The Undead Pool. Kim Harrison

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      The guy behind the counter turned from changing the disc on the music they were piping through the place. He looked old, but it was mostly life wearing him down. “Three is fast,” he said, then blinked as he saw me. Crap, had I been recognized? “You, ah, need shoes?”

      Trent nodded. “Size 8 women’s, and a men’s 10.”

      The bowling guy’s chair was on casters, and with a practiced move, he shoved backward to the honeycomb wall behind the counter, grabbing two pairs and shoving himself back. “Ah, with the shoes, that will be forty-three, unless you want to include two burger baskets. They come with two complimentary beers each.”

      It was couples night after all, and Trent turned to me. “Okay with you?”

      “Sure.” Oh God, what was I doing? This felt more risky than anything I’d ever done with Trent before, including the time we’d stolen elf DNA from the demons. Nervous, I turned to the bar again. The TV was spouting today’s recycled bad news to counteract the love songs, but the love songs were winning.

      “I got this,” Trent said as I made a motion to get my wallet from my shoulder bag. He was grinning as he counted out the cash. “We’re on a date,” he told the man proudly as he handed the bills over, and I flushed.

      The guy behind the counter glanced at me, then Trent as if he was dense. “I can see that,” he said. “Let me sanitize your shoes.”

      Setting both pairs on a scratched pentagram behind the counter, he muttered a phrase of Latin. My internal energy flow jumped as a flash of light enveloped the shoes. I knew the light was just for show, but it was reassuring, and I took my shoes as the man dropped them before us. The leather was still warm, stiff from having been spelled so often.

      “Enjoy your game,” he said as he handed us a scorecard and a tiny pencil. “All food stays at the bar.” Slumping, he fumbled in a plastic bin. “Here’s your food and beer coupons.”

      Trent was smiling, looking totally out of place despite his jeans and casual shirt as he took his shoes. “Thank you. Lane three?”

      Nodding, the man hit a button on a panel, and it lit up, the pinsetter running a cycle to clear itself.

      “This is so weird,” I said as I fell into place behind Trent.

      “Why?” He looked over his shoulder at me. “I do normal things.”

      Pulling my gaze from him, I scanned the ball racks for a likely candidate. “Have you ever been here? Doing normal things?”

      Trent stepped down from the flat carpet to the tiled floor and our lane. “Honestly? No. Jenks suggested this place when I asked him. But the burgers smell great.”

      Jenks, eh? Thinking I was going to have a chat with the pixy when I got home, I dropped my shoes on one of the chairs and went to pick out a ball. Trent was tying his shoes when I came back with a green twelve-pounder with Tinker Bell on it. Clearly it had been someone’s personal ball at some point, and therefore might have some residual spells built in, charms I could tap into if I guessed the right phrase. Trent eyed it in disbelief when I dropped it on the hopper, but the first feelings of competition stirred in me, and I looked down the long lane and the waiting pins in anticipation. This might be okay. I’d had platonic dates before.

      “You’re kidding,” he said as I sat down and slipped my shoes off to tuck them under the cheap plastic seats.

      “They say you can tell a lot about a man by the ball he uses.”

      His eyes met mine, and feeling spiked through me. Okay, it didn’t have to be completely platonic. Not if we both knew it was the only date we’d ever have.

      “Is that what they say?” he asked, head tilted to eye me from under his bangs, and I nodded, wondering why I’d said that. The shoes were still warm, and I felt breathless as I leaned to put them on. Trent slowly rose, his motions out of sync with the sappy love song, but oh so nice to watch. I fumbled my laces and had to start over when he stopped at a rack and lifted a plain black ball with an off-brand logo. “This one looks good.”

      Good. Yeah. What I liked was the way his butt looked, clenched as he held the extra weight of the ball. Slowly I shook my head, and he replaced it.

      “Better?” he asked, hefting a bright blue one, and I shook my head again, pointing at one way down on the bottom of the rack. Trent’s expression went irate. “It’s pink,” he said flatly.

      I beamed, tickled. “It’s your choice. But it’s got a charm or two in it, I bet.”

      Looking annoyed, he hefted the pink monstrosity, his expression changing as he probably tapped a line and felt the energy circulating through it. Saying nothing, he came back to our lane and set it beside mine. “I am so going to regret this, aren’t I?”

      I leaned forward, heart pounding. “If you’re lucky. You first.” Feeling sassy, I stood, almost touching his knees as I edged into the scoring chair. The masculine scent of him hit me, mixing with the smell of bar food and the sound of happy people. My heart pounded, and I focused on the scorecard, carefully writing Bonnie and Clyde in the name box in case anyone was watching the overhead screen.

      What am I doing? I asked myself, but Trent had already picked up his pink bowling ball, giving me a sideways smirk before he settled himself before the line, and made a small side step, probably to compensate for a slight curve.

      I exhaled as I watched him study the lane, collecting himself. And then he moved in a motion of grace, the ball making hardly a sound as it touched the varnished boards. Trent walked backward as the ball edged closer to the gutter, then arced back, both of us tilting our heads as it raced to the pins to hit the sweet spot perfectly.

      “Boohaa!” I cried out, since that’s what you are supposed to do when someone pulls a gutter ball back from the edge, and Trent smiled. My heart flip-flopped, and I looked away, scratching a nine in the first box. “Ah, nice one,” I said as he waited for his ball to return.

      “Thanks.” His fingers dangled over the dryer. “But I swear, if you tweak this ball like you do my golf balls, I’ll put fries in your beer.”

      My head snapped up, and his smile widened until he laughed at me. “Leave my game alone,” he said, the rims of his ears going red.

      “You’re going to regret that statement. I promise you that,” I said, and he smirked as he took his gaudy pink ball and set himself up to pick up the spare. Damn it, this was so not smart, but I couldn’t help but watch him. My fingers were trembling as I wrote down his score and stood for my first roll. I enjoyed flirting, and to be honest, it was almost a relief after biting back so many almost-said comments the last month.

      And after all, it was only one date. One night of freedom so we both had something to compare the last three months with and know that they were not dates.

      Just one night. I could do one night.

Five

      He eats his fries with mustard? I thought, watching Trent put the yellow squeeze bottle down and pull his basket closer as we sat at the bar and finished our dinner. The burgers had been heavenly and the conversation enlightening, even as it had been about nothing in particular.

      Happy, СКАЧАТЬ