No pressure or anything. “Okay. Don’t lose the chip. Beat the players. Take all their money. Easy.”
He laughs, and it unleashes a flush starting at my neck that warms my face.
We settle at lane twelve, and Beckett chats up my future opponents. One guy stands out. He’s tall, in his late twenties, with a look I can only describe as “meth mod”—skinny as hell, leathery tan skin, dressed in blue silk, a yellow tie, and slim-fitting high-water gray pants. An eye-catching ensemble, but the guy is shinier than the synthetic oil on the lanes.
The guy straddles the gutters and in a booming voice announces the rules, a lengthier version of what Beckett told me.
“That’s Nic.” Beckett slides into the seat beside me. “I met him betting; he tipped me off about Wilkes and my dad.”
Nic announces, “Players! You have fifteen minutes to warm up, challenge an opponent, and play. Anybody got questions?”
No one speaks up. They respect Nic’s authority.
“Holy shit, look.” I nudge Beckett to the men closest to us. They’re snorting cocaine, and the fine white powder dusts their facial hair. Sticks to their fingers. White motes dance in the air.
My skin erupts in goose bumps. Or hives. It’s too dark to tell. But I know one thing for certain. I am so exquisitely out of my league. No bowling pun intended.
“Ignore them,” Beckett says, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. “You okay?”
I press my palm to my fluttering stomach. “Aces.”
* * *
After showing off my faux drunken stupor, I shoot a few shitty frames during the allotted practice time. The atmosphere differs from the other games; these are serious players. They’re doing coke and who knows what else, shooting strikes, and fingering those poker chips, analyzing the competition with sharp, greedy eyes.
Won’t they be able to see through my charade? And what will happen if they do? These men will not take kindly to being bested by me.
While I’m practicing, the bouncer holds up someone’s phone. “Whose is this?” he calls, clearly annoyed. “Been ringing for the last few minutes.”
“Shit.” Beckett jumps up. “That’s mine.”
The bouncer hands him the phone. “Go outside, answer it, and then put it on silent. Got it?”
“Sure thing.” To me, he says, “I’ll be right back.”
I throw a few more shots as I wait for Beckett.
He’s only gone a minute, and when he returns, I ask, “Who was it?”
Beckett presses his lips together, then takes a deep breath. “My mom let me off Willa Watch, but Eugenia—the woman she takes care of—needs her tonight. I’m so sorry.”
“Uh, for what?”
He hangs his head back for a second and sighs. “She wants me to come home to watch Willa. I have to go home.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, confused. “You’re leaving?”
“I wish I could stay.” And the pain on Beckett’s face shows how much. He checks the time—five minutes until the game begins. “Walk me to my car?”
I grab my purse, and Beckett takes his bowling bag. We hurry up the stairs and through the crowded bar.
“Chuck, I’m so sorry,” Beckett says once we’re on street level.
Even though my stomach dips at the thought of being down there alone, all by myself, I think I’ve got this under control. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? My mom—” He cuts off with an annoyed sigh when we reach the Accord. At this situation, at his life, I’m not sure. “She can’t turn down a night’s pay.”
“Trust me, I understand.” We’re both leaning against the Accord’s bumper, and I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Don’t worry about me.”
Beckett exhales, his annoyance fading into a smile. “Yeah, I know. You’ve got this.” He pushes away from the bumper and stands in front of me, placing either hand on my shoulders. Then his hands slide to my forearms, fingers gliding over my goose bumps, erasing them with a single touch. “You don’t need me to be great.”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” I say, alarmed at how nice his touch feels. “I’m pretty great on my own.”
“Yes, yes you are.” Beckett steps even closer and cups my face with his palm. “But just so you know, I won’t ditch you again. Promise.”
“It’s okay.” I find myself tilting my cheek into his hand. “You should get going.” My voice lacks any conviction. There’s not as much space between our bodies as I once thought, my knee between his legs. The way his gaze settles on my lips sets my nerves on fire.
I can’t stop looking at those lips. Maybe I’m sleep deprived? Yeah, that’s the reason I’m woozy and warm. I force my gaze north. To those gunmetal-gray eyes.
