Page 16 of Totally Played
I get another Baby Ruth bar on my third go.
“Okay, I need a double, and for you to miss your next two. Come on, double,” he prays as he moves the claw over a stack of Twizzlers. They’re thinner than the others and stacked like they are, he’s in with a good shot at picking up a few if he lines it up right. I lean over his shoulder to watch, and he pushes the lever off to the side too much, and the timer runs out. The claw descends and misses the stack and every other candy bar in there.
I’m half expecting him to start banging the side of the machine, but he’s laughing at himself like it’s no big deal. And it isn’t, but so many guys would be pissed to be losing this bad.
“Alright, I can still draw, you just have to miss.”
“Actually, I like your idea of a double. I’m going to get that.”
“Ha, we’ll see,” he says as I press the button to send down the claw right over the stack of Twizzlers. It closes tight over three.
“Wooo, a triple,” he cheers. Does he know how competitions work?
“You’ve got one turn left,” I say, stepping to the side.
“You take what’s left. I concede. Besides, I really want that giant Snickers. Think you can get it?”
“Consider it yours.”
We walk out of the bar with a Three Musketeers, two Baby Ruths, a Butterfinger, three Twizzlers, a giant Snickers, and a bag of mini-Reese’s. He’s ripped into the Snickers the second we’re out the door.
A delicious scent wafts past my nose. It’s rich, sweet, and smoky. My stomach growls.
“What is that?” I ask, and Calvin closes his eyes and breathes in deep.
“The best barbeque in Savannah,” he replies, grabbing my arm and half-dragging me through the streets.
He pulls me into an alleyway and drops his grip on my arm, turning to walk backward through the dark corridor.
“You’re pretty trusting, you know,” he says, the moonlight illuminating his features in a way too sexy way for a guy who I’m supposed to be only seeing as a friend.
“How so?” I ask, a flurry of butterflies swarming inside me.
“You just followed a stranger into a dark alley. What if I were a serial killer?”
“I don’t think serial killers play Banana Ball.” I laugh, and his stoic expression falls away, and he grins.
“Actually, now that I think of it, your occupation is more suited to serial killers,” he says, still walking slowly backward. I lean to the side, checking past him for things he could trip over, but the alley looks mostly clear except for the dark box shape of a dumpster at the other end.
“Are you asking if I am a serial killer?”
“Sure. Yes. Okay, are you a serial killer?”
He takes another slow step back. I’m pretty sure I can hear voices and music in the distance, but I can’t pick from what direction it’s coming from.
“How many would you consider to be serial status?” I ask, and he stops walking, frowns, crinkling up his brow.
“Three,” he finally says.
I shake my head.
“Oh, well, then we’re good. So are you going to tell me why we’re in the creepiest alley in Savannah?”
“You wanted food, right?” he asks, jumping and pulling down a fire stair ladder. I gaze up, and soft orange lights illuminate the rooftop.
“Where are we?”
“Tim’s, he’s cooking, and we’re hungry.”
