by Hunter Rose
“I think you need a break. Why don’t you let me bring you somewhere to blow off some steam?”
“I don’t know, there’s still a lot to cram, and I might have plans for later…” I began.
“I don’t think anything else is going to fit in your brain today, and whatever you have planned for later can wait. You’ll still have time after we go have some fun.”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask. A not small part of me is terrified and eager for what kind of answer he has. He smiles broadly and steps back from the booth, shutting my laptop for me and grabbing my plate and drink.
“You let me worry about that.”
“Bowling?” I frown, somewhat disappointed. For some reason, Talon never struck me as someone who would enjoy such a safe, mundane activity as bowling.
“Not just bowling, Duckpin bowling.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Tiny cute pins, smaller ball, three rolls a turn. It’s fun. Come on,” he says, walking to the door. I notice a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging from it.
“It looks like they might not be open…”
“They are.” Talon knocks confidently at the door, and it unlocks and opens almost immediately.
It is mostly dark inside, with blacklights on over the lanes. Only the concession area is lit up. The man who opened the door is walking away toward the back, apparently, his job being finished with the locking of the door behind us, but there is another person behind the concession stand and another still walking to the area behind the lanes.
“What is going on?” I ask bewildered.
“I rented the place out,” he says nonchalantly, walking over to the concessions.
“What, like the whole place?”
Talon turns to me, his face bunched up as if he doesn’t quite understand what else it could mean. “Yeah. The whole place. Except the guys who work here. Hey, is there a bag back here for me?” he asks, turning toward the guy behind the counter. The man produces a duffel bag and hands it over as I join Talon.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask.
It’s not a question I ever put much thought into asking, and yet I’ve found myself asking it of Talon an abnormal number of times since we started working together on our history project.
“Bowling shoes,” he says. “Ordered them when I noticed you were quickly losing touch with a reality that didn’t involve studying every waking second. And possibly a few sleeping seconds, too.”
I cock my head to the side in visible confusion, and with a flourish, he opens the bag and produces two pairs of bowling shoes, one set for each of us. Mine are baby pink, with a swoop of black. His are dark grey with a white mark.
“You bought me bowling shoes?”
“Well, it’s better than renting the old ones. Here,” he says, handing them to me. “Make sure I got the right size. You hungry?”
Despite the fact that I grazed all morning in the cafeteria, I realize I am, in fact, starving. Perhaps a long, grazing diet of cucumber slices and potato chips don’t actually equate to enough meals in a day. Besides, the food smells amazing, and I am dying to get my hands on some bowling alley french fries again.
“I could go for something, yeah,” I say.
“So, where are the holes to put your fingers in?” I ask, and then instantly go red. It’s an innocent question, but for some reason, everything I say around Talon makes me blush.
“There are none,” he responds coolly. I know he knows what I thought, but he won’t say it. “In duckpin bowling you just wing the ball down there. You get three tries though on account of it being harder because of the size of the balls.”
I need to take a second after that one. I breathe deeply, hoping he can’t see my skin tone now matching my shoes, and I step up to the line. I settle into a position, and a laugh comes from behind me.
“What?” I ask.
“The dance. You just did a dance when you settled in,” he chuckles, referring to the hip-shaking motion I make when settling my feet. “I like it.”
I turn back around quickly and run toward the lane, flinging the ball, so I don’t think about the look on his face, talking about my butt shaking at him. I straighten up and watch the ball, intensely aware I otherwise would have stayed bent over.
Three tries net me a spare. I celebrate by doing a decidedly less sexy dance. Shaking his head, Talon stands and moves to the line. I can smell his cologne from feet away. His jacket lays on the chair beside me. I have the compulsion to put it on, even though it’s not cold in the bowling alley. I fight it off and try to pay attention.
Talon runs to the line and flings the ball.
At the next lane.
It rolls to a stop in the gutter on the opposite side, and I start laughing loudly.
“What was that?” I taunt in between fits of belly laughs. It feels cathartic to let out laughter like this. I can’t even remember the last time I had.
“I was trying to bowl a strike. Over there,” he says, pointing at the next lane. “Watch this.”
I try to calm the giggles as he places another ball on the lane to the left of us, which still has the bumpers up. I almost suggested we use it, but it feels too much like cheating when there are no children involved. Talon sets the ball down and gently kicks it, so it begins rolling slowly down the line. Then he stands at his own lane, watches it for a second, and then looks back at me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“For what?”
Suddenly, he takes off, running at the lane. At the last second before he hits the slippery floor, he dives to his belly and slides down, crashing into the pins with his head and shoulders, and then pulls himself out, laughing. The ball on the lane beside him limply falls into the gutter, barely tapping one pin and not even knocking it over.
I am laughing so hard I think I might fall over and try my best to applaud. As he makes his way back up the lane, he bows and almost slips again but coolly regains his footing. When he reaches me, he bows again and sits down.
