Page 59 of Double Bucked

Claire is over this heaven and hell talk. Her gaze is roaming. “I want to play,” she says suddenly.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” James interjects, but Claire’s made up her mind. She stands and takes her pint glass as she heads toward the pool table.

I look at James. Those dark eyebrows are pinched together. “You ever see her play pool?” I ask.

“No.”

“You’re about to see a side of Claire you ain’t maybe experienced yet.”

His mouth turns downward, and I get a kick out of it.

Claire ignores James. She ignores everything as she makes a beeline to the pool table. I watch as she carefully picks out her pool cue and starts to grind chalk on the tip of it.

I can feel the shift in the room. One by one, everyone starts to recognize the Preacher prodigy. Around here, Preachers are something like royalty—something I never much envied Claire for.

I can walk into a room and turn into wallpaper. Claire? She’ll always shine bright.

The gossip flies start to buzz. I hear phrases like?—

“—Preacher’s daughter.”

“—Big-city girl now.”

“—Such a shame.”

Claire turns and examines the green chalkboard behind her. It’s a running scoreboard with the names of the winners etched in white. “Who is Kane?” she asks, immediately zeroing in on the name at the top of the board.

From a round table in the center of the room, a burly man lifts his hand.

She points at him with her cue stick. “You first.”

17

RANSOM

Claire takes on her first victim. Jade, James, and I move into a closer booth where we can get a clear view of the action.

And it’s a show, alright.

Claire is in her zone. Claire plays solids. He plays stripes. Without breaking a sweat, Claire wipes the table with him.

Then, she does the same to the next guy.

And the next.

She invites James up. He doesn’t stand a chance.

Jade is next. She, too, gets pulverized.

Claire’s drug of choice is winning, and right now, she’s overdosing.

She unpins her hair, letting it fall down. She’s wild, bits of braid sticking out. James stands near her in the corner, holding her whiskey like a cornerman. There’s a small dark patch of sweat underneath her arms. She lays her body across the table, scissors her fingers around the length of the pool cue, and fires her shot.

Her ball sinks into the pocket.

The small crowd of admirers breaks out into a round of cheers. Claire lifts herself from the velvet green and swipes her hand over her hair, tucking it back.

And—ouch.

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