Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  Greg gets that sparkle in his eye all guys do when they get to teach a girl something new. I’ll let him tutor me because of the effect it will have on Owen.

  My first shot is essentially rebreaking the rack. Nothing sinks, but it at least spreads things out. By the time Jenn returns with a tray of drinks, Scott and Greg have both dropped a couple balls. She places a stout in front of my arm that rests on the ledge.

  “Sorry, that’s not what I’m drinking.” She should know, since she brought me a pint not that long ago.

  She wrinkles her brow slightly, denoting her innocence in this. “I told Owen that, but he said, and I quote, ‘I’m paying, I choose.’” He ordered me the same stout he’s drinking, obviously hoping it will be too bold or acidic for me. “Do you want another Red Rage?”

  I exhale slowly from between my teeth with a hiss. “Nope. This is great.” I peer around Jenn at Owen, who’s watching us.

  “Funny, you don’t look like a pushover,” she mumbles.

  My eyes snap to her face in time to see the jealousy streak across her features. If I cared at all, I’d tell her I’m not interested in Owen, and she shouldn’t be, either. But she called me a pushover, so she’s welcome to ignore the instinct that women were born with and chase him straight to hell since that’s where he’s heading.

  Greg saves me from having to apologise to Jenn later by calling me for my turn. I line up my shot, allowing him to instruct me. I miss, purposefully. I might as well get Greg on my side. If he’s the peacekeeper like I think he is, he’ll come in handy.

  When Greg lays his hand on my shoulder, conveying confidence about the shot, Owen exhales like a snorting rhino from his stool. Truth be told, I’m no less frustrated watching Kelsey lean so far across the table that Scott practically dry humps her while setting up her shot.

  “Want to finish this game off before they cause trouble for all of us?” I say to my partner, perturbed at the foolish actions of my cousin, whom I scarcely choose to acknowledge as family right now. Actions that are surely going to cost me in the long run.

  It wouldn’t matter how many times I told her that what she’s starting is a bad idea, she’s going to do it, anyway. All I can hope for is that this is her usual one-and-done circumstance, because I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay if Scott is going to be hanging around her condo. Naked.

  With the declaration that I prefer tonight to end, Greg’s look of hope changes to one of defeat.

  “You don’t need me to win, do you?” he asks. I pinch my lips together and shake my head no. “In that case, want to make things interesting?” His eyebrows rise in playful defiance. I’m not above making Owen angrier this evening, but I have morals and will not debase myself to prove a point. “It’s not what you assume,” he says with a childlike chuckle.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Because you’ve already profiled the four of us based on Owen’s interpersonal skills. You think you know each one of our next moves,” Greg says. I have already fit all four of them into a box, and so far, I’m sure I’ve labelled each one of them correctly. Greg is most certainly the mediator in the group. “If you hear me out, you’ll see that there’s more to us than Owen’s first impression.” His first impression wasn’t the problem. It’s each one since.

  Why does Greg care if I like him or not? My need to deal with Owen—and the rest of these guys—ends when he sells the house he’s working on and moves on to torment another neighbourhood.

  “What’s in it for you?” I ask.

  “Nothing for me and everything for Owen.”

  “My generosity is lacking when it comes to him.” I admit without hesitation. I question why Greg thinks I’m magnanimous when I haven’t pretended to be so.

  We both look at Owen, who’s scowling so hard I’m surprised his cheek muscles aren’t spasming. I lick my lips then roll my eyes after taking a sip of my stout like I’m on the verge of an orgasm. It’s fun to watch him twitch harder. Satisfied with the reaction he provides, I return my consideration to Greg.

  “You could be good for him,” he confides in me.

  I cast an unsubmissive eye Greg’s way. I’m already being played by two of these men; there’s no way I’d willingly sign on for more. Owen is welcome to take up meditating if he’s looking to broaden his mindset.

  I wave my head in over-exaggerated movements. “Do not try to set me up with him.” I inch away because I will have no part in that craziness.

