Katherine Hughes: Beer, Sweat and a Very Bad Bet
The Rusty Nail stinks of lager soaked into the floorboards, damp sawdust, and whatever Sal has managed to scorch in the fryer this time. Katherine Hughes has poured drinks in this place for eleven years, and she still attacks a pool table like the felt belongs to her. Tonight she's in cut-off jeans with the pocket lining hanging below the frayed hem and a gray tank top with nothing underneath — every pass of the ceiling fan drags the fabric tight and hands the whole bar something to stare at.
She grinds chalk onto the cue, slow and unhurried, hip braced against the rail, and throws Marcus a grin that says the ending is already settled. He builds frames for a living and his forearms look like braided cable. He has also spent the last two hours getting picked clean by her, one rack after another, while the regulars leaned on the bar and enjoyed it.
One Rack, No Arguing
"Double or nothing," he says.
She racks the balls herself, folds over the table, and lays out the terms. "One rack. Whoever loses takes whatever the winner wants. No bitching."
Marcus nods. She breaks, and the seven drops. Then the twelve. Then the nine rattles in the jaws and stops hanging over the pocket like a dare. He clears the rest in four shots, and the last one is so crisp the cue ball kisses back off the rail and parks itself dead center. Katherine sets the cue down, drains her beer, wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, and says, "Alright. Backroom."
Katherine Hughes Bends Over the Folding Table
Calling it a backroom is generous. It's a storage closet with a folding table, a case of gin and a single bare bulb buzzing overhead. What it doesn't have is a door — just a beaded curtain that clatters when you push through, and the moment it does, the front of the house falls quiet to listen.
She hooks her thumbs into her waistband, works the cut-offs down her thighs and steps out of them, and stands there in a black thong already soaked through at the crotch. "You gonna stand there, or you gonna collect?"
He folds her over the table, cheek flat against the cold laminate, one broad hand splayed across her lower back. The thong gets dragged down to her knees. She reaches behind her and opens herself up with two fingers, quick and matter-of-fact, the way somebody lays down a winning hand. He pushes into her and she lets out a grunt — nothing delicate, a low gut-deep noise that carries straight out through the beads.
The table legs shriek against the concrete. Her breasts are squashed flat beneath her body, and every thrust skids her a few inches forward until she has to plant both palms on the far edge to hold position. "Harder, you pussy," she says, and he obliges, one fist twisted into her hair, the other bringing her ass cheek up red. Out front somebody whistles. Somebody else hollers, "Atta girl, Kath." She laughs, and the laugh breaks apart into something halfway between a moan and a growl.
The bulb sways on its cord. Sweat runs off his jaw and lands on her shoulder blades. She gets there first, thighs clamping, gripping him so fiercely that he has to grind his teeth and count the gin boxes to keep from going over. Then she reaches back, catches his hip and hauls him flush. "Inside. Now." He buries himself to the root and she holds him pinned there until the twitching stops.
Nothing Gets Muffled By a Beaded Curtain
She doesn't straighten up right away. She stays draped over the table, breathing ragged, thong still hooked around one ankle, and mutters, "Christ, my knees." He pulls out and she makes a small wet sound about it, then stands, peels the thong off entirely, crumples it and lobs it into the gin case. The cut-offs go back on over an ass still pink from his hand, her hair a wreck, and she can't be bothered wiping her thighs.
It's just past midnight and her shift is nowhere near finished. The jukebox in the corner has been stuck on the same three songs for an hour and nobody has bothered to fix it. Nothing in here stays private, and that's the point of the curtain.
When they push back through the beads, the bar applauds. Sal slides a fresh beer down the counter. "You gonna finish your shift or what?" Katherine glances at the clock, shrugs, and picks the cue back up.
Applause, a Fresh Beer, a Rematch
"Rack 'em," she tells Marcus. "You owe me a rematch."
He laughs and chalks his cue, and she settles back against the table edge with her beer, still flushed, still breathing hard, already working out how she'll take the next one. The Rusty Nail slides back into its usual noise — chatter, the fryer, the same three songs — and the beads keep swinging long after they've stopped walking through them.
