I lined up my last shot, eight ball to the side pocket. I didn't need to take my time; it was and easy shot. The game was already over and my opponent, some cowboy hat wearing guy named Rick or Rich had only had one turn. I was cleaning up, like I did. I never bet money out in this tiny ass town's only bar. I had money. Vegas had opened its coffers to me, but unfortunately it had also offered up a few too many enemies. So, I played for rounds. This particularly night I'd already had a couple beers, and I didn't really want more since I was already tipsy.
As a black woman in the wild west, it wasn't smart to be too drunk to function, even if the bar was mostly Indian cowboys with just a few whites. Even the bar tender was ambiguously brown, which out in Nebraska, in Indian country, meant one of the few tribes the region still supported. My own father was from this very area, but that wasn't common knowledge. Sure, I remembered the town of Apostrophe from summers of my childhood, but I'd stopped coming back in my teens when my dad had vanished. But that's another story. I'd spent the rest of my childhood on the east coast, with my mother, or in Morocco, with her family. It was her last name that was on my ID, her people and heritage and traditions I knew.
My father's people, the Cheyenne, where strangers to me, vaguely familiar strangers. I wondered which of the people from this town I'd known as a child, but none of them recognized me and I liked it that way.
I knocked the ball into the pocket and waved at Cole, holding up my empty glass and one finger to place my order. A chorus of groans around the table rang out.
"Well, that's a wrap." I said, scooting around the table to meet Cole, the ruggedly butch bartender, halfway. She handed me my beer. I knew she'd add it to my tab, and I'd settle end of week like always.
I turned and handed the beer to the Rick, or Rich's girlfriend, who giggled as she took it. "I like this deal, I win the game, I get to buy a pretty girl a drink." I winked at the woman. She was my height, most likely white with her light hair and blue eyes, and she looked a tad young to be in the bar, but Cole was a hard ass about age limits, she had to be twenty-one.
"You tryin'a move in on my woman, now?" The angry cowboy loomed in front of me, reeking of cheap beer and whiskey shots.
"Hey, you agreed to the terms, man." I said lifting my own drink and my free hand defensively, even as my legs shifted into a defensive stance as well. "It's not like the bet was for a kiss, just a beer."
"Kiss this, bitch." And with that his arms snapped out shoving me away from his girl, who squealed in protest.
"Rich, stop it!" The girl cried out. I didn't wait to see if he'd stop it, I sucker punched him right in the nose, feeling the bone crack on my knuckles as my other hand dropped my beer. The glass rolled and splashed against my boots but I ignored it and followed up with an uppercut aimed at his chin but just grazing his eye socket, then a cross that caught him in the throat. I shuffled forward, moving in to throw a knee into ribs as his hands flew up and his body was left open. I'm not an MMA master or anything, I knew a few moves, as a curvy girl at 5'5 with more soft bits than muscley bits, I know that winning a fight against a guy is about speed. Get in, do enough damage to disable him before he can even react, then get the fuck out before his friends can decide between teasing him or jumping you.
The knee never landed though, instead I felt my feet leave the ground as a rough hand grabbed me by the scruff of my flannel wild west disguise, and tugged me nearly off my feet. I let out a squeaky, "Eep!" and flailed a little, my heart pounding.
But it was only Cole, who slid between Rich and I, setting me down behind her as she seized Rich by the front of his shirt and heaved him up. She glanced back at me and barked, "You, back room, now!" and jabbing a finger at me.
I took a step back but paused to watch. Opening my mouth too late to warn Cole as Rich instinctively lashed out, his fist connecting with her middle, but Cole didn't even flinch. She simply walked him towards the door, her long steady stride contrasting with his sputtering backward stumble. At the door his hat fell from his head as someone darted forward and pushed the door open. Cole tossed him out, and I imagine he landed on his ass on the dirt between the door and street. Cole kicked his hat out the door after him.
"Rich, you know better than to start shit in my bar." Cole shouted at him, "You're banned for a week, then you can come on back and behave yourself, or else I'll personally beat your ass, you hear?"
His response must have satisfied her, because Cole turned and strode back into the room. "Okay, dollar shots for the next ten minutes people, then business as usual. Nor more funny stuff or else." Cole pointed to a wall where a worn old frat style paddle hung, and a few drunken chuckles rang out, some sounding rather nervous. Her eyes found me and narrowed, and I hurried myself around the bar and ducked into the backroom.
I expected her to follow, to come in read me the riot act at some point, but she didn't. The bar closed down an hour later and I was still sitting on the couch in the backroom, which was like an office and living room at the same time. It was Cole's private living space, her sleeping quarters being the only other occupied bedroom in the inn above the tavern aside from my own.
