I take in the room, count the steps from me to the back stairs—twenty, count the number of friendly faces—none, and then my gaze catches on Jack. For a second, the tightness of his jaw, the press of his lips, the disgust in his eyes, and I think he’ll say something, do something, throw me a damn rope.
Instead, he lets his gaze, slowly and with painful precision, fall away, hands balled up inside his pockets.
Breath whooshes out of my lungs. A fire burns in my chest, and if it isn’t for the cue stick holding me up, I’m sure I’d have fallen.
I’m all alone. Just me. But when has that ever been any different? When have the odds ever been in my favor? I’m not getting out of here without playing this game.
Do or die, do or die. You got this. You got to have got this.
I force the switch over
