Chapter One:
I used to love the smell of cigarettes. I was never a smoker. My friends were. They would light up, and I would enjoy that aroma, never thinking of second hand smoke. Now, it was too much, too much smoke, and there were no windows to escape to. And among the stench of cigarettes and cigars was the bitterness of liquor. I thought I would be sick, and then the door opened. He stood there in the doorway, staring at me.
"Hey!" I blinked, trying to wipe the smoke out of my eyes. "I'm losing." He wavered before me. "We can't afford to lose."
"Can't we just go?" He knelt down before me. "Why do we have to do this?"
"You want to eat?" My stomach growled in response. "Look, do it. One time. One win, and we go."
"You said that last week."
The men at the poker table glared at us. We normally moved around, never playing the same crowd, but he made a lot of money off them last week. He wanted to come back. I knew it was a bad idea especially because I saw that man here before, and he stared right at me. Luckily, he disappeared, but if we didn't go soon, we might disappear too.
"Come on." He now took my hand. "Please. We need this."
"If you didn't blow that money away, we wouldn't need this." I flinched as he touched my cheek. "Okay, Mitch, but I'm only doing this once. Once!"
"Thank you," and he eagerly returned to the poker table.
I could hear the ticking of time. I hated that sound. I despised it. The men were all wearing watches, and some were expensive. It was deafening. I preferred not wearing a watch, but instead of thinking about that, I focused on the ticking. I focused on time, and as I focused, a cool breeze rested against my skin. It was now time.
I rose from the torn couch. It smelled of beer and cigarettes. The nicer seats were in the other room, but he insisted on me being here. My feet stepped gingerly on the green rug. A small, red stain gave me pause. Blood, but I didn't want to think about that. These were dangerous men, and we used to play smaller, safer crowds. Mitch got greedy, and now if we didn't leave soon, we would never leave. And I was wasting time.
I circled the poker table twice. Most of the men drank their liquor or puffed on cigarettes or cigars. Their eyes rested on Mitch, wondering what tricks this young man had up his sleeve. They never suspected me. They knew that I did not want to be there, and I did not. I looked at their hands, the cards waiting for action, and finally I rested beside Mitch. The trick was not to slide the winning cards into his hand. We had to be careful especially with these kind of men. Instead, seeing how there were six players, I turned five of Mitch's cards either upside down or sideways. Sideways meant non-threats. Upside down meant winners. If I turned the first card upside down, then that meant the guy before Mitch had a winning hand. Mitch would take it from there, using his wit to outsmart these players. Time's up.
I was back on the couch. The sideways players threw their cards in, disgusted at being outsmarted once again by Mitch. That only left Mitch and the man before him. Now, the real game was at hand, and I leaned in, curious to see how Mitch would outsmart him. I flinched at the drink pressed into my hand.
"That's quite a neat trick. I thought I saw you pull something off last time." It was the strange man again. "I'm Stanton Parish." I slowly accepted the drink and sipped it. It was water. I thought it was vodka. "Chronokinesis."
"What?"
"It's a rare, rare ability, and you're wasting it." He knelt down before me. "I could use someone with your ability." A commotion broke out behind him. "You might have to run first." He pressed a card into my other hand. "When you're done with him, give me a call. Don't let him pull you down even further." He stepped away.
"I did not cheat," Mitch roared.
"Take your money, and get out while you still can," the winner snapped back. Well, if he had won, but Mitch did cheat. "Get out!" The other men were already reaching under their coats for something, something not good.
"Mitch!" I was now by the door, wondering where that strange man had gone. "Let's go. Now," I begged.
"Listen to her," one man said.
"And don't come back," another snapped.
Mitch threw his cards on the table. He grabbed up the small stack of cash before him. He glared at me like this was my fault, and then he hurried away, grabbing me bitterly by the arm. As the cold air snapped its greeting at us, he snapped at me. "What is wrong with you tonight?"
"Mitch, those were dangerous men, men that you do not screw with."
"Why? You want to screw them?"
"You know what I mean. Look, when I talked you into leaving your mother's house and coming to New York with me, this was not what I had in mind. You are putting us in danger."
"Who was that guy that you were talking to? Who was he?" I tried to put the card in my pocket, but he grabbed it from my hand. "Red Flag? What the hell is that? A reject artist?"
"Mitch…"
"No. I don't want to hear it." He ripped up the card. "Let's get some food, go to the hotel, and forget about this." I finally relaxed. Maybe, he realized how dangerous this was getting. "We have to be ready for Friday's game. There's a lot of money at stake, and you need your rest."
"Mitch, we can't come back here. They'll kill us."
"We're not coming back here. I heard them talking. The next game is near Grand Central, and if they happen to be there, then we'll get the money and run. You just might have to use that trick of yours more."
"I told you. I might be able to speed up time or slow it down, but it's not easy. It takes a lot out of me."
"Well, we have three days, so let's go. Come on," and he dragged me away into the growing darkness.
Stanton Parish stepped out of the shadows. A sad look stretched across his face. He shook his head and watched the two disappear from sight. Then, he glanced down at the ripped up card. "I found you once," he said to himself. "I'll find you again."