Author: Quinn, Meghan
Category: Other
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“It’s a seven. No way in hell my finger will fit in that thing.”
“Roll it granny style.”
Shaking my head, I walk past him with my size fourteen in hand. “There is something seriously wrong with—”
I don’t finish my sentence. I’m brought to a dead stop. The sounds of pins being reset and bowling balls traveling down the slippery lanes fade out when I spot two very familiar girls standing at the shoe desk, laughing and looking around, both dressed casually. One has blonde hair piled on top of her head, the other has brown waves cascading down her back. Fuck.
Stryder comes up behind me and pats me on the back. “Uh, did I forget to tell you that Ryan and Rory were going to be here too?”
Just from the mere sight of her again, my heart pounds erratically—thumping, palpitating—sending my lungs into a frenzy. Gasping for air. Every night she’s been in my dreams, that sweet voice rolling over me, comforting me. Her tiny hand pressed against my chest, wandering up my neck, playing with the short strands of my hair. Those mossy-green eyes connecting with mine, pleading with me to stay, to talk, to spend a few more minutes with her.
She’s haunted me.
She’s imprinted herself in my mind, despite how many times I’ve chastised myself to let go, to forget her.
And now she’s here. Only a few feet away, looking fine as fuck in a pair of tight-fitted black jeans and a bright red, long-sleeved shirt. From her side profile, the swell of her breast peaks past the low V of her shirt, and the color painted on her lips rivals the red on her chest. Oh fuck.
“Your girl is looking hot as fuck, man.” Stryder pats my back. “Good luck saying no to that.”
Before Stryder can get too far away, I say, “I’m leaving.”
Sighing, Stryder turns in my direction, his face inches from mine. “Don’t be a dick, Colby. You’re here. Just have fun. Sorry, but I’m not giving you a ride home and no one else is either. Deal with it.”
Fucking Stryder. Doesn’t he get it? It’s not that I don’t want to see Rory. It’s that I can’t see her. The other night when we were together, I had this overwhelming sense of calm, and that terrified me. I haven’t felt calm since before my dad was diagnosed with mantel-cell lymphoma.
I don’t deal well with calm.
I like the pressure. I thrive off the storm raging inside me, because it pushes me to achieve my dreams, to get out of here, to make something of myself.
The calm. When you give in to the calm, you lose track of what matters the most. That’s when you settle. And it’s when your hopes and dreams are put on hold.
I can’t give in to the calm.
I need the turbulence.
“Colby, are you okay?” Startled, I scoot back, drawing a frown from Rory. Folding her arms over her chest, propping up her breasts, she says, “I don’t bite, you know.”
Shit.
She might not bite but she sure as hell isn’t innocent either.
“Yeah, okay.” Stepping to the side, I try to make my way to our lanes, but Rory must have another idea because she stops me, hand to my arm, her pull tougher than I expected.
“You don’t have to be rude. You can say things like hi, how are you? How was your Thanksgiving?”
Relenting—because she’s right, I don’t have to be a dick—I face her and ask, “How was your Thanksgiving?” It might sound a little forced, a little robotic, but I’m hanging on by a thread here. Being close to her again, hearing the softness in her honey-like voice, spreads goose bumps over my skin; it’s almost too much to bear. Why does she affect me like this?
And my robotic voice doesn’t even deter her, because she puts on a happy face and answers me. “It was okay. Family came in from out of town, Fort Collins actually. Spent the day stuffing myself, and worked it all off this morning at my classes—at least I hope I did. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”
“Spent it with Stryder. It was fine.”
“You didn’t go home?” She crinkles her nose. “Aren’t you local?”
“No need to go home,” I answer, short and not sweet.
Understanding hits her as she nods her head. “Well, I’m glad you were able to spend it with a friend. Are you as good at bowling as you are at pool?”
“Suck at it.”
“Me too, but I do love a good black light.” She plucks at my shirt, and her energy is so joyful and happy as she ignores my rude and moody attitude. It’s as if it has no effect on her at all. Strange. “Looks like you wore the right shirt for a good time.”