  “I have other goals,” he says, closing the distance between us again, leaving hardly enough room to breathe. Being this close to someone affiliated with Owen makes my skin itch. “Owen needs help,” Greg says.

  No shit.

  “He needs help to see clearly again,” Greg clarifies. It’s hard to believe that, once upon a time, Owen was a nicer person. “I think you could help him do that. He’s lost sight of why he took over his company and why he loves doing what he does.”

  He loves kicking people out of the only home they’ve ever known?

  I ponder Greg’s comment for a moment. My plans for the night didn’t include getting sucked into a self-help program for someone who’s declared me as Public Enemy Number One. But, if it saves another old granny the stress of what he put mine through, it might be worth it.

  “What do you say?” Greg sees me considering it.

  I look to Kelsey for advice but she’s enrapt by something Scott is saying, head tilted to the ceiling, laughing. I’m officially on my own.

  I’m good at reading people. It’s a necessary skill in my line of work for the occasions when people can’t convey their feelings. I can decipher subtle body language cues, eye movements, and facial expressions, and give people the words they seem to lack. Reading Greg isn’t so different from finding out if a client is being honest about a paint colour.

  Still, I’m sceptical. He is Black Ladder, after all.

  “You’re not trying to screw me?” Asking gives him more credit than any of them deserve.

  He shakes his head and I look deep into his russet eyes. He holds my gaze longer than would be comfortable if he were lying to me. Greg is either a seasoned con man or he’s telling me the truth and honestly wants to help his friend. If Owen gets from this what Greg thinks he can, my life will be easier in the end.

  Lord knows, I’ll need the help with Kelsey doing her best to sabotage my efforts.

  Before I consider all the ways this could backfire, I’m nodding to Greg.

  “This is phase one.” He tilts towards the pool table.

  “All I have to do is play a game of pool?” Instead of his nod reassuring me that this will be easy, my stomach drops. Wary of the lack of detail he offers and exactly how many phases I’ve signed on for, I worry I said yes too quickly.

  “And pretend to have fun. Maybe try to like me as a partner.” Greg adds to my list of duties. I might as well be an active participant rather than a passive victim.

  “Play the game,” Owen barks at us.

  If Owen was already propped halfway off his stool when Greg and I started our private conversation, then he’s shifted to barely having an inch of ass on the seat by the time our parley is over. We haven’t put our plan into action and we’re already getting his attention. Seems Greg knows a thing or two about his friend. It also seems like Owen is as keen on me taking an interest in one of his buddies as I am with Kelsey doing the same. We can’t hate everything about each other.

  I wrap my fingers around the pool cue. “Let the fun begin.” I declare in a low voice meant for Greg’s ears.

  Kelsey and Scott haven’t noticed that the game took a five-minute break. When we’re ready to pick the game up again, I lean against the pool table opposite to where Greg is aligning his shot and I give him a call of encouragement that’s far more attentive than I’ve said to this point. He sinks the ball and I flash him a grin before following his movement around the table for his next shot. This time, I lean in a little further, smile a little b
igger, and hate how I’m setting back strong women of the world by fifty years.

  Greg winks at me while I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, offering him a coy smile. Owen gives a decided grunt as he stands and reaffirms the crossed arms over his broad chest with a jerk. His t-shirt stretches to its limit around his biceps, the tattoos on his arms bulge under the strain. I don’t want to admit that he’s sexy as hell when he’s wearing this menacing look because that would be failing me on all fronts this evening. But, dammit, he’s hot when he smoulders this way. I swear, panties hit the floor all over the bar when his jaw ticks as he bites down repeatedly, swallowing the words he never says out loud.

  Sex-appeal aside, the threatening stance is another way he tries to bend people to his will. Two can play that game. I capture his awareness with an overt sweep of my hair behind my shoulder, then hold his gaze as I shift to looking at Greg.

  “Easy shot, Greg.” I offer a statement that holds more than one meaning.

