Page 36 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“I thought you had to be older to work in Jersey?”
Vince shrugs. “Where there’s a will, there’s always a way.”
“More pearls of wisdom.” I grab my little notebook from my purse and write the phrase down.
“You’re going to need a bigger notebook,” he muses.
“I figure at some point you’ll run out of clichés,” I tease him.
Vince makes it to the next round and grabs my hips, positioning me in front of the machine. “Don’t hit both the flippers at the same time.” He reaches around me and holds my hands, demonstrating what he means; I go ramrod stiff. “Try to hit the targets with the flashing lights.” His breath tickles my neck as he helps me hit the ball; the entire time I’m just thankful I’m wearing long sleeves so he can’t see the goosebumps on my arms.
He releases his hold, and I lose intentionally so I don’t get another tutorial. “I’m hungry,” I blurt out.
“Give me a minute, and we’ll grab something to eat.” Vince goes to speak to the same bored guy behind the counter, and I try to figure out why I’m having these bizarre reactions to Vince—my extorter, need I remind myself.
Wait, is extorter a word?
Ugh, who cares!
Vince’s back is to me, and I can’t see what’s happening, but he and the employee walk over to the claw machine. The employee opens the machine with a key, and Vince reaches his hand inside, grabbing the bear.
He joins me and gives me the stuffed animal, my mouth hanging open. “How?”
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“You’re repeating maxims,” I inform him.
“Bears repeating.” He nods to the bear.
“Stop,” I groan, but inwardly I’m beaming as he ushers me to the exit.
“Here you go. Have fun.” Vince hands a little kid with his grandma our cup of quarters.
Damn. He’s Stockholm syndroming me so hard right now.
We step outside and stroll down the boardwalk, the sun readying for the big show. Vince buys us hot dogs, and we grab a bench overlooking the water.
“Did you get ketchup?” I ask, unwrapping my dog.
“No, because only mustard goes on a hot dog,” he informs me.
“I want ketchup.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t facilitate that kind of atrocity.”
“Has the wordsmith ever tried ketchup on a hot dog?” I challenge.
“No, because only mustard goes on a hot dog,” he repeats himself.
“A man set in his ways. Howbland,” I taunt.
Vince sighs, walking over to the vendor and returning with a handful of ketchup packets. “A girl who has no taste buds. Howbland,” he counters, handing me the offending condiment.
“Thank you.” I smile sweetly as I tear open a packet and cover my dog.
Vince watches with a mixture of horror and amusement as I bring it to my mouth and take a big bite. “You’ve got a little something…” He reaches over and runs his finger along the corner of my mouth. I watch in shock as he licks the ketchup off his finger, and then takes a bite of his hotdog. “Nope. Still a crime.”
Vince
