“Sounds good to me.” He rubs his thighs, keeping his focus on the floor in front of him.
“Before you get excited, you have to earn my silence.” Keeping close-lipped, I continue, “Meaning, each round we bowl, if I hit more pins than you, you have to answer one of my questions. If you hit more pins than me, then we are silent for the next round, so on and so forth. Is it a deal?” I hold out my hand, which he eyes suspiciously. “If you don’t agree, then I’m just going to bug you all night until I drive you crazy. Take your pick.”
Thinking about it, his strong and chiseled jaw moves back and forth until he takes my hand in his and nods toward the lane. “It’s your turn.”
As a matter fact, it is. Here’s to beginner’s luck.
Standing, I point at Colby, walking backward. “Get ready to go down, Colby.”
He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his seat, giving me his full attention. Perfect. I’m going to make it damn hard for him to take his eyes off me.
Bending at the waist, my ass pointed right at him, I pick up my ball and saunter toward the lane. I’m not good at bowling. I just chuck the ball down the lane and hope for the best. With a swing of my arm behind me, I toss the ball into the air, landing it right in the gutter.
Damn.
Turning around, I make eye contact with Colby who has a small smile playing at his lips, looking cocky as sin, and completely pleased with himself. Hell, I might not have knocked any pins down, but that one little look from him?That’sall I need.
Pointing at him, singling him out, I say, “If we tie, I still get to ask you a question.”
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I’m making an amendment.”
“Overruled.”
“You can’t overrule my amendment. It doesn’t work like that. We have to bring it to the voting committee.” Raising an eyebrow at me, I announce to the group, “All those in favor of ties between Colby and me going to me, please raise your hand and say ‘yay.’”
In unison, everyone says, “Yay,” and raises their hands. Colby whispers something under his breath, but given the heavy music and noise of bowling surrounding us, I don’t catch what he says. But I’m guessing it was a slew of curse words.
I end up hitting one pin on my next roll and gloat about it. That’s until Colby steps up and knocks down all but one pin on his first round.Crap. I might have underestimated his ability to bowl. I’m also thinking I’ve been played.
Again.
* * *
Idown the rest of my beer and set it on the table. After losing two games, not to mention every round to Colby, I’m drowning my sorrows in beer, watching everyone else bowl, not even bothering to try.
Talk about a bet that goes horribly wrong. Was it too much to ask to at least beat him once? It was like a massacre out there, him hitting pin after pin while I spent most of my time taking the free ride down the gutter.
The black lights illuminate the area, neon balls stretching down the length of the lanes, hitting the purple pins, scattering them into a dark abyss. “No Diggity” plays through the speakers, a deep bass booming through the bowling alley, setting the mood as Colby returns from the bathroom.
Head turned down, pushing the sleeves of his white Henley up his arms, he swaggers toward me. His jeans hang low on his hips, held up by the same brown belt he wore the other night. His narrow waist directs my eyes to the center of his jeans, and I can’t help wonder what might be behind the crotch of his pants.
And then there is his chest. Barrel like, broad and prominent. His thick biceps showcase his strength, and the fabric of his shirt stretches over his shoulders and forearms. Having spent a lot of time at the gym, I’ve seen every body type, but Colby’s is different. He’s strong, built, but not like a body builder. His body seems to suggest the only kind of weight he’s been lifting is his own body, pushup after pushup. I can’t imagine there being barbells in his workouts, but I can imagine logs, cadets, and heavy machinery. He has working muscles, the kind you earn from hard, dedicated work on the field.In a word? Impressive.
Walking up to Stryder, he grips his friend’s shoulder and says something into his ear. A smirk crosses Stryder’s face before he moves over to our side of the bowling alley and takes Colby’s place.
Is he leaving? Already?
Might as well at this point. It’s not like he’s going to talk to me, not after my pathetic attempt at a bet. I should have known I was going to hang out in the gutter all night. It’s where I usually am when I’m bowling. I blame the ball. The thing has a vendetta against me.
Sighing, I prop my chin in my hand and watch Stryder expertly toss his ball down the lane, getting a strike . . . once again. And just like every other strike, he pumps his arm up in the air and celebrates. We get it, you’re good, no need to—
“Hey.”
That voice . . .
Stunned, eyes wide, not able to move, not wanting to scare him away, I keep my eyes trained forward, soaking in that beautifully deep voice of his for a brief moment before saying, “Hey.”
