She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror one last time before she put her cigarette out and stepped from the car. She looked around the bar parking lot, watching, waiting. It was a good choice.
Flashing orange neon announced it as The Grange", a biker's bar on the far edge of town. Yes indeed, a good choice. She ran her hand through her long bleached hair and began the walk across the lot. The strut was unconscious, unpracticed. It sprang from the same well, from deep inside, which resulted in "that look" upon her face. Both were primal and urgent.
She approached the bar a hunter playing as prey. As she neared the doors, they burst open toward her, followed by two early drunks staggering against each other. They muttered incoherently, lewd intentions evident, but she pushed past them. Her need did not encompass the desire of drunkenness without the accompanying ability. It ran far too deep for that.
She entered the bar and stopped, allowing her eyes to adjust to the smoke filled dim within. A slight smile escaped. Immediately to her right an old jukebox was playing country. A small dance floor in front lay unused and past that in a darkened wing a half a dozen men were keeping three of four pool tables busy.
To her left along the far wall stood the bar and a heavyset, balding bartender, who immediately rechecked the position of his revolver as she entered. She did not approach the bar. She knew what she was about and liquor simply had no place in it. She walked to the tables, weighing, assessing as she went. Back table – 6' 3" maybe 4, 185 pounds, brown hair, pony tail, leather vest, muscular chest and arms, silver Harley Davidson belt buckle, worn Levi's and dirty cowboy boots.
She slowly looked back to his face and caught his eyes. They were laughing unconcernedly and she kept them in scope as she placed a quarter upon the table and backed away. The hunt was on.
The atmosphere in the room had changed and she relaxed into the role. All was as it should be. The play at the other tables had slowed tempo as the men subconsciously responded to the systemic rise in barometric pressure. She stood away from play; right leg thrust at a 45-degree angle, hip cocked. Her hands were pushed into the pockets of the only true article of clothing she had on, a suit jacket that hung thigh length. Under this she wore a bra, g-string and garters, which held up her black, seamed, stockings, ending at her feet with 4-inch spike heels.
She didn't say a word when 'Harley' approached. Her heart rate jumped a notch, her palms twitched and the butterflies refused to stay put in her stomach. She knew the flush that rose to her cheeks only highlighted the hungry look on her face but she did nothing to check it. She simply accepted the proffered cue and followed him to the table. Crouching, she placed four quarters into the slots, pushed them in, and pulled the empty lever back out. Slowly, she rose. The balls filed out in noisy fashion as she walked to the end of the table.
All other attempts at play had ceased and all eyes were concentrated on her, some lewd, some hostile, and some curious. She leaned over to rack, a practiced move that hitched her jacket up just far enough to show garter. The barometric pressure again rose a notch.
She backed away from the table and stood with her feet hip distance apart, knees locked, fingers twirling the cue distractedly as she watched her opponent set up to break.
"You know, lady, here we don't play just for fun," Harley said, challenge adding an edge to his voice.
"Oh no," she replied, "what do you play for, if not for fun?" "Money," he answered.
"Money's fun...if you got it," she countered, "but unfortunately, I ain't got it. Does that mean I can't play?"
"You could put up valuables."
"Gentlemen, look closely," she queried the gathered men, "do any of you see anything of value on me. I mean really. The only thing I ever intended to bring to this game was me."
Through the responding laughter, could be heard "So be it" as Harley drew back his cue and broke. The balls scattered instantaneously, spreading across the table like a mushroom cloud, bouncing off banks and each other. None, however, dropped. Her move. She approached the table and delicately picked up a cube of chalk from the edge, placing it to the tip of her stick. As she rolled her cue slowly into the chalk, she took a measuring glance around. Somewhere along the line, two men had left, leaving four at the table. She pointedly made eye contact with each one.
Across the room, the bartender flipped the outside lights and locked the door. She took a deep breath, exhaling through her teeth as she began to circle the table, edging past the men who had inched their way in. She found her shot. She lifted her stick, sliding it back between second and third finger, leaning her body down over the stick. The only sound left in the bar was the clink of glasses being washed on the far side, as breathing at the table had all but stopped.
She was poised over the table, jacket riding up her thighs, exposing the lacy top of her stockings, the perfect smoothness marred only by the garter's clips. As she took aim, gravity found her and gently tugged at her jacket front, revealing the rounded tops of her breasts. The cue slid back between them, brushing against them; and forward between them as she took her shot and stood up, her clothing sliding back into place.
The three ball dropped and the cue ball followed it just far enough to set the five ball up perfectly. She circled the table for her next shot, finding the room to maneuver getting more difficult. She smiled into one bearded face as she moved past him, breasts brushing against his chest, her nipples hardening at the contact. She dropped the five and circled once again. She spotted the two, a long shot from corner to corner.
