Page 7 of Priceless
Of course, I wasn’t going to tell him that. I didn’t want him to get a swelled head.
CHAPTER FOUR
It took half the night for Jacob to realize that his regulars in the corner booth were playing a drinking game. The four gentlemen’s table was half covered in pints, both empty and full. And they guzzled and laughed in unison.
Clear signs of a drinking game.
Jacob checked his phone once more, in case Laira came back on, then headed over to find out what the game was and to assure his friends their steady patronage was appreciated. Considering the way they nudged each other and pointed, he realized he was more involved in the game than he could have guessed.
“Right then. Out with it,” he barked. “What’s this game, then?”
Old Virgil snorted his latest swallow out through his nose while his fellows burst out laughing again.
“Ye’ve had too much, obviously,” Jacob said. “Shall I ban ye for the rest of the night?”
“Pity, pity,” Martin Fergusson begged. “Ye’re the game, mon. Ye’re the game.”
Jacob turned and lifted a brow at the slightly more sober Abby Abernathy, who explained, “Ye have to admit, ye’ve taken quite the shine to yer own mobile, aye? We wondered if Mistress Woodbrey might be tryin’ to entice ye with some pictures of her whatnots. But in any case, we take a drink each time ye check yer wee phone. And if ye happen to smile afterwards, then we take two. Thus far, ye dinnae seem too pleased with the pictures she’s sendin’.”
“Though, to be fair,” Roger Gowry offered, “we cannae say we’re dyin’ of thirst, here.”
“Aye, aye.” Virgil, seated deep in the corner, leaned forward and pointed his nose at the phone in Jacob’s pocket. “Though, we could start a new game if ye’d like to share those pictures.”
Jacob rolled his eyes. “No one is sending me pictures, ye old goat. I’m waitin’ for a message is all.”
Abby rubbed his hands together over his empty glass. “Do tell, son. What sort of message?”
“From Stevens, my supplier. He doubts he can deliver this week.”
Eight eyes flew wide.
“Aye, he says he cannae keep up with yer rate of consumption. I may have to go dry while he stores up?—”
After swallowing that bit of horror, the four of them realized Jacob was just taking the piss and waved him away.
“Dinnae be cruel, Jocko. If ye dinnae want to share ye’re dirty little secrets with us, just say so.”
He gave them a curt nod. “I’m sayin’ so.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Virgil, and that was that.
Jacob filled a tray with empties and returned to the bar.
Jocko.Everyone in town called him that, after his grandfather, out of veneration for the man who’d passed the place on to Jacob. A long line of Jacobs had kept the place since the time of the Jacobites. Every other generation wascalled Jocko. Jacob wanted to be known as Jacob, after his late father who had gone the blue-collar route. But the locals knew the tradition, and once Old Jock passed, Jacob graduated from Young Jock to Jocko. If he’d had a son to whom he could pass ownership, he’d have moved on to being Old Jock.
Young Jock.
Jocko.
Old Jock.
The three phases of his life. He just wasn’t in any hurry to be calledolda hundred times a day, so maybe it was better he’d never had offspring.
After hours of waiting,his phone vibrated. He had a text, but he left the phone in his pocket and smoothly made his way back to his office where he locked the door and got comfortable in the green leather guest chair. He didn’t want to rush. His responses had to be credible. He had to be careful.
Poor Laira believed he was AI. To tell her now that she’d been mistaken would end it. And truth be told, he was enjoying this wee game, all the while justifying his actions with the belief that he was helping someone. He was a willing ear, a virtual shoulder, and it seemed Laira Harris, from Castle Rock, Colorado, required just that.
The house is quiet again, but I don’t feel quite so alone. I thought my sister was a nutcase for suggesting this, but maybe not, huh?
