Page 182 of Lovers Like Us
“Thanks. I’ll leave this here.” She sets the tray on a pub table and then tucks the cash in her backpocket.
I grab a drink. “Take a shot, Oliveira.” I hand Quinn theglass.
He downs the whiskey shot, and then Thatcher, the last of Omega and my new roommate, joins us. I can’t say we’ve been friendly. We’ve spoken one time since the tour ended. He asked if I saw Ophelia, Jane’s white cat, who went missing for an hour in ourtownhouse.
I saidno.
He said nothing inreply.
And that was the end of thatshit.
“Who’s playing?” Thatcher asks, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to hiselbows.
Oscar points his stick at me. “Redford is supposed tobreak.”
I pop my gum. “No, I’m out.” I pass my cue stick to Thatcher. “You go ahead.” I’m not handing him an olive branch. This is me just not wanting to playpool.
Thatcher senses this, and he doesn’t saythanks.
I down a shot, whiskey burning the back of my throat. And I sidle next to Oscar. About to place a bet on the poolgame.
But the bearded dipshit with leathery skin and an eagle bicep tattoo stands off his stool. He must be in his early thirties, not much older than us, and four more men flank him. All look about three-hundredpounds.
Donnelly often says he’s “a buck seventy-five” and the rest of us are lean and muscular like UFC fighters and boxers. Not heavyweight entertainment wrestlers. Shit, the only one who comes close is Thatcher. But even entering a fight underweight, we could easily knock all of themout.
We’re not intimidated. To be honest, their bravado actually has the oppositeeffect.
“Go back to L.A., you dumbfucks, and get outta our city!”Thatthough—that’s gettingannoying.
The six of us face them, and the “get outta our city” holler grates on more than just Donnelly. I’d like to punch one out. Collectively, we’ve spent more time in Philly than most people at that fuckingbar.
For us, it’shome.
For Donnelly and Thatcher and Quinn, it’s all they’ve ever known. There was no college. No otherplace.
It’s beenPhilly.
AlwaysPhilly.
Some people connect to a specific town like it’s a person, a tangible part of them that they can’t remove, and I’ve seen that in Donnelly’seyes.
“Say I’m from L.A. one more time!” Donnelly threatens. Since our fame originated in L.A., that’s what some uninformed dipshitsbelieve.
Thatcher starts yelling at the heavyset fucker on the end. He’s that irritated, and being off-duty is making him chuck the rulebook out thewindow.
Oscar whispers to me, “South Philly guys are going to get us kickedout.”
“No shit,” I whisper. “You better add your little brother inthat.”
Quinn curses loudly, edging into an asshole’s face, but Akara fists his shirt and draws himbackwards.
We’re all trained to deescalate situations, but it’s easier doing our jobs when the insults aren’t directed atus.
Oscar shakes his head and hunches over the table with his stick, lining up while this conflict is brewing. “SFO haters know the bare minimum. We’re famous bodyguards. We’re hot. That’s about it. Everything else they invent to fuel theirhate.”
“True.” I lean on the pool table, half-sitting.
He breaks and the balls scatter the green felt. Suddenly, he straightens up, more alert as the most vocal, bearded fucker approachesme.