  Greg clears the rest of the table and I rush around to give him a high five. He clasps his fingers through mine and we hold our hands aloft, intertwined in victory. Scott and Kelsey don’t acknowledge the end of the game, and Brett is scrolling through his phone, leaving our celebration to be noticed only by Owen. It’s sufficient for Greg, who’s smiling at the apparent success of the mission. I’d like to know how a game won with absent competitors accomplishes anything.

  Our task may be concluded, but I’m just getting warmed up. “Hey, partner. Want to show me how you made that last shot?” I sort out the leftover balls on the table approximately the same way, then bend over more than is necessary, arching my back to make my ass pop. Greg lingers near me while respectfully keeping his hands to himself. He tells me how to adjust my shot, then prompts me to take it. I miss, but not really.

  “Lesson’s done.” Owen’s voice slams into us. It’s startling enough to garner the attention of Kelsey, Scott, and Brett.

  “Excuse me?” I say in my most offended tone while I drive the cue into the floor and prop my free hand on my hip. Greg stays inches from connecting to my body.

  Owen snaps at our proximity. “Go back to your own table.” He gestures with his chin because he can’t be bothered to uncross his arms to point.

  The smile I flash at Greg takes on a different meaning when I turn it on Owen. “I’m having fun now. Why don’t you leave if you’re not enjoying yourself?”

  He drops his hands to the edge of the pool table and leans in, taking all the air I need to breathe. Two-and-a-half beers in, Owen’s sex appeal is becoming an issue. The brooding is less foreboding and more rugged. The black attire is edgier and isn’t quite so dirge-like. His spicy smell is aggressive and intoxicating, and it excites all my senses—including my fight-or-flight response. Now would be a good time for him to learn that I never flee.

  I put some space between us. Not because he’s menacing, but because he looks and smells too good to be this big of a prick.

  “My friends, my pub.” Owen spits out as though he owns this building and everyone in it.

  Greg laughs and gives my arms a gentle squeeze, like a boa constrictor winding itself around. He informs me I’m in too deep to get out of our deal when he leans in and whispers into my ear.

  Phase two.

  “That’s not how it goes, Owen. We hold the table.” Greg reminds my nemesis of basic poolhall etiquette. Greg’s comment is greeted with ire by Owen. “Challenge her to a game of pool. Winner gets to decide what happens with the loser’s night.”

  I shake my head, indicating that’s a bad idea. It’s one thing to pretend I don’t know how to play, however, I will not throw a game in the name of Greg’s mission.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll coach you.”

  I have no choice, so I face Owen and do what he does best—speak no words but say so much.

  Owen offers a dismissive laugh as he fishes a loonie out of his pocket and flips it my way in a high arch. I meet his stare head on and catch the coin in a tight fist as it starts its descent. The slide of the coin into the slot on the side of the table is smooth and as the balls release from their hold, I, too, feel a release. I like a good challenge, especially when I have something to gain from it. The sound of the balls tumbling to the foot of the table sends me to a sunny place, because that is the sound of the mighty falling.

  Brett’s now stands, ready to rack the balls and get this game underway. This, apparently, is exciting enough for him to tuck his phone into his pocket.

  “I’m going to the washroom,” Greg says, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll be back to help you out.”

  “You want to break?” I offer to Owen, then look towards the bathroom, suggesting it will buy me extra time until Greg returns. Owen answers by taking the cue ball and lining it up.

  The crack of the balls breaking is ear splitting. The two corner balls sail cleanly into the corner pockets. Owen has his choice of solids or stripes. He scans the table to see the easiest shots then chooses. Stripes. He sinks one more before missing the next shot.

  “Need to wait for your coach?”

  I scan the table and tap my finger to my lip. Kelsey lets slip a little giggle and cock my head at her, warning her to stay silent.

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  I point to the one ball, which is perfectly placed in front of the side pocket, and an evidently easy shot, even for an inexperienced player. It drops and the cue ball lands exactly where I want to sink the six in the corner next. Owen grunts at how lucky I got and leans against the table smugly. He knows it’s poor etiquette to hang off the table when someone else is shooting, and I’m barely surprised that he doesn’t care. Too bad for him. I’ve played against rougher opponents and his behaviour doesn’t rattle me in the least. In my last year of university, my housing was paid for through pool tournaments. It takes a lot more than Owen’s loitering silence to throw me off my game.

