“Double or nothing.”

“You don’t have the cash,” he scoffed.

Her smile didn’t falter. “No, but I have a fully restored 1971 Mercury Marquis parked outside. It’s nice, fresh powder blue paint. You’d get a good chunk for it.”

“That’s yours? Big ride for a little thing like you,” her opponent said. Chet, she thought his name was.

For that comment alone she wanted to smash his nose through his forehead, but he’d feel the hit worse in his wallet. It wasn’t like he used his brain much, after all. Kyra faked a smile as she put her keys on top of the two bills.

A stocky guy near the bar shook his head, a crop of coarse, brown curls bristling from beneath his baseball cap. “Don’t take the lady’s ride. She probably has a gambling problem—don’t know when to quit even when she can’t win.”

“I never walk away from a bet.” She hadn’t affirmed what he’d said, but these yokels would never notice the difference. “What about you? Scared?” she mocked gently.

Oh, that would never stand. As a chorus of “ooohs” arose from his friends, Chet shook his head. “It’s your funeral, lady. You’re on.”

Finally. She never knew how long a boost would last, so she needed to get this game in the bag, or she really would lose her ride. Since the car was the only thing she owned, that’d be catastrophic.

Kyra broke then, a perfect scatter. The red three slipped into a pocket, deciding whether she’d shoot solids or stripes. Four more shots lined up for her, and she called them in a neutral tone.

A con could go south pretty fast if she didn’t play it right. Chet might suspect he’d been hustled when she was done, but men seldom started a fight with “a little thing like her.” If they did, they found themselves unpleasantly surprised—after she tapped the toughest among them.

Bank, carom, and suddenly she’d sunk half the balls on the table. Suds got really quiet and someone muttered, “I call lemonade.”