What the hell happened? I liked it better when I resented Beckett Porter. That emotion was safe. What I’m feeling right now is dangerous. When we were friends, he never touched me like this. Every signal Beckett’s thrown at me tonight makes me hope he has some dangerous feelings of his own. But I’m too damn scared to find out the truth. I need more from him.
“You’re going to kick ass,” he says roughly, breaking the moment. He traces my jaw with his thumb, the tips of his ears mottled red. “If I can get Willa to sleep, I’ll try sneaking back out before the game’s over. But if not, can Fiona pick you up?”
When I nod, it’s more bobblehead than anything else. “Yeah.”
Beckett squeezes my hand and steps to the Accord. Without the warmth of his body in front of mine, the air is cold. “Good luck,” he says, and adds with a small grin, “Not like you need it.”
The game starts in a minute. After debating whether to stay out here with a boy I’m aching to touch, I pivot on my heel and return to the Four Horsemen. I’m dizzy and drunk and sober as I hurry to my lane.
Nic strolls past the players in his fantastical getup. “Where’s Beckett?” he asks.
“Family shit,” I say, my heart a rapid, wild, untamed creature in my chest. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nic shakes his head, unfazed yet frazzled. “Best of luck.”
Most of the players know one another, and it takes a minute until someone wanders my way.
“Hey,” a man calls. It’s generous to assume he’s in his sixties, arms wide and burly, inked with faded tattoos and weathered muscles. A curved handlebar mustache obscures his lips. He’s clad in a stained tank top and baggy jeans, and I recognize him as one of the men snorting coke.
How are his hands so steady?
I manage a loose-lipped smile. “Hi.”
“Down to play?” he calls, hocking a loogie into a cup. I must agree, because he returns a second later with his ball. “Rufus,” the man introduces himself, and programs the game console.
I pop my knuckles. “Caroline.”
Rufus adds my name to the roster, and from his body language, it’s clear I’m not intimidating. Rufus thought this challenge would be an easy win. I love being underestimated.
Rufus is good, but I’m better, and my score rises with each passing frame. In the tenth, I bag two strikes, pushing me ahead. I squeal with delight and pretend to act astonished at my luck in case anyone is watching. Rufus snarls, but snaps his chip on the console and walks out of the Four Horsemen.
Our game ended earlier than the rest, and I casually observe the players while awaiting the next challenge. The usual lot. Either ancient with beer bellies, or sleek and sleazy. I flip Rufus’s chip between my fingers before pocketing it. A few games end and the losers retreat to the back or storm out in anger.
The man playing on lane one catches and holds my attention. He’s my dad’s age, midforties, and his shoes make him stand out. The man is bowling with cowboy boots on. Not authentic horseshit-clad boots. These are expensive Italian leather, polished to reflect the lights shining on us. Cowboy Boots’s jeans are pressed, crease-free. His shirt is a button-down with perfect cuffs, and his dark hair is gelled. An ascot is tied like a colorful noose around his neck. When he
turns from the lane, I gag at the chest hair escaping the low-buttoned shirt.
Cowboy Boots appraises me with a critical eye.
I return to lane twelve on unsteady feet. The men around here don’t notice me until I’m wiping the lanes with them. That Cowboy Boots noticed me makes all the hairs on my arm stand on end.
Players are challenging one another again, but no one’s approached me yet. Will I have to make the challenge? I eye the remaining players. The closest man is finishing up a game.
“Hey.” I wave my hand in the air. “Wanna play?”
My confidence wavers, but I can’t leave yet. I’m relieved when the guy laughs and agrees. He doesn’t bother telling me his name, but he’s on lane eleven.
“Only one chip,” he says, and the game is on.
Lane Eleven isn’t worried about me even though I won against my first opponent, and we get playing. Between frames I try not to think about what almost happened outside. Definitely not friend or friend-adjacent behavior. As for my feelings? They careened off the “just friends” cliff in Dolores Park.