  The six goes down, followed by the four on a bank shot. Scott and Brett are both on their feet and Kelsey is hiding her face behind Scott’s back. If the white knuckles are any indication, Owen is about to snap his cue in half. I drop the three and five balls in the same corner pocket on two consecutive quick shots, then switch to shoot left-handed to sink the seven. Heavy backspin draws the ball to sit inches away from the eight ball.

  Greg comes back to the table and surveys the situation. “Owen, give her a chance, man.”

  Scott and Brett burst out laughing, despite the daggers Owen shoots at all three of them. My heart, meanwhile, is pounding. This is fun!

  I cut the eight along the rail into the corner pocket and lay my cue across the table signalling the end of the game. Owen throws his cue, scattering the remaining balls with loud cracks as they ricochet off one another.

  Kelsey addresses Owen, her blue eyes glowing with icy rage while her voice sings like she’s spitting out fairy dust. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  We may express our loss of Gran in different ways, but she does have my back.

  “Name your terms of victory,” Greg says above the vibrating stare Owen rains down on me.

  Still standing tall and cynical in the face of the crushing defeat I delivered. I get right in his intimate zone that he protects with a vault, showing him exactly how much he doesn’t frighten me.

  “You can have the pub tonight for your little boys’ club. But understand this: I’m not going anywhere. That is my house on my street. I will be there long after you’re gone. Long after anyone remembers who built those houses you’re so proud of.”

  Phase two complete.

  I hold his stare for as many beats as my pounding heart allows. I will not be intimidated by the man who harassed my Gran in the final years of her life. Kelsey walks around the table after sharing a long, pleading look with Scott, and we both leave the pub with our heads held high.

  Owen is delusional if he still believes he stands a chance of getting my house.

  Chapter 12

&nbs
p; Izzy

  Of course, it has to be thirty degrees Celsius when I need to complete the hardest part of the demo. My hardest part anyway, since all I’m allowed to do is remove the appliances and cabinet doors.

  I have thick work pants, a long sleeve shirt, steel-toed boots, goggles, and gloves on. I won’t be making holes in the drywall, but I don a face mask just in case. The only inch of skin showing is my ears and I’m a sweaty, disgusting mess.

  I’ve already hauled the ancient electric oven to the dumpster and I’m strapping the fridge to the dolly to take it outside. After that, I have the cabinets to take care of, then I’ll enjoy a nice long break in the backyard on the swing.

  This fridge is much smaller than what we’re used to today, yet it weighs a lot more. It definitely weighs more than me, and since I’d rather land this hunk of junk in the dumpster rather than the middle of the street, small stutter steps move me along the ramp I built over the outside stairs. Every muscle is screaming by the time I’ve cleared the ten-foot slope. I pause at the bottom of the ramp to lower my mask and shake out my arms and quads before continuing the rest of the journey to the dumpster.

  For the past two weeks, I’ve become a pro at evading my next-door neighbour. His schedule is predictable, and since he works on the residence he’s living in, he doesn’t go out often. I’d gladly keep avoiding him until he moves out, but a noise from the dumpster in front of his place prompts me to check what’s happening. We get a lot of people adding their own household items to our bins to dodge hauling them away themselves or paying someone else to do it.

  It’s clear I don’t like Owen, but I like cheap, lazy bastards even less.

  I exchange my work gloves for the phone in my back pocket and get the camera ready to make an example of the culprit. As silently as I can in clunky work boots, I move towards the opening on the far end of the bin. I’m about to peer inside when a voice, cold and hard like an ice pick, slams into my spine, sparking chills throughout my body. I startle and drop my phone when I spin around to face a laughing Owen. Well, smirking anyway. I’m not sure he knows how to laugh. Or fully smile.