Page 1 of Played
CHAPTER ONE
Stragglers.
Ugh.
I hate stragglers.
It’s midnight. The place is closing, and as usual, I have a few stragglers I need to guide out like toddlers at a daycare center. It’s always the same guys, too.
“Ronnie, I know you hate your wife, but it’s time to go home,” I tell him as I help him pack up his cue. “You got an Uber?”
“Yeah,” he grunts.
“Good, I want you to get home safe.”
It’s all part of the job. Most of these guys are regulars, they’re the ones who keep this pool hall going, and they’re decent tippers too. It’s my job to look after them, and make sure they get home safe.
Just like toddlers, I swear.
Finally… everyone’s out, and I can get out of here.
I’m exhausted.
It’s been a long shift.
I trudge from the pool hall, muscles aching from eight hours of slinging drinks and dealing with half inebriated customers.All I want is something sweet—a pack of Skittles or maybe those sour gummy worms from the convenience store near my place. My body screams for sugar even though my brain knows better.
The parking lot is nearly empty as I click the fob to my Mini. The car’s yellow paint job glows under the lot lights like a beacon—I love it becuase I can always spot my Mini easily in parking lots, even at Walmart.
Inside my car, I crank the AC and slump against the headrest. Just five minutes of silence before dealing with Daniel and his annoying questions about my day. Five blessed minutes of not having to smile or explain or justify.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
So much for five minutes.
Daniel's text glows on the screen:
When will you be home?
Made dinner.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat without responding and pull out of the lot. The convenience store is not too far away. I'll grab something sugary, caffeinated, and deliciously bad for me.
At the red light, my phone buzzes again. And again.
"Jesus, give me a minute," I mutter, reaching over.
The light turns green just as I glance down at three new messages.
A horn blares. Headlights flood my windshield.
I hit the gas. A truck barrels past, missing my bumper by inches.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I pull over, hands shaking on the wheel. The sugar craving vanishes, replaced by nausea.
I bang my palm against the steering wheel.
My phone keeps buzzing. Five messages now.
