by Elle Kennedy
“But I don’t like romantic comedies,” he whines.
The tinny chattering continues.
“No, I don’t. I don’t want to see a movie. If you’re so determined to hang out, then let’s go somewhere and bang.”
Shrieking ensues.
I curl over in hysterics.
“Holy shit, fine! We’ll go see your stupid movie, but you better make out with me, Rupi, and don’t give me any bullshit about not kissing on the second date, because if you were any other chick we’d already be banging.”
The rest of the world no longer exists to Mike Hollis. He climbs off the bed and wanders out of Summer’s room. His flustered voice drifts in from the hall. “I am not a sex maniac! I haven’t had sex since I met you.”
I glance at Fitz. “Is that true?”
“I think so. But let’s be real—it’s not like he was a hookup king before that. He talks a big game, but he’s actually a lot pickier than he lets on. I don’t believe he gets laid half as often as he claims.”
“Oh, he definitely doesn’t,” comes Summer’s muffled response from the closet. “That boy has no game whatsoever.”
“He’s a hockey player,” I point out. “Hockey players don’t need much game off the ice. The groupies are always happy to see them.”
“What do you guys think about this dress?” Summer reappears wearing a white strapless number with fringe on the hem.
“It’s nice,” her boyfriend says.
“Bee?”
“Way too innocent. I’d never wear it.”
“Of course you wouldn’t wear it—it’s not black. Tell me whether or not I look good in it.”
“You look good in everything. It’s disgusting and I hate you, and seriously, you can get rid of half that closet and still look like a supermodel in whatever’s left.”
She beams. “You’re right, this is a great dress. I’ll keep it.”
I exchange another amused glance with Fitz. It still boggles my mind that these two are a couple. Yet somehow the fashion major and the nerdy gamer make it work.
“What are you guys doing tonight?” I ask. “I imagine my dad will be working the team pretty hard this week, so this might be your last chance to unwind, right?”
“For real,” Fitz says. “And I don’t know, we’ll probably just…” He shrugs sheepishly.
Translation: they’re going to spend the whole night in bed.
“How about you?” he asks.
“Probably staying home,” I lie.
“Really? No repeat with the Tinder date?” Summer rejoins the conversation. She drops two faded sweatshirts in the donate pile.
“What Tinder date?” Fitz demands.
“Bee had a date last night. Which she didn’t even tell me about.”
“There’s nothing to tell. We didn’t click, and I’m not seeing him again.” It’s disturbing how naturally lying comes to me.
Summer offers an apologetic smile. “We’d invite you to hang out with us tonight, but we’re going to be very busy having sex.”
Fitz sighs heavily. “Babe.”
“What?”
He just shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, grinning at them. “I have a ton of homework to do, anyway.”
“Sounds exciting,” Summer teases.
She doesn’t know the half of it.
17
Brenna
Jake texts me the location of our date while I’m eating dinner with my father. We’re having vegetable stir-fry that I cooked, and it’s been a mostly silent meal, seeing as how we don’t have much to say to each other these days.
When he notices my phone light up, a deep groove appears in his forehead. “No phones at the dinner table.”
“I’m not even checking it,” I protest. “I can’t control it from going off.”
“Sure you can. It’s called the power button.”
I glance pointedly at the phone near his right hand. He’s already received four emails since we sat down. “You can turn yours off, too.”
We stare at each other. Dad makes a grouchy sound, twirls some noodles around his fork, and shoves them in his mouth.
I don’t open Jake’s message until I’m upstairs in my room. My jaw drops when I learn where we’re going tonight.
ME: Bowling????
* * *
JAKE: What do you have against bowling?
* * *
ME: Nothing. But I suck at it, so if you’re hoping for any sort of competition, you won’t get it from me.
* * *
JAKE: No competition necessary. Let’s just have fun. You cool with it?
* * *
ME: Sure, what the hell.
* * *
JAKE: Meet around 8?
* * *
ME: Sounds good.
That gives me an hour and a half to get ready, but I’ve already decided I won’t go to great lengths to look good for Jake. The only reason I’m going out with him tonight is because he came to the dinner party with me.
Once I’m showered and dressed, I pull up Google maps and load the address of the bowling alley. It’s a twenty-five-minute drive, which makes it much closer to Hastings than Cambridge.
A while later, I go downstairs and linger in the living room doorway. Dad’s on the couch, fast-forwarding through the Harvard-Princeton game from last weekend. Jake is a streak of lightning across the screen, and I wonder if my father would appreciate the irony that I’m about to go meet Jake in person.
“Hey,” I say to get his attention. “I wanted to see if I could borrow the Jeep. I’m meeting a friend tonight.”
“All these mysterious friends,” he mutters, his eyes remaining glued to the screen. “Do any of these friends have names?”
“They sure do.” But I don’t offer them.
Dad snorts. “The keys are in the front hall. Try to be back at a reasonable time.”
I want to say something snarky, but he’s lending me his car, so I refrain. “Don’t wait up,” I say instead.
