Page 33 of Branded

“Smell what?”

“Victory.” She smirks and munches into the fried snack, proud of herself.

“You haven’t won yet.” I point to the screen above us. “I have my turn left and if I get a strike, your ass is mine.” I tilt my beer toward her. “And as you can see, strikes are my bread and butter.”

“I’m not scared.” She takes a sip of her own beer. “You see, because this win will put me ahead of you, two wins to one win, and if we are going best three out of five, the odds are so in my favor that it’s unreal.”

It has taken us a couple of hours to arrive at the end of our third game, and with each passing minute, she’s loosened up more and seems, at least from what I can tell, to be having a good time. That’s exactly what I wanted. She needed to relax and let everything else go, and just be carefree again.

I’ll catch her swaying to the music or cheering on a small child who is bowling in the lane beside us with his family. She’s incredible to watch. Her energy lights up the room, and it’s like everyone is enamored by her. She even gets cheers from the nearby lanes when she gets a strike.

“Do you want another drink? You’ll need it for the disappointment coming your way.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes to the drink, and I’ll be ignoring the rest of that comment.”

I type in the order on the screen and send it over to the bar.

“While you wait on that, watch and learn, Wanda.” I rise from my seat next to her and grab the bowling ball from the returner.

“What can I learn from mediocre technique?”

“Ouch. You’re feisty after a couple beers.” I step up onto the oiled, wooden floors and toward our lane.

“So I’ve been told.”

I line up my shot, making sure my stance is just the way I want, and I take two steps, pull my arm back then sling it forward, sending the ball careening down the slick lane toward the pins.

Stay center. Stay center. No. No. No. Not left.

“Ha!” She raises both hands in the air in excitement.

“Shit.”

I only knocked down half of the pins in what is certainly my most pathetic display of athletic ability… ever.

“I’m sorry, whose ass is whose?” she asks, as she rises from her seat and does a little dance.

I scrub my hand over my jaw, making my way back to get my ball when it rolls back up into the return rack.

“You’re even more beautiful when you’re happy like this.”

“Do I not always look happy?” She stops dancing and steps a little closer to me.

“That’s not what I mean. You’ve always had this tense, less than sure, vibe about you, at least around me. I’m glad you’re able to be like this though.”

“You’re just trying to deflect from the fact I just beat you.” She crosses her arms across her chest, like she’s trying to protect herself from something, but her smile doesn’t match her posture.

“And you’re trying to deflect from the fact I just gave you a compliment and you don’t want to accept it.”

She drops her gaze for a fleeting moment then brings it back up to me.

“You make me nervous, that’s all.”

I, very slowly so she knows my intent, reach out and slide my hand around her body and lay it flat at the small of her back.

“Don’t be nervous with me.” I give her a gentle pull toward me, and I can feel the warmth of her body. She’s flushed all over from the alcohol, and she’s radiating heat.

“I can’t help it. You’re just very,” she pauses and places her hand on my chest, “intense.”

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