Page 52 of Pretty Lethal
“I don’t even remember the last time I went bowling,” Kai muses as he drives us across town.
“Same,” I agree.
“I went with Hadley and the guys once, shortly after we started college. Hadley had never been.”
“Where was I?” Wilder asks, sounding affronted.
I turn around in my seat in time to see Hawk shrug. “Probably at some party.”
Wilder pouts, looking put out. “I’ve never been bowling before.”
“You haven’t?” I ask, staring at him in shock before an excited grin takes over. “Oh, you’re going to love it! We’re going to have so much fun. We can even get the rails to stop your ball from going into the gutter, if you need them.”
Hawk scoffs. “Yeah, the ones they use for kids.”
“I don’t need kiddie rails!” Wilder protests in a horrified voice. “How difficult can throwing a ball and hitting a few pins be?”
“Probably about as difficult as it is to get a ball past a windmill and into the hole,” Hawk retorts under his breath.
Kai wisely smothers his snort with a cough, while Hawk and Wilder begin to tussle it out in the back seat. I send up a silent prayer of thanks when, not long later, we pull into the parking lot at the bowling alley and all of us pile inside.
It’s a Sunday, so several families are bowling at some of the lanes while older kids play the arcade games or sit in booths in the small, attached diner.
Hawk leads us over to the counter, where the pimply-faced teenager grabs bowling shoes in our sizes and assigns us a lane.
“What the fuck do I need to wear special shoes for?” Wilder grumbles, staring in disgust at the black and red bowling shoes in his hand. “They stink of sweaty feet. There’s no way I’m wearing these.”
“Then you can’t play,” Hawk states. “Those are the rules. You don’t want to offend the bowling gods, do you?”
The dark look Wilder spears him with tells me exactly how little he cares about offending the bowling gods, but all I can do is grin stupidly at their banter.
“I think they’re meant to stop you from damaging the lane,” I supply, sitting down to remove my shoes. When Wilder only continues to glare at his shoes, I reach out and tug him down to sit beside me, nudging his shoulder. “It’s all part of it. Trust me, you want to get the full bowling experience.”
Lifting his gaze, his chestnut hues latch on mine, before he relents. “Fine, but if I get athlete’s foot, I’m blaming you.”
I grin, accepting all responsibility as he kicks off his sneakers and reluctantly stuffs his feet into the bowling shoes. I watch him closely and can’t help but laugh when his face contorts. This whole experience is turning into a nightmare for him, and I’m getting far too much amusement from his discomfort.
Kai plugs all of our names into the machine, and he, Hawk, and I go first so Wilder can see how it’s done before he tries. It turns out Kai is a natural at bowling—easily getting a strike or a spare every time. Although Hawk is a strong player, he is a sore loser and becomes increasingly aggravated as the game goes on, especially as Kai manages to stay several points ahead of him the entire time.
I’m pretty terrible at bowling, usually only succeeding in hitting a couple of pins each time. Not that I care. I’m simply enjoying watching all of my guys bicker and tease one another, and hopefully my bowling ineptitude will make Wilder feel a little better about the fact his ball has yet to make it down the lane without ending up in the gutter.
Kai wins the first game—much to Hawk’s dismay—and I demand a second round, this time with the kiddie rails up for me and Wilder to make it a fair game.
“Fair?” Hawk protests. “That will give both of you an advantage!”
“Your ball hasn’t gone in the gutter once,” I point out.
“So? That doesn’t mean it can’t. You could use the rails to your advantage to bounce the ball off and get strikes every time.”
I arch a brow at his elaborate theory. “Really? We can barely get the ball to go straight. You think we’re going to master the physics of angles to ensure we always get a strike?”
“Crazier things have happened.”
He looks so put out at the fact he’s not winning that I bounce toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his lips, careful to keep it PG since we’re in a family-friendly establishment. Not that Hawk seems to share the same concerns when his hands slide down so his fingers brush the curve of my ass, and he tries to deepen our kiss.
“You’re adorable when you’re angry,” I tell him when we break apart, only causing the furrow between his brow to deepen.
“Little Sparrow, adorable is the last thing any man wants to be called.”