Jake is already there when I pull into the nearly empty parking lot in front of Bowl-Me-Up. The name of the bowling alley is perplexing to me. Maybe it’s supposed to be a play on “Beam me up”? But a dated sci-fi reference doesn’t quite convey bowling, so I’m not sure what they were really going for.
I park the Jeep next to the shiny Mercedes that Jake is leaning against. Along with our cars, the lot contains a sedan, a pickup truck, and five or six motorcycles parked near the front doors. It’s basically a ghost lot. “Nice wheels,” I remark as I jump out of the Jeep. “Did you buy that with your signing bonus?”
“Nope. I haven’t spent a dime of it, actually,” Jake admits. “This is Brooks’s car.”
“Why does he need a car in the city?”
“Because he’s a millionaire, and millionaires own cars. Jeez, Hottie.”
I have to laugh. “Makes perfect sense to me.” I gaze up at the massive sign above our heads. Next to the words Bowl-Me-Up is a huge neon-pink bowling ball that keeps flickering. “You come here often?” I ask dryly.
“Every weekend during the off-season. This place is dear to my heart.”
That catches me by surprise. “Really?”
“No. Of course not. I picked it because it’s roughly halfway between our houses.” He snorts. “So gullible.”
“Yeah, that’s on me,” I say with a sigh. “I should’ve known better than to believe you have a heart.” I lock the Jeep and tuck the keys in my purse.
As we walk toward the entrance, I notice Jake slowing his long gait to match my much shorter one. “I totally have a heart,” he argues. “Here, feel.”
Next thing I know, he’s grabbing my hand and placing it inside his unzipped coat. Man, oh man, his pecs are delicious. And I can feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers.
“Your heart’s beating fast, Connelly. You worried I’m going to kick your butt in there?”
“Not in the slightest. You already told me
you sucked.”
Damn. He’s right. I chide myself for telegraphing my suckiness in advance.
Inside, we encounter another ghost town. The bowling alley consists of ten lanes, and only two of them are in use. At the main counter stands a gray-haired gentleman with leathery skin that hints at too many years in the sun. He greets us with a smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth.
“Evening, folks! How ’bout some shoes?” His voice is so raspy, it sounds like he smokes two packs of cigarettes a day.
We get our bowling shoes, and the old man with the gray ponytail tells us we can take any available lane. We choose the one that’s farthest away from the other patrons—an older couple, and a group of scary-looking bikers who’ve been taunting and catcalling each other since Jake and I walked in. One of them, an overweight guy with a bushy beard, just bowled a strike and he thrusts his arms up in a victory pose.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, motherfucker!” he shouts.
The man behind the counter winces. “Don’t mind those fellas. They’re harmless, but someone needs to wash their mouths out with soap.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “My dad coaches hockey players. I’ve heard worse.”
We head over to our lane and sit down in the seating area to switch shoes. My boots take longer to remove because of all the zippers, so Jake’s done before I am. “I’ll grab some drinks,” he offers. “Any preference? Beer? Soda?”
“Beer’s good. Thanks.” I’m okay to have a beer or two. I’ll nurse them throughout the night.
“Cool,” he says before sauntering off.
I stare at his retreating back and admire his tight backside. God. I can’t believe I’m on a date with Jake Connelly. What is life?
Sighing, I slip into the really dorky bowling shoes, and then walk up to the screen that instructs me to enter our names. On the Player One line, I type Brenna.
For Player Two, I type Little Jakey.
I lock it in, and I’m still grinning to myself when Jake comes back carrying two bottles of Bud Light.
I grimace. “Bud Light?”
“All they had,” he says ruefully. “This ain’t exactly a classy joint.”
“We’ll make do,” I assure him. “Thank you.” I accept the bottle he hands me and take a quick sip. Ick. This is my least favorite beer brand.
“Let me enter our names in the—” Jake stops, noticing the overhead screen. He sighs. “Really? What are you, a five-year-old?”
“No, but it sounds like you are, Little Jakey.”
“I’ll show you who’s little,” he growls.
“What are you gonna do, whip your dick out right here in front of the Sons of Anarchy and that nice old man?”
Jake pretends to think it over. “You’re right. I’ll save that move for later.” He holds out his bottle. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
For the second night in a row, we clink our drinks together. This is all sorts of wrong, and not only because he plays for Harvard. I don’t usually date. I haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Eric, and I haven’t wanted one. And for argument’s sake, even if I did want a boyfriend, Jake is the last candidate I should consider for that position. He’s moving to Edmonton in a few months. What kind of relationship could we even have?
I look around the not-so-lively bowling alley, taking in the sounds and sights. Pins smashing together, the loud chatter of the bikers, the bright lights, the shiny wood surface of the long lanes.
What am I doing here?
“Brenna.”
A hot shiver rolls through me at the sound of my name on Jake’s lips. Which further solidifies my conviction that I shouldn’t be here. I hate how much he affects me.
“You’re overthinking,” he says bluntly.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “How do you know that?”