Cowboy Boots clacks over in those impractical shoes and watches as I finish off Lane Eleven, winning by twenty pins. As I collect Lane Eleven’s chip, I assess the crowd. I need to get out of here soon. But I’m stalling, hoping Beckett will return.
Cowboy Boots saunters down the alley, and his scrutinizing gaze churns the bile in my stomach. What if he challenges me? Am I allowed to turn a game down?
“Hey,” he calls out. “That was one hell of a game.”
I flex my hands over the air vent on the ball return, trying to slick away the sweat. “I know.”
Cowboy Boots laughs, perching on a seat by my lane. “You’re Caroline, right?”
My body is full of buzzy energy, but I keep calm. I swallow the hardened lump in my throat and meet his gaze. “Do I know you?” I ask, even though we’ve certainly never met.
“I’m Ray,” he says, smiling charismatically. “My friend says you’ve been looking for some action.”
“Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
He laughs, scrubbing his chin with his palm. “Fair point. Say, if you’re interested, I’m looking for someone to play in the Bay Area Bowling League this Saturday.”
I squint in confusion. “Okay?”
Hopping to his feet, Ray reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. “I was watching you play, and you surprised me. You’re good. I’ve seen it all. You put on a helluva act. Real convincing. Real profitable.”
My stomach clenches. Does he know I’m hustling? If so, he’s not too torn up morally. I take the flyer. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Yeah, not happening.
“Grand prize is twenty-five,” says Ray. “Five hundred buy-in. It’s a closed game, so I ask for a small cut of five grand for working out the logistics. My number’s there, on the back. You hit me up if you’re interested, okay?”
Wait. Twenty-five thousand dollars? For one game of bowling? No matter how tempting his offer is, Beckett’s in charge of choosing our games. I fold the flyer in half, my fingers worrying across the crease. Someone hollers down the lanes, and Ray tilts his head.
“Good luck,” he adds before strolling away.
As mysteriously as Ray and his cowboy boots appeared, he’s gone.
I unfold the flyer and stare at that grand prize money. All those zeros. The flyer explains that the pricey game is a yearly tournament held for players willing to put up the buy-in. Why did Ray think I’d be anywhere near competent enough to play with these people? I mean, I’m good and all, but that’s with the advantage of being underestimated. Of lying. But if I were good enough? I could guarantee Bigmouth’s rent for months with that prize money.
I stuff the flyer into my purse as another player walks up and challenges me to play two chips. I drive my interaction with Ray from my mind and focus. This’ll be my last game. After we begin, it’s clear this guy’s game is razor sharp. I struggle to keep up. Finessing my game, I bowl hard.
The tenth frame is my final hope. I ready myself and shoot. A split. I inhale a cleansing breath and go for the spare. All the oxygen whooshes out of my lungs as the pins firecracker apart, slamming into the gutter and back wall.
“Damn,” someone says appraisingly from the crowd.
I don’t turn around and instead take full advantage of the bonus frame. I put spin on the ball, and it glides beautifully down the lane, fast and slick, colliding with the headpin, a satisfying crack.
My eyes flash to the scoreboard. I won. By two pins.
“Hell yes,” I shout, and jump off the platform.
Someone puts their hands on me, and I jerk away. “Hey, watch it—”
“Chuck!”
Beckett. I launch myself at him and wrap my arms around him, breath labored like I ran a marathon. “You did good,” he whispers into my hair, breath hot against my ear. “I caught the last frame.”
The loser angrily drops two chips onto the center console, and Beckett lets me go to hand over my prize. “How’d you do?”
If I count my buy-in chip, I have five.
Beckett’s face cracks with a grin as he sees the chips in my cupped palms. “Whoa, nice.”
“Let’s cash these in.” I want to jump around and celebrate, but I keep a neutral expression as I bring my chips to the bouncer. “How’s Willa? You slip her some Benadryl so you could sneak out?”
“Very funny. She sleeps like the dead, but I feel shitty for leaving her home alone.”
“We’ll hurry,” I promise, tapping my foot as the bouncer cashes out the chips.
“Guess you didn’t really need me here,” he says, nodding to the money the bouncer shuffles into an envelope.