“Strike if I ever bowled one,” he grins.
“Talon Vance,” I say accusingly. “I didn’t know you knew how to have fun.”
“Oh, I can have a lot of fun with the right person.”
There is a moment where both of us are still smiling, but there isn’t any more laughter. My heart is beating so hard I feel like it can be seen through my sweatshirt, and I wonder if he’s tried to look. If he has ever tried to look. Our eyes linger just too long on one another. I am thankful for the sound of the bell behind us at the concession stand.
“Oh, fries are ready!” I say, jumping to my feet and heading over.
Talon follows closely behind, and we grab our food to settle at a table and eat. I’ve never been in a position of gratitude to bowling alley french fries, but here I am. As long as I’m eating them, I can pretend it’s anything but Talon making my mouth water.
33
Talon
“Bowling alleys, hands down, have the best fries,” I say, tossing the napkin down on the table.
A sound of agreement comes from somewhere deep in Wren as she stuffs one last fry into her mouth. It sounds almost like a moan, and my stomach tightens, and I have to shift in my seat.
It’s good to see her relaxed again. For the past few weeks, every time I saw her, she was more frazzled, with less of the light that’s usually the backdrop of her energy shining out into the world. I wonder how many other people see that light and recognize it for how special it is. So many girls try to seduce me in every way imaginable. Some ways I would have probably thought of as unimaginable before they happened. But nothing compares to the way Wren looks when she genuinely smiles or laughs heartily at something. There is something so free, buried deep in the buttoned-up girl she presents herself as, and when she lets it out, it shines brighter than the sun.
“So, you won the first frame, and I clearly won the second with my patented belly flop attack. Do you want to try for a third and final game?” I ask.
/> She smiles at me again, and I feel the warmth in my soul.
“How did you do this?” she asks suddenly, looking around. Her eyes drift over the empty lanes and the patron-less concession stand with our personal fry cook manning the table, currently playing on his phone.
“What do you mean?”
“This, all this. They are closed. How did you get them to open up on such short notice?”
“I guess I just have a habit of being able to get things to happen.”
“Money,” she says. I can’t seem to read her expression. It could be accusatory, or it could be neutral. It doesn’t seem eager or excited like so many other girls have been when they find out I am loaded.
“That helps,” I nod, waving it off. “What matters is, I knew you needed some stress relief, and I thought you might like this place. Was I right?”
“Yes. This place is great. Did you see they have an arcade with a pool table? I love pool.”
“How about this, instead of me doing any more slip and slide bowling, how about you show me how good you are at pool?”
I point to the corner of the room where a few arcade machines are standing beside the large, slightly beaten up pool table. She turns back to me, and that smile stretches from one ear to the other. I wonder how often anyone else made her smile that way, and then I shove that thought from my mind. The only thing that matters right now is that this smile is meant for one person only. Me.
“I don’t think you are ready for how good I am.”
“I think I have an idea of just how good you are,” I deadpan. The flush runs up her porcelain cheeks again, and I revel in it. Being able to bring this reaction out of her never ceases to amaze me.
We stand and make our way to the pool table, Wren taking her drink with her. She sits it on a stool and grabs a stick and chalk. I try not to focus too much on the movement of her wrist as she works the end of the stick. If I don’t focus on something else, I am liable to make a move and ruin the day. Instead, I focus on racking the balls and setting them in place. I roll the cue ball to her, and she sets it a bit closer to the stack than I think is otherwise recommended.
“Watch and learn,” she says and leans over the table so far it feels like she might as well be lying down. The stick is between her middle fingers, and she is holding it almost in the middle of the stick. She thrusts forward with the stick, and it rips across the felt, smashes the cue ball, hits several of the stacked balls, and sends her toppling over.
“There,” she says, straightening herself as I cover my mouth, laughing, “now you have learned what never to do.”
“Do you have any idea what you are doing?” I ask as she grabs the chalk and starts rubbing so much on the end, I think it’s adding several inches to the cue.
“Nope,” she says matter of factly.
“Do you want me to help you?”
“Nope.”
She climbs back on the table again, this time opting for a bent waist approach, and aims at the cue ball. I can’t help but notice the shape of her ass in the tight pajama pants. It takes everything in me not to stare, but I hazard a few glances anyway. She stretches just a little further, and I turn my attention to the pool table to avoid losing control.
“Eight ball, corner pocket,” she calls, then whacks the cue ball at nothing in particular. It seems to accidentally connect with the six ball but doesn’t move it much.
“Usually when someone says that, they are actually trying to sink the eight ball. In the corner pocket. It’s also usually the end of the game.”
“I just always wanted to say it. I feel like James Bond.”
“James Bond played cards. Not pool.”
“James. Bond.”
“Okay, fine, James Bond playing pool. I get it. Here, let me show you something.”