“You always get the same look on your face when you’re analyzing something.” He shrugs. “You’re questioning why you’re here.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I told you, we’ve got chemistry and I want to see where it goes.”
I blow out a breath. “It won’t go anywhere, Connelly, so get that idea out of your head. The only reason I’m here is because you bullied me into a date.”
“Keep telling yourself that, babe.”
Do I feel a little bit tingly when he calls me babe? Yes.
Do I like the sensation? Not at all.
I take a desperate gulp of my beer and then set the bottle down on the ledge. “All right. Let’s do this thing.”
18
Jake
Brenna is a terrible bowler, but she’s damn fun to watch. She saunters up to the foul line in those abysmal shoes, her hips swaying and her ass looking phenomenal in those tight, black jeans. I’m an ass man, and I can’t take my gaze off her backside.
Despite the fact that she sucks at bowling, she gives every frame one hundred and ten percent. Concentration creases her features as she swings her arm back, rotates her wrist, and releases the bright pink ball. Her timing is off and her follow-through is nonexistent, but for the first time in six frames, the ball moves in a straight line.
Brenna cheers happily as her ball careens toward the jackpot. At the last second it veers, knocking over four pins instead of giving her the strike.
“So close!” she wails.
Then she turns around and she’s never looked more beautiful to me. Her cheeks are like two red apples, her eyes are sparkling, and she performs a cute little dance as she shimmies off the shiny floor.
“I’m getting better!” she exclaims.
“Nowhere to go but up,” I agree, and then I get up and bowl a strike.
“I hate you,” she announces when my score appears on the screen.
I’m beating her in the ass-kicking of the century, but I don’t think she truly cares. To be honest, I’m not paying much attention to the score. Usually I’m competitive as fuck, but tonight I’m just happy to hang out with Brenna. It’s been ages since I’ve been on a real date. Last night’s dinner party doesn’t count, because neither of us had much fun. And the cognac at the bar afterward doesn’t count either, because we did more kissing than talking.
Tonight allows me to see Brenna in a way I haven’t seen before. Bowling isn’t the most romantic of activities, but it can give you insight into a person’s nature. Are they competitive? Petty? Are they a sore loser, or, worse, a sore winner? And with girls specifically, a bowling date can reveal whether a chick is high-maintenance. I know women who would turn their noses up at the alley’s sticky floors or crappy beer. But not Brenna.
After I win the first game, it’s Brenna who suggests another one. “Ha!” I gloat. “You like bowling.”
“I do.” She heaves an overdramatic sigh. “I’m really into this.”
I study her to see if she’s fucking with me. But there isn’t an ounce of fuckery on her face.
“I’m serious. This is awesome.” She shakes her head in amazement. “I think I actually like bowling.”
Her visible shock makes me double over in laughter. Once I’ve recovered, I move closer, my tone going serious. “I guess we’ll have to do this again sometime…” And then I wait.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she approaches the touchscreen and says, “All right, I’ll let Little Jakey go first this time.”
But when my name flashes on the screen, it simply reads: Jake.
I swallow my satisfaction. I think I’m growing on her.
She’s definitely growing on me.
“So are we allowed to talk hockey?” I ask as I walk over to the ball return. I’ve fallen in love with a neon-green ball I’ve been calling the Strikemaker.
“What about it?” she asks suspiciously.
“Well, we’re playing each other soon. It’s a big game.”
“It’s a big game,” she agrees.
“Which raises the question—who will you be rooting for when you’re sitting in those stands? Your school
or your new boyfriend?” I flash a cheeky smile over my shoulder.
It’s her turn to double over in laughter. “You’re not my boyfriend.”
“That’s not what you told Mulder…”
“Mulder is a prick, and I don’t feel bad lying to him. Now turn around and bowl, Jakey. I want to check out your ass.”
My grin nearly breaks my face in half, and I’m grateful she can’t see it. For her benefit, I make a big production out of my turn, flexing my arms, stretching forward in a way that makes my ass stick out. I hear a choked noise from behind me. When I turn my head, there’s heat sizzling in Brenna’s dark eyes.
“You’re such a tease,” she accuses.
“I’m just bowling,” I say innocently.
“Uh-huh, sure you are.” She slides off the chair. “Man, is it hot in here?”
The next thing I know, she’s pulling her black long-sleeve shirt over her head, leaving her in a thin black camisole that clings to her perfect tits. I glimpse the lacy cups of her bra peeking out from the neckline, and my mouth goes completely dry. I return to the seating area and grab my beer. We’re both on our second beer, but there won’t be a third. I told the concessions kid to cut us off after two.
I gulp down the cold liquid as Brenna saunters to get a ball, her gait more seductive than ever. She tosses her long, glossy hair over one shoulder, spins around, and actually licks her lips.
Lord help me.
Her first throw knocks over seven pins.
“That’s your best yet!” Standing at the edge of the lane, I offer words of encouragement. “Go for the spare, Hottie. You’ve got this.”
“Really?” she says dubiously. “I haven’t bowled a single spare yet.”