by Diane Kelly
The guy turned back around, his steel gaze locking on mine. “Impressed?”
Hell, yeah, I thought. “Not bad,” I said.
“Not bad? That’s it? Damn.” He shook his head as if disappointed in my nonchalant response, but I knew better.
He was flirting with me. And I was enjoying every second of it.
Lucas and I finished our game. I managed to hit only three pins and threw a couple of gutter balls, distracted by the guy in the lane next to us.
He glanced over at me as I slid out of the rental shoes, his eyes flitting to my own name badge before he pointed up at my pitiful score displayed on the ceiling-mounted screen for all the world to see. “Looks like I could teach you a thing or two about the game, Officer Muckleroy.”
I fingered the .38 on my hip. “You’re lucky I’m out of my jurisdiction, buddy.”
His lips spread in a slow, sexy grin that turned my insides warm and gooey, like the cheese on my nachos.
After returning our rental shoes, Lucas and I headed over to the pool tables and were lucky enough to snag one right away. We stepped up to the rack on the wall, sizing up the cue sticks.
I chose one of the shorter ones and turned to Glick. “You’re not going to break another cue, are you?”
His expression became remorseful. “No. I wouldn’t have broken that one earlier today if that jerk hadn’t called me a good-for-nothin’ loser.”
You know that saying about sticks and stones? It’s pure BS, too. Words may not break bones, but they could definitely hurt, especially if you never heard any positive ones.
While Lucas racked the balls, I headed to the snack bar to refill our pitcher of Coke. He wanted a beer but I promised not to file a report on today’s incident at the Watering Hole if he stuck with soda. When I returned to the table, the guy from the lanes stood next to Glick, both of them chalking up pool cues. Two twenty-dollar bills lay on the table.
Lucas pocketed the chalk cube. “We’ve decided to make it interesting.”
Lucas and I exchanged knowing looks. I’d seen Lucas in action. He was a kick-ass shooter, absolutely unbeatable—when he was sober, of course. When he was drunk, he sucked. But he wasn’t drunk now. In all fairness, I probably should’ve warned the guy that Lucas was hustling him, but then he might have walked away. Besides, he was wearing expensive Timberland hiking boots. He looked like he could afford to lose twenty bucks.
“I want in.” I pulled a bill from my purse and laid it next to theirs on the green felt.
The guy gently took hold of my wrist as I pulled my hand back. His touch was warm and just rough enough to send a power surge up the nerves in my arm and into my chest, where it zipped in figure eights around my 38DDs, making my nipples harden. I hoped they weren’t noticeable through my uniform. Should’ve worn my Kevlar vest. The vest worked both ways, stopping bullets from the outside and hiding nipple erections from the inside.
His eyes bored into mine. “Who’re you putting your money on? Yourself, your boyfriend, or me?”
Beside me, Glick snorted. “I’m not her boyfriend, dude. I’m her prisoner.”
The guy looked at Glick then back to me, a gleam in his eyes and grin playing about his lips. “Good to know.”
I managed to maintain an aura of cool, but inside I quivered with excitement. If the night went well, maybe this guy would ask me out on a date, my first in a year. Mental note: Add barbecue sauce to the grocery list. Maybe I’d be slathered and devoured after all. “My money’s on Lucas.”
The guy released my wrist—damn!—and shook his head. “You’ve broken my heart.”
Now that he was no longer touching me, I could breathe again. I chalked my cue. “How can I bet on you when I know nothing about you?”
“You got me there.” He switched his cue to his left hand and stuck out his right. “My name’s Trey Jones. I’m a Taurus. My turn-ons include high-speed internet, banana pudding topped with Nilla Wafers, and women in uniform.”
Clearly, Trey was a flirt and a goofball. But hell, my life could use a little comic relief.
I shook his hand. “I’m Marnie.”
“Marnie,” he repeated slowly, savoring the word as if it tasted good on his tongue, like his favorite banana pudding. “And your turn-ons?”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Motorcycles, mochas, and men with a sense of adventure.”
“Hmm.” Trey’s expression turned thoughtful.
Lucas scooped up the bills from the table and handed them to me. “You can play bookie.”
We decided on a three-player game of cutthroat. Lucas flipped a coin to see who would break and Trey won the toss. As Trey eased by me I caught a subtle whiff of soap, a clean, crisp smell, not fussy, the smell of a masculine man. I stepped aside, trying not to be obvious as I eyed Trey’s firm, broad shoulders when he bent over the table to line up his shot.
The end of the cue stick edged in and out between his fingers, the motion oddly sensual. His shot landed with a sharp clack, sending balls rolling in all directions, none of them making it into a hole. He stood and stepped aside to make room for Glick. “What did Marnie arrest you for?”
