"I'm his daughter," I said.
He took a lick of foam and started asking me about myself, leaning in
close as he talked. "How old are you, girl?"
"How old do you think?" I asked.
"About seventeen."
I smiled, putting my hand over my teeth.
"Know how to dance?" he asked. I shook my head. "Sure you do," he said
and pulled me off the stool. I looked over at Dad, who grinned and
waved.
On the jukebox, Kitty Wells was singing about married men and honky-
tonk angels. Robbie held me close, with his hand on the small of my
back. We danced to a second song, and when we sat down again on the
stools facing the pool table, our backs against the bar, he slid his arm
behind me. That arm made me tense but not entirely unhappy. No one
had flirted with me since Billy Deel, unless you counted Kenny Hall.
Still, I knew what Robbie was after. I was going to tell him I wasn't that
sort of girl, but then I thought he would say I was getting ahead of
myself. After all, the only thing he'd done was dance me slow and put his
arm around me. I caught Dad's eye. I expected him to come barreling
across the room and whock Robbie with a pool cue for getting fresh with
his daughter. Instead, he hollered to Robbie, "Do something worthwhile
with those damned hands of yours. Get over here and play me a game of
pool."
They ordered whiskeys and chalked their cues. Dad held back at first and
lost some money to Robbie, then started upping the stakes and beating
him. After every game, Robbie wanted to dance with me again. It went