging the table's edge ever so gently.

Smooth and practiced, she moves in for the kill.

"Watch where you put your hands," Robb smirks.

If Robb were clever, or handsome, or confident, or even properly arrogant, he'd tease a bit or flirt perhaps, maybe even blow her a wee kiss, or a salacious wink like he's down for it, or whatever. But he's none of that. He's defeated. And he knows it.

"Eight ball, corner pocket." And it's done. Sinking her call shot, Saleha renders her opponent agape, teetering on near hostility.

Robb's on the hook, again. Double or nothing he'd said. And now the world knows. It's double. Which isn't nothing.

All he can do is pay up, or run.

*

The exuberant crowd lingers, clapping for an encore. They're Jonesing, appetites piqued. But Robb has had his fill. And worse, he's out more than Danny's money.

He smacks a crumpled stack of Benjamins into Saleha's henna'd hand, noting the gemstone's indentation and the ring's absence from its finger. His cold cinnamon eyes find themselves incapable of meeting Saleha's ocean blues. It's a mercy, she lets him wriggle away.

He owes her twice that.

*

His back to the cacophony, Robb shakes his head into his hands, a tumble of ebony curls splashing round his cauliflowered ears. A decade of MMA fighting hasn't prepared him for pool hall antics, or for indescribably fine women who don't want to take the chance.

An exhale deflates his ribcage. His ego punctured, his chin comes crashing down, sobering his buzz. Robb knows he couldn't navigate Saleha's corners if she showed him with his stick shift and a map.

*

Depleted, Robb deposits his jacket atop of an open billiards table, dismissing it in a heap as if it offends, its stink defiling his fingers, as if they still foolishly cling to the romance of impossibility.

That last act, that last round, that indefensible loss—for which he has no come back—that's the kind of thing that leaves a mark. It leaves him exposed. That string of failures is tantamount to calling his little brother round to clean up his mess.

"What'd'll ya have, love?" Trissa lobs a softball. Kindness makes it worse.

"Jack, Coke, Big Ice. Danny's tab."

Robb slumps his rump down, disappointment tumbling into self-pity spiraling into disgust. He arrives conquered. Takes the last available barstool, where too much light splashes across unfortunate faces, where too-loud new pop jingles like a self-absorbed holiday parade along a one-road town's only thoroughfare. And it isn't even Christmas for Christ sake.

Trissa deposits Robb's Jack and Coke, raising an eyebrow. No way Danny's left it open, cause that tab's been closed a week. Just about as long as he's been missing.

Robb laughs, inside, ignoring Trissa. Just like he did when they were married. He would pay her now to dial it back to country, if he had a nickel to his name, or could catch her eye.

But tonight there are paying customers who aren't Robb, or his hot brother, and none of them brings around such baggage.

Robb bellies up to the edge, overhanging like he's surfing, letting his grubby digits dangle into trays of acidic wedges, his fingertips landing in the red hot maraschinos.

By now, he's yearning to leave. Aching to limp away. He'd rather be anywhere than here. He feels the eyes upon him, those angry side eyes, those disgruntled people he just can't pay, certainly not today.

And then there's Trissa with her judgy fucking frown. He'd rather disappear for a while. Pub crawl home or whatever. That would suit him nicely. If he hadn't burned his way through Danny's plastic.

And anyway Robb can't leave. He owes big money now. Not only to Danny. And not only for Vegas. And Daytona. And Amsterdam. But for that whole other mess, that stuff Robb pushes deeply low down, into memory, into that mental sandbox of bad. The one he locks up inside his brain cloud, for precisely such occasions, because of reasons.

He thinks about it, trying not to. Not here. But the thought's persistent.

He wants to do it. Box her up. Saleha. He means a real box. Not too small, not like it's torture or contortion. It'd have to be a proper human size box that'll fit her good. A metal box, with chains and a hefty padlock. And a whip, or cattle prod. Or that sticky shit that hangs from the ceiling in the diner for the flies.

Robb tosses back the last of his Jack and Coke, letting the big ice ride his tongue as it melts into his daydream. He takes a moment to luxuriate in the chilly wetness trickling down his highball's edges. Then he licks the evaporating water from his finger before it can wedge itself under his thumb.

The music's not so bad after all. And that one on the barstool's not looking half-bad at a certain angle.

Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all, finding Danny. Getting the band back together. Having his brother at his six. With Danny being fresh out the Navy and all, and with him knowing his knots, it could be good.

If he can find him. Cuz, this one, this Saleha, surely she's worth six times in bitcoin what he owes.

*********

Copyright © 04/10/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.

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