Lucas stepped into place for his shot. “Drunk and disorderly. Marnie’s arrested me at least a hundred times. I’ve got a rap sheet as long as my—”
“Lucas!” I put one hand on my hip, holding the pool cue upright in the other.
“Hair!” Glick threw a palm up in innocence. “I was going to say my rap sheet’s as long as my hair.” He chuckled and a grin spread across his scruffy face. It was nice to see him having a good time. Heck, it was nice to see him sober.
Lucas leaned over the table and took his first shot, landing the six ball expertly in the corner pocket.
“Nice,” Trey said.
Lucas eased himself around the corner of the table. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
My shots, as usual, were haphazard and mediocre, but since my money was on Glick, it didn’t much matter how I played. Ten minutes later, Lucas and I were each ten bucks richer. Trey could bowl a mean game, but he stunk at pool.
“I should be better at shooting pool,” Trey said. “After all, it’s just physics.” He shrugged, as if physics was simple. Maybe for him. I wasn’t sure I could even spell physics.
Trey took my cue from me and slid it into the rack next to the one he’d been using. “You up for a game of Ocean Hunter?”
I wasn’t sure what Ocean Hunter was, but if playing it meant spending more time with Trey, hell yeah, I was game. I nodded and followed him to the video games section, carpeted with blue industrial-grade carpeting and populated primarily by pimple-faced adolescent boys with a few pubescent girls lingering on the fringes, eyeing the boys and giggling. A cacophony of beeps, dings, gunfire, and other video game noises greeted us.
Trey slid a five-dollar bill into the automated bill changer and a handful of quarters clanged into the tray. After pocketing all but a dollar’s worth of the coins, he led me to a game enclosed in a large white console with two seats inside. I slipped inside, taking the seat on the right while he slid into the one on the left. Lucas rested his hands on top of the console on my side, peeking in to watch.
Trey inserted four quarters and pushed the start button. The game began, ocean noises and voices blaring from speakers built into the seat behind us as our characters descended the sea to explore underwater ruins. We grabbed our white metal shooters, my silver bracelets glinting in the bright light from the screen.
Trey gestured at my wrists with his free hand. “Are those Wonder Woman bracelets?”
“Yup.”
“I’m a Flash Gordon man myself.” With his left hand, he pulled his striped shirt open to reveal a lightning bolt on the red tee underneath. Looked like me and this sexy techie might have something in common after all.
The game began and we fired at a never-ending assortment of enormous eels, sharks with oddly shaped heads, and a mutant octopus intent on pulverizing us into fish food. Despite the noise a
nd light from the video screen, being in the small confined area with Trey felt intimate, and a thrill skittered through me when his knee bumped against mine.
Even with my extensive police training, I managed to shoot only a small number of the sea creatures, which writhed and twisted on the screen. My life ran out long before Trey’s and I sat back to watch him finish the game. When a giant shark ripped him to shreds fifteen minutes later, he’d managed to rack up the high score.
I slid my shooter back into the holder. “You’re good.”
“I’ve got skilled fingers.” He waggled his fingers and shot me another sexy grin that hinted at what other activities those fingers might be good at.
We made our way around the video game area, hopping onto the simulated disco floor for a game of Dance Revolution. Trey impressed me with his sense of rhythm and physical agility, improvising funky dance moves, adding a few strategic pops, bumps, and grinds while I hopped around on the lighted squares like a rabid kangaroo, simply trying to get my feet on the right squares at the right time and failing miserably.
We moved on, playing a simulated jet ski game, a martial arts game, Pac-Man, and an ancient Asteroids machine, its simple, colorless graphics hopelessly lo-tech compared to the newer games.
Luckily, all of the games were rated, at worst, the equivalent of PG-13 and contained only clearly fictionalized fighting. Being a cop, I despised the realistic, ultra-violent video games. I’d seen violence up close and personal, and there was nothing fun or entertaining about it. To me, violence was anything but a game.
Trey stepped up to the final machine, a newer game I’d never seen before, one in which the residents of a small town faced an alien invasion.
I pulled the shooter from the holder. This one was black, its size and weight closely approximating that of a real handgun. I narrowed my eyes at Trey and pointed the gun at him. “This feels more like the real thing. I’ll beat you this time.”
“You’re a good shot?”
“Hell, yeah.” Too good. A bolt of nausea raced through me as grisly memories threatened to invade my brain. But when Trey grinned that cockeyed grin at me they fled to the far recesses of my mind. This guy was proving to be a great distraction. He was funny, amusing, playful. Just what I needed, someone to take my mind off the real world.
Trey pulled his gun from the holder. “You’ll like this game. It has phenomenal graphics.”
