Page 36 of 7 Days and 7 Nights

JoBeth didn’t turn around. She just kept staring right into Dawg’s eyes.

“Right. Well. It looks like the beer’s here,” Paul continued.

He got no response.

“And the other team’s about ready to start.”

Neither Dawg nor JoBeth moved a muscle.

“Fine. I’ll, uh, go coach Emmylou a bit. I don’t think she’s ever been up against Todd’s bunch before.” Paul backed away from them slowly, a puzzled frown on his face.

“You really think Paul should be jumping some strange woman’s bones?” Dawg asked.

“No. But he’s a free agent, and it’s obviously what the woman wants. For some reason she’s just not coming out and saying so.”

“Unlike you.”

“I’ve always been direct. When did it start bothering you?”

Dawg shrugged. He was in no mood to rehash her ultimatum, but he was ready to demonstrate her plan’s fatal flaw. “So what exactly do you see happening now?”

“Well, I guess we both get out there and meet new people.”

“Okay.” Dawg shrugged again, careful to keep his expression casual.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’m ready to get started, if you are.” He didn’t allow himself to smile at her stunned expression. Instead, he aimed an obvious glance at Emmylou’s backside and let his gaze run up the blonde’s body to linger on her breasts. Then he turned back to JoBeth, who seemed to be grinding her teeth. “There’s no time like the present.”

???

By the middle of the second game, JoBeth couldn’t decide which irritated her more—the way Emmylou managed to shake and wiggle her incredibly large behind at every opportunity, or the fact that Dawg obviously relished the show.

If Dawg had always been aware of Emmylou’s way-too-obvious charms, he’d been smart enough to hide it. Until tonight. Now he appeared to be president of the Emmylou fan club and kept shouting things like, “Nice frame, Em. Try to release it like I showed you.”

Midway through the first game, Dawg had started coaching Emmylou. During a break in play, with the whole damn alley looking on, he’d pulled her backside to his front and led her through the approach and release of the ball—not once but several times. Neither the hands-on demonstration nor the verbal coaching appeared to be doing much for Emmylou’s game, but it was having a decided effect on JoBeth’s.

During the third or fourth frame, she’d begun picturing Emmylou’s face on the headpin. Now, every time she got up to bowl, she tried to knock the woman’s block off.

Her last two turns had been strikes, and she couldn’t seem to bowl anything less than a spare.

Beyond annoyed, JoBeth waited for Emmylou to finish her turn. It took the big-haired blonde two tries to knock down five pins, but you’d have thought she’d just won a spot on the pro tour the way Dawg was grinning at her.

“Thatta way, Emmylou. I swear you’re a natural,” he shouted.

With a triumphant smile on her face, Emmylou stepped off the alley and brushed past JoBeth. Like a country-fried Marilyn Monroe, she led with her bust and let her flower-covered fanny jut out behind as she made her way toward Dawg.

JoBeth looked down at her hands. She flexed them for just a moment, imagining the feel of them wrapped around Dawg’s twenty-inch neck. She looked up to meet his knowing gaze and decided she’d settle for another strawberry rhubarb pie—or better yet, a lifetime supply of them.

At the score table, Emmylou draped herself over Dawg, turning sideways to sandwich his left shoulder between her doughy breasts like a ham caught between two slices of rye.

“How was that, Dawgie?” The woman’s voice had gone Marilyn too, all breathy and suggestive.

JoBeth wanted to puke.

“Perfect, Em. Your game is definitely improving.’’ Dawg let his hand slip down to cup Emmylou’s backside—the one JoBeth wanted to kick to kingdom come. Emmylou basked in Dawg’s attention like a kitten in the sun and carefully avoided meeting JoBeth’s eyes.

And then Paul—thank God for Paul—was stepping up behind her and turning her gently back around to face the lane. “I think this is where I’m supposed to tell you something moving and important, like ‘Let’s win this one for the gipper,’ or ‘Don’t let him jerk your chain,’ but all I can think of is ‘Knock the shit out of those pins, JoBeth.’ That man is not seriously interested in replacing you with that blonde blow-up doll.”

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