Page 50

Pan. Nine ball, side pocket. Sunk clean as a sniper shot, and he’s not even looking at the table.

A prickle alights on the back of my neck.

The cue ball clicks to a stop. Then Pan straightens, lays his stick across the felt, and walks the length of the table, loose, unhurried⁠—

Shit. I’m already half off my stool. Mustache’s buddy glances at him, like he feels something coming, but neither of us is fast enough.

Pan sidles up to Mustache, squares his shoulders, and gives him a giant smile. “Grow,” he says, teeth clenched, “the fuck up.”

“What?” Mustache blinks.

“Did I stutter? I said, grow the fuck up,” Pan repeats. “Buy your kids some fucking shoes, damn.”

“Hey,” the buddy says, just as I skid into place behind Pan and grab his shoulder.

“Dude, don’t,” I whisper.

“Fuckin’ excuse me? How is that any of your goddamn business?” Mustache roars, gripping his pool cue tighter.

“I’m just saying!” Pan shrugs me off, gesturing wildly, the game of pool entirely forgotten. “You don’t wanna pay child support, then wrap your shit. It’s not rocket science. Although,” he adds, “I can see why maybe you’d have trouble connecting the dots, but⁠—”

“Listen, you piece of shit⁠—”

Mustache lunges. And I’m not fast enough. He fists the collar of Pan’s shirt, reels back, and the crack of knuckles on jaw cuts through everything but the jukebox. Gasps go up as Pan stumbles backwards, clocking the corner of the pool table and full-out sprawling on the floor.

“That’s it,” barks someone—bouncer, sprung from his stool at the entrance. “You. Out.” He points at me. “Both of you.”

“Done,” I mutter. I jump to Pan’s side and grab his forearm, all but pulling him to the door, but he takes his sweet time getting back up.

“Oh, real tough.” Back on his feet, he rubs his jaw, laughing a little to himself. “Shit, if you fuck the way you play pool, I’m surprised you’ve ever knocked anyone up.” He flicks up the pile of bills from the side of the table and folds it into his hand. “Losers weepers,” he adds, cocking his head. “Better luck next time, Father of the Year.”

Jesus, Pan. I grab his biceps. “Let’s go. Just⁠—”

We barely make it three steps before Mustache finds his voice.

“You fuckin’ stealing from me now?” he bellows. I only glance back, but Pan comes to a complete stop, turning slowly like he can tell that every eye in the bar is glued to this red-haired idiot with a thousand tattoos and no common sense.

Pan folds his arms, screws up his mouth like he’s thinking. Toward the bar, the bouncer looms again, but Pan’s too quick.

“No, you know what? You’re right.” Pan slams the bills down on the bar, fire in his eyes. “Keep it. Keep it and go buy your daughter some goddamn sneakers. Fuck!”

He throws his hands in the air and now decides to stalk off. Leaving everyone staring at me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, to no one in particular. “No idea what the fuck his problem is.” Because I don’t.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mustache huffs. “He’s a fuckin’ asshole, is his problem.” He slides the money back toward his chest. “And a lunatic.”

Bang. Across the bar, Pan’s kicked the door open.

Fuck. I nod, flick out a twenty for my tab, and jog after him. When I get outside, he’s already on his bike, spitting gravel in a U-turn.

“Dude,” I yell, over the rev of his engine and the rush of highway traffic, slamming my own helmet in place. “Wait⁠—”

He doesn’t. Zips into traffic without looking, brake-checking an F-150, and soars off through the sea of taillights. I swing onto my bike and follow, blind and fast in the direction of home, pressing sixty, seventy, eighty until finally I catch up. He doesn’t slow down, gunning it and kissing asphalt when he turns, and it’s all I can do to weave behind him and keep him in my sights.

Pan’s bike is already ticking in the alley when I kill my engine. The back door is still swinging. I take the stairs two at a time and catch him at the top.

“Hey. Hey!” I yell, when he tries to shake me off. I swivel in front of him, blocking his way. “What the fuck’s gotten into you?” I demand.