FEMALE BOWLERS HAVE BALLS.
I smooth down the peeling sticker on my bag and set the double-sized bowling ball carrier on the floor beside one of the bar’s lower tables. I plop myself on the metal chair with the torn vinyl seat and tug off first one mud-encrusted work boot, then the other. The neon signs on the walls flicker through the haze of cigarette smoke, making my eyes water. Spilled beer puddles on the table’s surface.
Reaching to the side, I bang the heels of the boots against the inner rim of the garbage can, knocking off the day’s dried muck. Could’ve just used the black-and-gray-checkered linoleum floor, but the waitress and the bartender are friends of mine. No need to make more work for them.
Out of my bag I pull bowling shoes, a used pair bought from this very alley the year they upgraded to new ones. Hey, when you find a set that fits, you hang on to them. They slide onto my feet like my most comfortable bedroom slippers—if I owned bedroom slippers.
“How about a beer, Flynn? We’ve got a couple of new microbrews on tap.”
I glance up from tying the laces, pulling my dirty-blonde ponytail out of my face and throwing it over my shoulder to hang halfway down my back. Allie stands beside the table, order pad in one hand and pen in the other. Not like she needs either one, but she says they’re her version of a security blanket. My eyes trail up her long, shapely legs in the way-too-short miniskirt the manager makes her wear. A white button-down blouse hangs open almost to her belly button, where she has the tails tied in a knot.
Strictly look but don’t touch. Steve, the bartender, is her boyfriend, and they make a great couple.
“Hey, Allie,” I return. She prefers Allison, but everyone calls her Allie because, hey, she works in a bowling alley, and she’s certainly never heard that one before. She gave up fighting it long ago. My thoughts shift to the handful of change and a few crumpled singles in my pocket—enough money for the lunch truck at the construction site tomorrow and one game. “Um, gonna have to pass on the beer. I’d love some water, if you don’t mind me hogging up a table.” I gesture toward the bar’s exit opening out to the lanes.
Allie pops her gum. The faint scent of peppermint carries across the space between us. She makes a show of scanning the bar. Two old guys on stools at the counter. Four ladies in matching team shirts around a table on the far side, a half-dozen empty Bud Lites between them. Dave and Charlie, a couple of guys in their forties, guys I’ve seen before and occasionally bowled against, take up two other seats, doing exactly what I’m doing: putting on shoes, strapping on wrist support bands, wiping their sweaty fingers with rosin bags out of habit rather than current need, or applying New-Skin to old cuts and scrapes.
Lots of empty tables.
I pull out my own New-Skin bottle, almost empty, and open it. The pungent antiseptic odor rocks me back in my seat until a hand wave clears the air. A couple of dabs seal over a cut on my thumb I got when my saw slipped this morning.
“Oh yeah, I’m really swamped,” Allie says. “Don’t know how I’ll manage all the orders.” She holds out her empty notepad for me to see, then flips the chair opposite me around and straddles it, her twirly miniskirt draping to either side and barely covering the tops of her thighs. I swallow and focus on tightening my wrist support band. She leans her arms across the seat back. “Tapped out again?”
I work up a lopsided grin for her. “It’ll be okay. New job—that apartment complex going up in Festivity. Steady work for over a month now, but I’m still living paycheck to paycheck. We went a long time before the company got this contract, none of the others were hiring temps, and I don’t get paid again until day after tomorrow.” I glance around at the pitiful prospects Kissimmee Lanes has to offer tonight. “That’s why I’m here, actually.” When I’d much, much rather be in a hot shower. I worked the site all day in Florida’s famous ninety-plus heat and stayed three extra hours off the clock to help my foreman and friend, Tom, with the paperwork. Every muscle in my body aches, and my head hurts from dehydration.
Allie follows my thoughts. “Doesn’t look good. Everyone here knows you, even if you’ve been avoiding us lately.”
I pout at her.
