The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [9]
The waiter came with the bill. Quincy paid it. And just like old times, Rainie pretended it didn’t bother her.
The sensible thing would’ve been to end the night there. Quincy had flown in, handed her some desperately needed business, and taken her out on the town. She should quit while she was ahead. But it was only seven o’clock, the temperature was just beginning to cool, and her ego still felt raw.
Rainie walked him through the Pearl District. Look at this gorgeous antique store, complete with a Porsche illegally parked out front. Here’s another coffeehouse, here’s an art gallery, here’s a showroom for unique, handmade furniture. She led him by rows of recently converted warehouses, their facades now redone in creamy yellows and warm brick reds, modest exteriors for half-a-million-dollar condos and luxurious penthouse suites. People sat in tiny square gardens that dotted each front door. More than a few J. Crew-clad couples walked their prized black Labs down well-manicured streets.
Look at this place, Rainie thought. Look at me. Not bad for a small-town Bakersville girl.
Then she glanced down at her ripped-up shorts and ratty tank top, and that quickly, the euphoria left her. She wanted this world, with its pretty, pretty things. She hated this world, with its pretty, pretty things. She was thirty-two years old, and she still didn’t know who she was or what she wanted out of life. It made her angry, but mostly with herself.
She made an abrupt about-face, and headed for the hills. After a confused moment, Quincy followed.
Touché was a local place. It had stood when poor college students were the only ones who found the declining warehouse district inhabitable. It would stand long after the SUV crowd got tired of cavernous lofts and fled for greener pastures. The downstairs of the building was a restaurant. Not bad. The upstairs was a pool hall. Much better.
Rainie handed over her driver’s license and a wad of cash at the bar. In return, she got a rack of billiard balls, two cue sticks, and two Bud Lights. Quincy arched a brow, then took off his jacket. He wore the only suit in a dimly lit room filled with half a dozen bikers and two dozen college kids. He was now the fish out of water, and he knew it.
“Eight ball,” Rainie said. “Junk balls count the same as a scratch. Hit the eight in first and you die.”
“I know the game,” he said evenly.
“I bet you do.” She racked up the balls, then handed him the cue stick to break. He offered her the first pleasant surprise by rolling the stick on the table to test for warp.
“Not bad,” he commented.
“They run a good show here. Now stop stalling and break.”
He was good. She’d expected that. In their time together, she hadn’t found his weak spot yet, something that both irritated her and held her attention. But Rainie had been living in the Pearl District for four months now, and Touché was still the only place that felt like home. The tables were scuffed from use, the carpet well worn, the bar beat up. The place had taken its lickings, just like her.
Quincy hit two balls in on the break and went on a six-ball run before missing. Leonard, the bartender, stopped by long enough to watch, then shrugged indifferently. Touché attracted its fair share of pool sharks and he’d seen better.
Rainie took over with a swagger. She felt good now. Adrenaline in her veins, a pleasant hum in her ears. She was smiling. She could feel it on her face. A light was beginning to burn in Quincy’s eyes. She could feel it on her bare arms as she bent over the table. His shirt collar was open, his sleeves rolled up. He had chalk on his hands and another light blue smudge on his cheek.
They were on dangerous ground now. She liked it.
“Corner pocket,” she said, and the game truly began.
They played for three hours. He won the first game when she got cute and tried to hop the cue ball over the eight. She missed. He won the second game when she got aggressive and tried a triple bank shot to close