When I laugh, it’s low and desperate. “Maybe not, but it’s better when you’re here.”
“Oh, really?” Beckett’s grin is cocky as hell.
I shove his shoulder and take the envelope from the bouncer—along with my phone—and count the contents. One thousand two hundred net. Holy shit.
We hurry upstairs and out onto the street. Now free from the scrutiny of the men downstairs, Beckett lets out a wild whoop and wraps me in a crushing hug underneath the flickering neon sign. The envelope of cash is pressed between us. I inhale the fresh air tainted by the muck of the Four Horsemen and a nearby dumpster, head dizzy.
“We can do this.” Beckett’s voice is filled with untouchable hope.
I lean back, all too aware of how our bodies align—chests, hip bones, kneecaps. “Did you doubt me beforehand?”
He shrugs affably. “We both knew this was a gamble. Now it’s a gamble with a profit.”
I waggle the fat envelope. “Hell yeah it’s profitable.”
“The power’s going to your head,” he jokes, his hand lingering on the divot of my waist.
“Hey, you created this monster.” I point to my chest with the envelope. “Now you’re responsible for me.” He’s right, the glory—and money—might be going to my head. I’m unsteady with too many emotions and too much power. I fold the envelope and tuck it into my purse.
“I’m okay with that.” Beckett smiles sheepishly.
I’m acutely aware of how close we are. It’d be so easy—just lean in and finally figure out what Beckett tastes like. Probably like cinnamon. A crowd of bowlers exit the bar, eyeing us as they light their cigarettes, but I’m so focused on Beckett that I don’t care. I’m still afraid, so afraid, but I’m equally impatient.
I lift onto my toes and slide my fingers through his curls. He lifts a brow, eyes crinkled in confusion. I rest my palm on the nape of his neck, draw him closer. And I do what I wanted to do—what I thought we were going to do—out by the Accord before the game. I lean in to kiss him. But before our lips meet, Beckett grips my wrist, halting me in my tracks.
“What’re you doing?” There’s a thickness to his voice.
“I’m—” My breath catches. Face burning, I scramble for an excuse. Something, anything, to make this les
s humiliating. “I’m selling the act. They’re all watching.”
For the briefest of moments, his hold on my wrist loosens, and his head ducks closer, igniting me with hope.
Until he says, “Sorry,” and drops his hands from my waist. “I can’t.”
Embarrassment burns through my veins. My eyes prick with tears and I start toward the car.
“Chuck!” Beckett jogs to catch up with me. “I’m sorry, but—”
I nearly trip over a curb, but I don’t slow down. “You know what? It was a bad idea. Just forget it.”
Stopped in front of the car now, Beckett rolls his shoulders forward, like he’s fighting his own emotions. I don’t dare feel sorry for him. Because I’m too busy being crushed, deep into the earth, from his rejection.
Once we’re in the Accord, I turn on the radio to drown out any awkward silence.
Beckett cranks the heat, turns down the radio, and steers us toward the Bay Bridge. The Bay Lights ripple and wink against the night. “About what happened—”
“Please? Can we not talk about that right now?” I say, my voice a pathetic whisper.
“Okay.” His jaw is set, eyes focused on the road, but he turns up the radio.
The thirty-minute car ride is peak awkwardness, and I fold into myself. Dying to get away from him and what I just did.
Beckett barely pulls to a stop at the base of my street, and I throw open the door. Before I can dash out of the car, he grabs my forearm. “Wait. Please?”
I need to get out of this car. More important, I need to get far, far away from him. But the soft, desperate tone of his voice stalls me. “What? I’m fine. It was an act, okay? I’m only upset because… our cover was probably blown.”
One by one, his fingers unfurl from around my arm. “Right. The cover.” Beckett studies my face, but I don’t betray any hint of emotion. “I just don’t want you thinking that I don’t care about you. We’ve been friends…”
My hearing goes fuzzy after that. Because there it is. The reason why he doesn’t want to kiss me. Why he never wanted to kiss me. I’m his friend. That’s it—just a friend. Last year I always worried, always wondered, if that’s how he saw me.
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