For a pool shark, Logan didn’t have to work very hard on his hustle; he was naturally terrible. He had no feel for where to hit the cue ball: left English, squirt right, follow, draw, stop—it was all gibberish to him. He was just happy to keep the ball from flying off the table.
But, oh, did he ever make a fortune.
It wasn’t that he only played other bad players. Logan often made huge sums off of folks from out of town, people he’d never seen before who were just killing an evening at the only bar in town before getting back to the highway. Occasionally, he played against excellent players, and he took their money every time. It wasn’t that he played well; he just knew when someone else was about to have an off game. He could see it in his mind.
Logan Straff, the precognitive pool shark.
There were probably better things he could do with his abilities, but there was time for that later. He was still young. Right now, all he wanted was to pay for weed and sleep until noon every day.
But fate had other plans for Logan. Someone new entered the bar—a tall, lanky fellow with piercing blue eyes—and for the first time, Logan didn’t know what would happen next.