Page 105 of One Last Shot

She won’t mind, I already know. Raina’s great about doing whatever I ask of her, and I appreciate that as well as how much she seems to enjoy spending time with Stella.

“So it’s a maybe then,” Petra tells Stella. “We’ll talk to Raina and see if we can set it up. You have to be flexible though,” she says, “because there’s still a chance that it might not work out.”

Stella’s eyes are so wide and hopeful, and she takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she agrees.

Just then the waitress passes behind them, so I flag her down and no sooner has Petra ordered her burger than the pager goes off. We take our drinks with us as we make our way over to get our bowling shoes.

We’re settled into our lane and Petra’s devouring her burger when Stella heads over to get her ball from the ball rack.

“I missed you today,” I tell Petra, leaning over and planting a kiss on top of her hair. The sweet and tangy scent of her shampoo overwhelms my nostrils, a welcome relief from the musty smell of floor polish, fried food, and beer. Even though this bowling alley is sparkly and new and right in Times Square, it still smells like any other bowling alley I’ve ever been in, minus the smoky air.

She swallows her bite and tilts her chin up toward me. “I missed you too.” Then she leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder as I curl my arm around her.

I take a deep breath as I push away my thoughts, because since I’ve been back from LA my brain has been arguing with itself—screaming at me that I need to have a serious talk with her about our past, and simultaneously insisting that I not ruin what we have with the bullshit of our parents’ misdeeds.

None of that was us. That was our parents and their stupid choices. Don’t make Petra suffer because your father was an asshole, her mother was conflicted, and her father was emotionally stunted. Everything is so good right now, don’t you dare ruin it,half my brain argues. But the other half reminds me,You can’t build a future on a lie, even if it’s a lie of omission.

“Everything okay?” Petra asks. I’m so busy trying to relax that I forget to respond, so she says, “Your whole body just went rigid.”

I watch Stella roll her ball down the lane with two hands as I say, “Did it? I guess I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Want to tell me about it?” Petra asks, her husky voice so low it unleashes emotions inside me, making me want to both strip her out of her clothes and also spill my secrets.

Stella’s on the tips of her toes, leaning forward as she watches her ball s-l-o-w-l-y roll to the end of the lane, where it knocks over three pins on the right side. She jumps up and down, and Petra springs up off my shoulder, her hands held high as she cheers for Stella.

Then, as Stella rushes back toward us, Petra looks at me and whispers, “Later.”

“Your turn, Petra,” Stella says as she slides onto the bench next to me.

Petra rises, and I can’t take my eyes off her hips as she walks to the ball return. There she slides her hand over and around several of the balls before sticking her fingers into one and picking it up, testing out the weight in both hands. I don’t know if she intends for watching her to be an erotic experience, but I find myself growing hard nonetheless.

“Do you think she knows what she’s doing?” Stella asks me, and because I’m so focused on whether Petra’s intending to turn me on, it takes a second for me to realize that Stella means does Petra actually know how to bowl or is she just making a show of feeling all the balls to compensate for not knowing what she’s doing. I laugh because Stella has excellent bullshit radar.

And then I remind myself to mentally rein it in—I’m with my kid, I don’t need to be picturing all the things I want to do to Petra right this moment.

“I guess we’ll see,” I tell her as Petra walks toward the lane with her ball cradled in both hands in front of her chest.

She stands lined up with the center of the lane, swings her arm back, takes a few steps forward and releases the ball in front of her. It rolls off her fingers like she’s an expert, none of that dropping that happens with an awkward release. But it spins oddly and hits the gutter before it makes it to the end of the lane.

Stella looks at me like we’re conspirators about to take Petra down. While neither of us is great at bowling, it looks like we’re both better than Petra.

The woman in question turns toward us, rolls her eyes, and shrugs. She takes off the jean jacket she’s wearing over a lightweight black sweater dress. It’s fitted with sleeves that go to her elbow and a deep neckline that starts right at the edges of her neck and descends well into her cleavage. The slit is only a few inches wide, but the visible crease between her breasts has me moving to adjust myself because it’s getting tight in these jeans.

I pull my hat down a little lower over my eyes, hoping that nobody here recognizes me, or her. Now that her show has aired, it’s more likely she’ll start getting recognized in public too.

“Can’t bowl when my arms are restricted like that,” she says as she tosses the jacket on the bench next to me, turns, and walks back to the ball return with her hips swaying seductively. How does she manage to make even bowling shoes look sexy?

She grabs the same ball before approaching the lane. Then, with the grace of an expert bowler, she winds up and sends the ball straight down the lane, knocking every single pin over with a clattering so loud that everyone in the bowling alley seems to be staring at her now. She turns, and gives Stella and me a huge smile before hollering, “That’s better,” while brushing her hands together like she’s sweeping away her bad first shot.

“Shit,” I mutter.

Stella turns toward me and says, “Maybe we need a swear jar like they have at Harper’s?”

“Maybe we need to find a way to stop Petra from kicking our butts,” I suggest instead.

“Hmm,” Stella says. “I’m not so sure that’s possible.”

Is there anything this woman can’t do?

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