Lucas stood off to the side, digging in the bottom of the red and white cardboard popcorn tub for the few remaining kernels.
The screen geared up, directing us to choose our characters. To represent himself, Trey picked an obscenely muscular bald man dressed in camouflage while I selected a blond bimbo in tight jeans, a teeny T-shirt that revealed an abundance of cleavage, and pink high-top sneakers.
The game began with our characters wandering innocently down the streets of a town, past a bakery, a gift shop, and a pub. Eerie music came from the machine as a fleet of silver saucer-shaped airships appeared on the horizon, heading straight for us. Our characters ran into a pawn shop, grabbed an arsenal of guns and ammo, and headed back into the streets among a flood of terrified people fleeing the scene, their faces incredibly lifelike.
Trey was right. The graphics on this game were realistic. Maybe too realistic.
A tiny map in the bottom corner of the screen lit up with lime green dots to indicate the relative positioning of the aliens. The game reminded me of the simulated training scenarios we’d run through in the police academy.
Trey positioned himself and raised his gun to prepare for the alien onslaught. “Be careful not to shoot any of the townspeople. You lose points for each human you kill.”
“Thanks for the warning.” I knew all too well how it felt to kill someone, the sense that I’d lost critical points, that my karmic score would always be negative, at least until I found a way to even the count.
Trey took a quick glimpse at the map. “Look out!”
A trio of green-faced men came around the corner at the end of the block with their ray guns pointed directly at me. Blam-blam-blam! All three dropped to the ground in quick succession. I raised my gun to my face, pretending to blow smoke from the barrel. “Martians are no match for the Jacksburg PD.”
Blam-blam! Trey brought down an alien who’d popped out of a doorway with a ray gun aimed at his player. The town appeared to empty as the citizens went into hiding and the aliens ran for cover. But we knew better. Those little green men were preparing for an ambush.
I took a quick look at the buttons on the console. “Where’s the hyper-space key that’ll transport me to Maui?”
“No such luck. Hawaii will have to wait until we wipe out these suckers.”
We snuck slowly and carefully down the street, my character reluctantly following Trey’s, turning into a narrow alley lined with overflowing garbage dumpsters. My heart jerked like a machine gun in my chest, sending forth bursts of blood instead of gunfire. This was only a game, yet for some reason my adrenaline had kicked in. My uniform felt hot, the polyester sticking to my damp, prickly skin.
I looked over at Trey. “Let’s turn around and run away like everyone else.” A note of desperation had crept into my voice, but Trey didn’t know me well enough to notice.
He held his gun at the ready, his finger poised on the trigger, his eyes scanning the screen. “We can’t. The fate of the free world rests in our hands.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility.” That sick feeling returned. I wanted to put my gun down and walk away. I wanted to stop playing. But how could I bow out now without looking like a party pooper?
It’s only a game, I reminded myself, feeling ridiculous. Nothing but a stupid game. I shook my head to clear it and forced myself to breathe.
We crept slowly toward a dumpster, leery of aliens that might be hiding behind it. Suddenly, a green dot ignited on the map directly in front of my character and a green face appeared on the screen at point-blank range, his oversized black eyes looking directly into mine.
But that’s not what I saw. Instead, the face of a homeless man with wild brown hair and a scruffy beard appeared, his few remaining teeth dark with decay, his hazel eyes crazed and disoriented, surrounded by jaundiced whites.
I knew those eyes. I’d seen those eyes. I’d seen them just as they appeared to me now, and I’d seen them flare with fury as the man slashed at me with a steak knife. I’d seen them roll back, as if trying to see the gaping, blood-pulsing wound in his shattered forehead as he fell backward onto the sidewalk. And I’d seen those eyes, lifeless yet accusing, just before I’d lost consciousness and ended up on the ground next to him, my blood pouring through the shredded skin on my wrist, forming a deep red pool around my limp hand.
An involuntary scream erupted from my throat, searing my vocal cords. I hurled the gun at the machine. It struck the screen with a resounding crack and clattered to the ground. I felt the burn of everyone’s gaze on me as I backed away from the machine, panting and gasping, my chest heaving.
I grabbed the seat of a car race game to steady myself. The confused young boy in the chair looked up at me, not sure what to think of the police officer hovering over him, making odd, high-pitched noises as she hyperventilated. Tunnel vision set in, white dots swirling in my peripheral vision like the green dots on the game screen, mixing with the colors and flashes of light from nearby video games.
Trey grabbed a chair from a nearby table and he and Lucas eased me into it. I yanked the cardboard popcorn tub from Glick’s hands and bent over, putting my head between my legs and breathing into the popcorn tub to try to slow my breathing.
