The Cherry House

The Cherry House: Part 1

Y/n POV:

1980's music floated from the jukebox to every corner of the room as easily as smoke, drank up by the regulars sipping away their stressful day with a beer, wrapping them up in the easy atmosphere of the pub. Bottles rattled against the stained wooden tables, the sound of it slamming back to the surface accompanying right after. The warm stringed lights dangling off of the exposed black pipes running in every direction along the ceiling achieved that homely vibe that everyone craves in the perfect space to escape from the world and not be judged. 

I glanced around the room, examining each potential opponent. I studied the arrogant group of business men situated inside of the blood red booths in the far corner of the room, chatting and laughing inconsiderately loud. Then the cluster of chefs, waiters and waitresses around the rectangular table from the restaurant opposite.

Player: Your shot.

My attention turned to that of my current opponent, standing proudly at the end of the table, smirking at me to show his pleasure with achieving two consecutive striped balls in the pockets. I shook my head and lined up my shot, bending down to meet it at eye's view, pulling back my cue only to release it sending my spotted ball flying into the middle pocket. I see him straighten up at the sight of it, widening his eyes as one by one, I eliminate the rest of my balls from the table until only the black number eight was left for me to hit. The tension in the room tightens around us as I measure my shot to perfection, sinking the ball and turning around to my opponent who's face had moulded into a frown of embarrassment, the anger churning within him boiling up to seethe out of his eyes. He turned back and signalled over his friends, each coming closer and closer to me, and I stumbled back realising I was cornered...

Tom POV:

We tried sitting as far away as possible from everyone else. Not that I don't want to talk to people, it's just after a long day on set, the last thing you want is to pretend to a room of strangers that you're always the cheery, energetic young actor you've painted yourself as. Everyone had gone to the bar to order their drinks or nipped to the toilets to freshen up. And I was eternally grateful I had not done either of those as my eyes caught a girl in the corner of the room, a group of men narrowing in to trap her like predator to prey. My jaw and hands clenched as I scooted my chair backwards, the screech of it dragging across the floor with my weight ringing out as my heavy footsteps fell right after. I dodged the forgotten chairs placed in every inconvenient spot, rushing past them until I began to overhear their conversation.

Y/n: Look I'm sorry, but I beat you fair and square. The money is mine.

Every ounce of her voice was filled to the brim with confidence. She held herself in such a manner it made me simultaneously fear yet be impressed by her careless attitude.

Player: You're a fucking hustler!

Hustling: the deceptive act of disguising one's skill in a sport or game with the intent of luring someone of probably lesser skill into gambling (or gambling for higher than current stakes) with the hustler, as a form of both a confidence trick and match fixing. And now I understand the problem, and still how I see this as probably quite frustrating for the egotistical men around her, I wasn't going to stand around doing nothing.

Y/n: Don't think that violates any rules though does it?

Player: You little b-

Tom: Hey, back it up.

I shoved past the barrier of men and positioned myself in front of the girl protectively. She shuffled back as I came. The men continued to stare and intimidate, but I kept my presence firm in the hopes they'd eventually listen.

Player: Woah everyone, look. Little boy thinks he can come and save the day!

An ignorant laughter erupted, and I felt my patience beginning to wither away. As I was about to say something else, the voice behind me cut me off.

Y/n: Are you idiots done now?

Why? Why would she say that? I glanced around the to the men, growing increasingly aware there was no way I would be able to protect myself let alone the girl. My palms began to sweat and my breathing fluctuated then at last we were rescued.

Mr Anderson: Okay boys. Fun's over now.

The men turned to the man behind the bar, holding a glass in one hand, wiping it dry with a white cloth with the other. He had dark brown hair, his temples teasing at short grey strands sprouting discretely on either side and his beard was trimmed to a professional standard. His eyes read gentle yet authority beamed its way through. The men grumbled and walked out, not daring to turn back.

Y/n: Thank you Mr Anderson.

Mr Anderson: That's alright kid. Just please don't get into more trouble.

Y/n: I'll try.

She chuckled, and I turned to face her as she grabbed onto the cue with more force.

Y/n: And umm...thanks for trying to help.

She spoke quietly, making sure only I would hear. She tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ear in such a quick motion before hanging her head down and sliding towards the end of the table where she placed the triangle on top and started filling it with the balls.

Tom: Trying?

Y/n: Well you didn't do much to be honest. And anyway, I could have handled them.

I raise my eyebrow at her honesty, not really believing if this was actually happening. I'm not one to be cocky in assuming people know who I am. Believe me I'm not one of those celebrities. Yet I couldn't help but feel confused but amused by her lack of acknowledgement.

Tom: You could have?

Y/n: Yeah. It's not like they're the first angry losers I've dealt with. You kind of learn how to stand up to people like them.

Tom: You seem very knowledgeable.

Y/n: I am. But tell me, what is Spider-Man doing in an old Irish pub in one of the quietest streets in London?

Tom: So you know who I am?

Y/n: Maybe. So what is it, you wanted to be a superhero off screen too, so you came and "saved" me?

Tom: I just wanted to help.

Y/n: Fair enough Spider-Man.

Tom: You know, my name is actually Tom.

Y/n: Well then Tom, thank you for helping, but do you mind, I want to get in another game?

Tom: Okay, but I feel like I've at least earned your name right? I did give you mine.

Y/n: Fine. It's Y/n.

Tom: Well it's nice to meet you Y/n.