Finally, the sound of her shooing the last customer out floated in, and the jukebox went silent. I jiggled my leg, the heel of my boot tapping nervously. I hoped she didn't kick me out. I didn't think she would, I was a paying customer, and at the low prices of her booze I knew that the rent I paid weekly was a great boost for her sales numbers. Plus, I think rumors of a cute girl that was undefeated on the pool table brought a few curious extras in. I was good for business. Or so I told myself. Maybe not if I started beating up customers.
Cole slipped into the room; her dark blue shirt unbuttoned to reveal a black ribbed tank top underneath that clung to well-formed muscles that indicated that she must work out. I wondered if she kept a weight set in her bedroom upstairs. Her short black hair was a little mussed, like she'd run her hands through it a time or two. It had a little salt and pepper thing going just above her ears where she kept it shaved close. Her lips, the most feminine thing about her body, frowned into a distractingly sensuous line of disapproval. Her black jeans disappeared into cowboy boots, also black with silver etchings. She wore a thick dark brown belt with an eagle engraved in the buckle.
"You saw right?" I said tentatively when the silence stretched on, her black eyes boring into me. "He shoved me and started it all."
"I saw what happened." Cole said, then went back to staring at me.
"I had to do something." I mumbled, looking down at my hands that were fidgeting with the button on my sleeve of my flannel shirt. It was suddenly very hot in there, and I wanted to take the shirt off, but that would be weird, even though I had on a white t-shirt underneath.
"You could have de-escalated the situation at any point." Cole said. "You ain't even drunk. No excuse."
I chewed on my lip, then mumbled some sort of apology.
Cole sighed. "If you weren't renting here, I'd've tossed you out too, as soon as I knew he'd cleared out." She said. "But I wasn't joking when I told the bar that any more funny business would end with that paddle on the wall out there. I don't usually need to demonstrate the seriousness of that threat more than once every year or so, when new crops of 21-year-olds roll in and get cocky."
I peered up at her to see if she was joking. "You've really paddled customers?"
"Not good ones." Cole said with a nod. "Though they tend to behave after that."
My eyes widened, then darted down to double check her hands, which were empty, her arms folded across her chest. I wondered if she still planned to ask me to leave instead.
"Please don't kick me out." I pleaded.
"I won't." Cole said. "It's the middle of the night, and in general you're a good kid." I wanted to protest that I wasn't a kid, I was 26! But I realized as I opened my mouth to do so that it would probably prove her point. Her meaning settled down a little more then, slipping into my mind. She'd brought up the paddle, and said she wouldn't kick me out...she wasn't going to paddle me for real right? It was just a threat...just to scare me.
"Please, Cole. I'm sorry. I messed up, I get that." I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Please, don't use the paddle one me."
Cole narrowed her eyes at me for a moment, then gave a nod. "I won't. This time." I felt myself relax a little, but she continued. "Only because you didn't start it and Rich is a jack ass. But you could have walked away sooner, not flirted with his date, or de-escalated at any point and you didn't. You chose to cause a ruckus, and you went too far in your attack on him. Broke his nose at least."
Her arms unfolded and she began rolling up her sleeves, exposing intricate tattoos I couldn't quite make out on her forearms.
I sank back into the couch, uneasy, getting the feeling that I was very much still in trouble. "Cole..." my voice came out as a whisper, my eyes darting to the stairs off to my left. I wondered if I could make a run for it, though I knew even as the thought occurred to me that it was silly.
Not only could she catch me if she wanted, but what would I do if I got away? Lock myself in my room that she owned a key to? Besides, whatever she was going to do, it would only be so bad. I'd come out in one piece. Cole had been friendly with me, more-so than anyone else, though no-one had really been rude, just distant.
Folks were probably distant because I was distant, but I saw Cole daily, and nightly. I hung out reading in the bar as she closed, and usually helped her move the empty kegs to the back shed. I brewed coffee in the mornings while Cole mopped the floors, and we drank a cup together before I left for breakfast, sometimes with a to-go order from Cole for when I returned.
We mostly shared companionable silences, sometimes we talked music or literature, but I didn't really know much about her, and she didn't really know much about me. Or so I thought.
"Catherine Ann Brightwing, don't you even think about running from me." Her voice was hard and stern, and I froze, blood draining from my face as I heard a name I hadn't used in nearly a decade. After I'd turned 18 and realized my daddy wasn't coming back, I'd changed my last name legally to Bashara, my mother's maiden name, but I'd started using it even before that.
"You...know..." I stammered.