I risk placing my hand on her wrist. She doesn’t shy away. Very slowly, so she knows what I am doing, I wrap around her, placing my other hand over hers. I pull her arms back into position, and she giggles, but there seems to be more nervousness than humor in it. But she doesn’t pull away.
“If you start like this, you place your left hand down like this and use your thumb to hold up the stick,” I show her the position taught to me. She leans down to put her hand down like mine, and her body molds into me. I can smell the deep floral scent of her perfume, and the clean, refreshing smell of the shampoo she used this morning. Her hip settles into mine, and I try to shift so any sudden bulge won’t be buried into her. It would be far too much for me to take.
“You know, you are ridiculous,” she whispers as she lines up her shot like I showed her. “This is the most cliché…” she takes her shot, smashing the cue ball into a grouping of others and sending them scattered across the board. A few go into the holes, and she cuts herself off by squealing and throwing her arms in the air.
“I might be ridiculous, but I just made you a much better pool player,” I tease.
“Maybe I am just naturally inclined to pool. I just needed the basics. Now I could kick your ass.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I reach forward, and she squeals again and turns away from me. I catch her in my arms easily, and she doesn’t seem to be resisting. I lift her up and sit her on the pool table and begin tickling her sides. She laughs uproariously, and I press into her, sliding between her legs to be close.
The squeals stop. The tickling stops. We are inches from each other’s faces, and I can feel her hot breath on my cheek. Her breasts are pressing into my chest through her sweatshirt, and all I can think about is ripping it off and seeing the glory of her body underneath. I brush my face up toward hers, and our top lips make the barest of glancing touches.
Suddenly, her hand is on my chest, and she pushes me back. I go willingly, if reluctantly.
“I think we should go,” she says. Her smile has faltered, but it isn’t gone completely. I wonder what hides behind those eyes.
I want to rush forward and plant my lips on hers, to force her to make a choice, to take a stand. Instead, she slides off and walks around the pool table, putting the stick back on the rack and turning back to me, as if nothing happened.
“I just think we should go,” she says again.
34
Wren
“So, how do you think they went?” Isaiah asks as I walk out of the building where I just took my English final after sitting for my Biology exam earlier this morning.
“I feel pretty confident,” I nod. “There really wasn’t anything for me to worry about with the Biology one. Do you remember that study session we had yesterday? She went over some of the more difficult questions and helped us study for the right things, so I knew what to expect.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to go to dinner, but you couldn’t because you wanted to make sure you could be there and be ready for the exam even though I know you’d do an amazing job no matter what.”
“This isn’t high school anymore, Isaiah,” I say. “Every single thing I do is important now. I can’t just wing it and hope for the best.”
“You never did that, to begin with,” he points out. “Even when we were in high school. You studied for everything like it was the most important thing you ever did for school.”
“And you were so free-wheeling?” I ask.
He grins. “No.”
He seems to think that’s really funny, but I fail to catch the humor. I shake my head.
“Anyway, it’s a good thing I did go. She didn’t just tell us what we should study and help us through some of the questions people had trouble with on quizzes. She actually went through every question on the test, explained it, and then gave us the answer.”
“So, she basically just gave you how to get a perfect grade?” he says.
“Well, she didn’t give them to us in order. That would have made it even easier. But, yes. She made sure we had the exact answers to all the questions. So, I’m fairly confident I did well on that. Unless it was some sort of r
everse psychology thing to test our ability to differentiate between the real answer and a fake one, she gives us based on our understanding of the material.”
I’m suddenly worried. “Or maybe, what felt like the teacher ensuring those who attended the optional study session had the best chances of being successful was actually a trap meant to trip up people willing to follow something that eliminated the need to actually apply ourselves at all.” Isaiah turns me around and holds me by my shoulders, looking at me directly in the eyes.
“Your teacher wouldn’t do that. It’s not something teachers do. Their whole purpose is to help you understand things. There would be no purpose in her going out of her way to trip you up. Besides, you are the smartest person I know. You would figure it out if everything seemed totally wrong.”
“You’re right,” I shake my head, willing the worry out of my system.
“I know I am. Now, let’s go get something to eat. Unless you want to tell me another of your professors is going to have a last-minute study session for your final,” he says.
I don’t like the way he says that and pause to look at him.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“Hmmm?”
“That little crack about one of my professors coming up with a last-minute study session.”
“It was just a joke,” he protests. “I don’t have any professors handing out the answers to questions on the final, but I guess I’m just not that lucky.”
“What is going on with you?” I ask.
“Nothing. Why?”
I decide to drop it. There’s no point in us getting into an argument now. We walk through campus and end up at the dining hall. I’m very familiar with this particular area of campus. Not only is it where I eat the vast majority of my meals, but it’s also where I make myself a nest in the corner and cram for tests. If there was a way to just take all my courses over video from here, it would greatly streamline my life.