Christ.
“It was the only thing I had left that was clean. When I packed, I wasn’t expecting to dress up as much as I have since I’ve been gone.”
“Well, it’s nice on you. Really shows off your . . . pecs.” Winking at me, she leans over and picks up the first bowling bowl her eyes find, a neon-pink ball I have no doubt will fit her slender fingers perfectly. “Shall we?”
Like a whirlwind I’m trying to escape, she sweeps me up into her little world and starts pushing me toward our lanes, while her mention of my pecs swirls around in my head.
“Look who I found all lonely by the balls,” Rory announces to the group, acting like she’s known my friends forever. When they greet her with hugs, and I see how easily she fits in with them, I realize that ignoring Rory is going to be much harder than I expected.
“Rory, Joey, and Colby, you’re all on lane one,” Hardie calls out. “Pitchers of beer are on their way, and Stryder ordered nachos for the group. Let’s get our bowl on.”
Knowing I have no escape from this situation, I plop my bland-as-fuck ball into the bowling ball return and take a seat on the end closest to the exit. This is going to be a long fucking night.
Chapter Nine
RORY
If it weren’t for his lingering gaze, the way he quickly flicks his eyes away when I catch him staring and bites his bottom lip when I bend over to pick up my ball, or the way he grunts when I take a seat next to him, I would have given up an hour ago on this man. But there is an attraction between us, a pull that he’s undeniably trying to ignore, and to hell if I’m going to let him win.
Call me crazy, but there’s a little part of me that believes I met Colby at that party Tuesday night for a reason, like our interaction was meant to be. Like I’m supposed to help him through his journey. His discouraging attitude and closed-off exterior is not going to stop me. What I hope he’s realizing is that I’m incredibly persistent, especially because I detect interest in those dark eyes of his.
It’s there.
He wants more of me. Every fresh intake of breath he takes when I’m near. The way he tries to act like he’s not checking me out when, in fact, he’s constantly eye-fucking me, looking me up and down with those menacing eyes. Yes, I’ve noticed.
“Nacho?” I ask, sitting next to him like I’ve been doing after every turn I take. I hold up my plate to him but he shakes his head. “Your loss, the cheese is so on point.” I crunch down on my chip and take in his bouncing knee. “Nervous you’re going to lose?” I nod toward his leg that he stops bouncing immediately.
“No.”
I pop my last nacho in my mouth and set my plate down behind me, brushing off my hands. “I see that we’re back to one-word answers. It’s such a shame because I really feel like we got somewhere last time we spoke.”
“Last time we spoke, I told you to leave me alone.”
I poke his rock-solid shoulder, the muscle bending my finger back. “Ha, got you to talk a little more with that one. See, you can say more than just one-word sentences.”
He doesn’t reply with a comment. Shock alert. Wanting to break through his icy exterior, I say, “How about this, instead of me bugging you, I leave you alone.”
“Sounds good to me.” He rubs his thighs, keeping his focus on the floor in front of him.
“Before you get excited, you have to earn my silence.” Keeping close-lipped, I continue, “Meaning, each round we bowl, if I hit more pins
than you, you have to answer one of my questions. If you hit more pins than me, then we are silent for the next round, so on and so forth. Is it a deal?” I hold out my hand, which he eyes suspiciously. “If you don’t agree, then I’m just going to bug you all night until I drive you crazy. Take your pick.”
Thinking about it, his strong and chiseled jaw moves back and forth until he takes my hand in his and nods toward the lane. “It’s your turn.”
As a matter fact, it is. Here’s to beginner’s luck.
Standing, I point at Colby, walking backward. “Get ready to go down, Colby.”
He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his seat, giving me his full attention. Perfect. I’m going to make it damn hard for him to take his eyes off me.
Bending at the waist, my ass pointed right at him, I pick up my ball and saunter toward the lane. I’m not good at bowling. I just chuck the ball down the lane and hope for the best. With a swing of my arm behind me, I toss the ball into the air, landing it right in the gutter.