She tucks the pen behind her ear and reaches across to pat my shoulder. I suppress a wince. Took a loose board to that shoulder this afternoon, and the bruise will be a beaut. “I know you aren’t really hiding from us,” she says. “Believe me, I understand ‘broke.’ Maybe you’ll get lucky. We’ve had some newbies over the past few weeks.” Allie pulls the bar rag from her waistband and wipes down the table, then stands. “Hang in there. I’ll grab you some water.” She flounces off, her skirt flipping up a little when she turns, revealing black boy-shorts underneath.
Oh yeah, I’ll look plenty.
In the lanes area, it’s all family friendly. If Allie goes out there to take orders, she buttons a few more shirt buttons and is careful not to bend over. In the bar, it’s all about the guys and the tips.
“You hoping to pick up a game?”
The shadow that falls across my table is wide, the voice a rich baritone, but the grin on the sunburned, freckled face seems genuine enough. I gesture at the chair Allie abandoned. “Maybe. What’s the bet?”
He’s a little older, this big hulk of a man who takes a cautious seat as if he’s worried it might collapse beneath him. Given the way the metal squeaks in protest, it just might. Late twenties, shaggy brown hair, all muscle, no fat on his body. His biceps strain the fabric of the white cotton T-shirt he wears. He drops a double-ball bag beside him; the equipment rattles inside, and the polyurethane balls clonk against each other with a familiar resonance.
Lots of strength in his arms. Two bowling balls. Personal gear. He takes the game seriously. Invests money in it. Doesn’t mean he averages high, but….
My mind screams bad bet, but I need the cash. My truck’s gas gauge arrow teeters on empty. Can’t collect a paycheck if I can’t drive to work the next two days. I’m lucky today happens to be Wednesday—the night Kissimmee Lanes hosts unofficial pickup games and bets quietly change hands to the winners.
If my girlfriend, Genesis, were here, she could ask the spirit world about the guy’s skills. My lips curl upward. Gen works as a psychic, gets paid well for it, and probably wouldn’t appreciate me asking her for something so trivial. She takes her job seriously, even if I don’t necessarily believe everything she thinks she does. She believes in it, and I believe in her.
“Lady’s choice,” the guy says, scanning me as well and bringing my thoughts back to the current decision—the bet and how much. Right. He glosses over my face, eyes lingering on my upper arms and the muscles there. I’m not ripped or anything, not defined like a bodybuilder or weightlifter, but hauling tools, cinder blocks, and bags of cement mix around keeps me in good shape. His once-over ends on my open bag and the solitary blue bowling ball beside the boots I carefully tucked inside it.
That ball cost me a hundred and sixty bucks, custom-drilled to fit my hand and the odd double-jointedness of my right thumb, and worth every penny. I’ve had her since college. She’s gotten some nicks and scratches, had a couple of repairs, but she’s served me well.
“Let’s say, twenty?” I offer, biting my lower lip. I don’t have twenty dollars, not on me and not in the bank. If I lose, I’ll have to borrow from Steve and Allie. That will suck, but it won’t be the first time, and I always pay them back.
God, once upon a time I made a good annual salary, owned a condo, drove a decent car. Now… I shake off the pity party and focus.
Normally I’d go for fifty, but I don’t know this guy. The other scattered players watch our interaction. Charlie grins at me from his table. Dave snickers into his rum and Diet Coke.
I can’t tell if they’re laughing at me or at my would-be opponent. They certainly won’t drop me any hints about his skill level, considering how many times I’ve kicked their asses over the years.
My companion’s eyebrows rise. “Twenty, huh? You sure about that, honey?”
Honey? “On second thought, let’s make it thirty.”
He holds out his hand, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Thirty it is.”
Shit, I just got played. I roll my eyes ceiling-ward and smile back so he knows I’m aware of it. And willing to accept the consequences of my egotistical stupidity.
“I’m Kevin. Kevin Taylor.”
Taylor. Taylor. Why do I know that name?
Then it hits me. The trophy case next to the shoe rental desk. First Place Team Captain, 2008. Perfect 300 Game, 2007.
“Flynn Dalton.” I accept the handshake. His swallows mine in a firm, self-assured grip.
Oh, I’m so screwed.