Page 55 of Prince of the Palisades

“150 points,” I announce, the machine spitting out a small strip of prize tickets.

Reiss gives me a slow, unenthusiastic clap.

“Don’t worry,” I say, skimming my fingertips across the back of his hand as I pass, “I can teach you.”

“Can you?”

I rest my hand lightly on the small of his back. He’s in a long-sleeved graphic tee and denim shorts today. I guide him forward, chin on his shoulder. With another card swipe, a new set of balls releases. I push the first one into his palm.

“It’s all in the arm,” I instruct. “And the hips.”

“Anyothertips?” he asks, amused.

My back stiffens. “Nope. Sorry. Um, proceed.”

His first roll is wobbly. The game makes a pathetic noise as the score reads0 points.

“So close,” I encourage.

After a couple of practice arm swings, he says, “Oh, that was just a warm-up.”

My brow creases. “Just a warm—”

His next roll is smooth, fluid. The ball leaps gracefully from the incline’s peak into the 40-point hole. The next lands in the 50. Another 50. His fifth and sixth balls swish into the tiny 100-point rims at the top corners.

The scoreboard climbs and climbs. Red flashing lights twirl, a siren wailing. Reiss ends at 480 points, a new high score.

I stare at the long ribbon of tickets he rips off. “You said you weren’t very good.”

“I’m not.” That damn crooked grin. “Locrushesme whenever we play.”

Whatever frustration, embarrassment I have from losing, from himscamming me, quickly dissipates at the light in his eyes. The innocence in his pout. A laugh shudders through me.

Reiss Hayes is an anomaly. And I’m so into him.

He uses his winnings to buy Ajani a stuffed Charizard from Pokémon. He gestures in my direction, says, “For putting up with him.”

She almost smiles, the traitor.

At the front of the arcade is a photo booth. “We have to,” I tell him. “For the memories.”

We don’t exactly fit behind the closed curtains. We’re both too broad-shouldered. I scoot left. He squirms right. Nothing works, so I suggest, “What if you sit on my lap?”

His eyebrow lifts, doubtful. “What ifyousit onmylap?”

“Oh.” My face burns. “Okay.”

And there I am, prince of Îles de la Réverie, second in line to the throne, easing into the lap of a pink-haired Californian boy.

He swipes his card. The touchscreen lights up. Like last night, his breath dances over my ear as he picks a setting. Every motion pushes his chest into my back. I don’t move, too afraid he’ll notice I’m semi-hard in my joggers.

“This one?”

He’s picked the classic design. I slowly turn my face. His teeth tug on his lower lip, leaving it red, a little swollen.

I rush out, “Sure. Definitely. That works.”

“Cool.”

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