Damn.
Turning around, I make eye contact with Colby who has a small smile playing at his lips, looking cocky as sin, and completely pleased with himself. Hell, I might not have knocked any pins down, but that one little look from him? That’s all I need.
Pointing at him, singling him out, I say, “If we tie, I still get to ask you a question.”
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I’m making an amendment.”
“Overruled.”
“You can’t overrule my amendment. It doesn’t work like that. We have to bring it to the voting committee.” Raising an eyebrow at me, I announce to the group, “All those in favor of ties between Colby and me going to me, please raise your hand and say ‘yay.’”
In unison, everyone says, “Yay,” and raises their hands. Colby whispers something under his breath, but given the heavy music and noise of bowling surrounding us, I don’t catch what he says. But I’m guessing it was a slew of curse words.
I end up hitting one pin on my next roll and gloat about it. That’s until Colby steps up and knocks down all but one pin on his first round. Crap. I might have underestimated his ability to bowl. I’m also thinking I’ve been played.
Again.
* * *
I down the rest of my beer and set it on the table. After losing two games, not to mention every round to Colby, I’m drowning my sorrows in beer, watching everyone else bowl, not even bothering to try.
Talk about a bet that goes horribly wrong. Was it too much to ask to at least beat him once? It was like a massacre out there, him hitting pin after pin while I spent most of my time taking the free ride down the gutter.
The black lights illuminate the area, neon balls stretching down the length of the lanes, hitting the purple pins, scattering them into a dark abyss. “No Diggity” plays through the speakers, a deep bass booming through the bowling alley, setting the mood as Colby returns from the bathroom.
Head turned down, pushing the sleeves of his white Henley up his arms, he swaggers toward me. His jeans hang low on his hips, held up by the same brown belt he wore the other night. His narrow waist directs my eyes to the center of his jeans, and I can’t help wonder what might be behind the crotch of his pants.
And then there is his chest. Barrel like, broad and prominent. His thick biceps showcase his strength, and the fabric of his shirt stretches over his shoulders and forearms. Having spent a lot of time at the gym, I’ve seen every body type, but Colby’s is different. He’s strong, built, but not like a body builder. His body seems to suggest the only kind of weight he’s been lifting is his own body, pushup after pushup. I can’t imagine there being barbells in his workouts, but I can imagine logs, cadets, and heavy machinery. He has working muscles, the kind you earn from hard, dedicated work on the field. In a word? Impressive.
Walking up to Stryder, he grips his friend’s shoulder and says something into his ear. A smirk crosses Stryder’s face before he moves over to our side of the bowling alley and takes Colby’s place.
Is he leaving? Already?
Might as well at this point. It’s not like he’s going to talk to me, not after my pathetic attempt at a bet. I should have known I was going to hang out in the gutter all night. It’s where I usually am when I’m bowling. I blame the ball. The thing has a vendetta against me.
Sighing, I prop my chin in my hand and watch Stryder expertly toss his ball down the lane, getting a strike . . . once again. And just like every other strike, he pumps his arm up in the air and celebrates. We get it, you’re good, no need to—
“Hey.”
That voice . . .
Stunned, eyes wide, not able to move, not wanting to scare him away, I keep my eyes trained forward, soaking in that beautifully deep voice of his for a brief moment before saying, “Hey.”
“Can I sit here?”
Still keeping my eyes trained forward, I say, “Sure.”
My body tingles with awareness of how close he is to me, that fresh laundry scent invading my senses, prickling the little hairs on my arm. My body leans toward his, wanting a little more, searching for anything else he might give me. I don’t know why he’s choosing to engage me in conversation, but I’m sure as hell not moving while he does.
“Sorry about tonight,” he says and he actually sounds sincere.
“Why are you sorry?” I mumble.
Reaching around, he takes my cheek in his hand. The callouses on his palm rubbing against my skin is a welcome sensation. As I’m turned toward him, I steady my breathing. I’m having a hard time slowing my heart rate because of his close proximity, and the unexpected touch shooting a wave of heat through my veins.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to ask me any questions. I didn’t think you were going to suck that bad.” A playful smile tugs at his lips, and my heart sinks to the floor. Oh God, he’s so gorgeous, especially when he smiles.
Matching his smirk, I say, “I didn’t think I was going to suck that bad either.”
“I feel bad.”
“You should.” That garners a laugh, deep and throaty, the sound cloaking me like a shield, protecting me from the outside world, bringing me into a little bubble where we are the only two that exist.
“Ask me a question.”
Shocked, I swallow hard and say, “Really?”
He nods and holds up his fingers. “You get three.”
“Oh, three? Wow, I feel like you just gave me the key to your soul.”
Rolling his eyes, he adjusts his stance on the barstool and leans back, giving us some space, our knees still knocking into each other. “Easy killer; it’s just three questions.”
“Yeah, three questions I didn’t have before.” Tapping my chin, I try to think of good questions, but now that I have him willing and waiting, nothing comes to mind. I wasn’t prepared for this, he caught me off-guard, and now I feel I can’t be strategic about my probing. “Hmm . . . what do you like to do on the weekends?”
“Jump,” he answers.
Searching his eyes, lips quirked, I say, “Uh, you’re going to have to be more specific than that. What kind of jumping are we talking here? Like jump roping? Because that seems kind of weird to do on the weekends, and if you tell me you’re in some kind of jump-roping club at the academy, I’m not going to believe you.”
His lips curve up as he scratches the side of his jaw. “Jump out of airplanes.”
Oh.
Oh.
That’s . . .
Uh, that’s really hot.
“So you just casually jump out of airplanes?”
“I’m part of the Wings of Blue, the academy’s parachute team. We jump every day, at least two to three times a day after class and before dinner, depending on wind and ceiling limits. On the weekends, some of the guys, including Stryder and me, go to Springs East Airport and do civilian jumps. The more jumps we get in, the higher the chance we’ll be considered for big demonstration
s, like parachuting into football games and major sporting events for the Rockies and Broncos.” Ummmm. Did anyone else just hear how many words he gifted me? And seriously? Does the man have no clue how incredibly sexy he is when he talks about something he loves? The expression on his face . . .
“Wow, that’s . . . that’s really hot.” I chuckle. “Sorry, I don’t mean to fangirl over your parachuting, but I guess I wasn’t expecting that answer. You just jump out of planes?”
He slowly nods. “Every day.”
“Anything to get you up in the clouds, huh?”
“Yeah,” he answers shyly, rubbing his jaw. “Okay, next question.”
“Hmm . . . I feel on the spot here, so my questions are going to be lame. Okay, let’s see.” I tap my chin with my finger. “When is your birthday?”
His eyebrows rise. “You’re going to waste one of your questions on when my birthday is?”
“I told you I feel put on the spot. You can’t just spring this on a girl and tell her she has three questions. The pressure is getting to me, and I’m choking here, Colby.”
Shaking his head playfully, he says, “December 21st.”
“Really? That’s so close. You’re going to be twenty . . .”
“Two,” he finishes for me, a tilt to his chin.
“Oh, old man. Have any plans?”
“Is that your third question?”
“I . . . uh . . . no. It’s a tagalong question to my last one. I get them because you don’t elaborate on anything.”
Shifting his jaw slowly back and forth, he studies me sharply, assessing, calculating, waiting to make his next move. It’s intimidating and thrilling at the same time. I’ve never met anyone like him before, so controlled. It’s incredible.
Finally he answers, “No plans. I don’t really celebrate my birthday, haven’t in a long time.”
I can feel my brow pinch together, because the thought of someone not celebrating their birthday upsets me. Maybe it’s because my parents go above and beyond when it comes to celebrating, but my heart hurts for Colby. What’s his parents’ deal? It’s a good question, but one I don’t think he’ll answer at the bowling alley under black lights and lasers reflecting off the wall and floors.