Chapter Twelve
Astrid
The smell is awful, sweaty and a little bit like feet. Antiseptic spray mingles with the fried food coming from the snack bar.
It’s everything she ever dreamed it would be.
“Bowling?” Quinn asks for the twentieth time. He’s compliant though, lacing up the green- and red-striped shoes. “Only you would think this is a good idea.”
A few lanes down, a ball crashes into the pins and she jumps from the explosive sound. “I admit it’s a little loud and very, very smelly, but I’m trying to push my boundaries a little.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Owen walks up carrying a pitcher of beer and three glasses. He agreed to bowl but said he was only doing it if he could get drunk.
“Is what so?” he asks, filling the cups. The fringe of his blonde hair falls in his eyes.
“That I’m working on pushing outside my comfort zone. Going new places. Stimulating my senses.”
“Is that why you’re wearing a hoodie and a hat?” Quinn asks, walking by and tugging on the cat ears on her hat.
“I’m not wearing the hood.”
He shakes his head and picks through the balls, looking for the right size. “You’re ridiculous, do you know that?”
She looks at Owen, he nods in agreement. “Definitely ridiculous.”
“Whatever,” she says, refusing to let them bring her down. She’s not lying about wanting to bowl. She remembers watching it on TV. It seemed like the fun thing to do with friends. Astrid never had friends.
Until now.
It takes two games for her to figure out how the game works, although that doesn’t keep her ball out of the gutter. Quinn takes to it naturally, landing two strikes in a row and winning the first two games. Owen, it seems, doesn’t really care. He’s true to his word. He just needed to get out of the building—have a little fun. After their intense experiment earlier in the day, she’s happy to see a genuine smile on his face.
She rolls the shiny red and pink-flecked ball down the lane and once again, it bounces into the gutter.
“What am I doing wrong?” she asks, standing over the ball return. The shoot rattles and spits her ball into the rack.
“Come here,” Owen says, picking up a different ball. This one is green, and he slips his narrow fingers into the holes. “I think you’re underestimating your strength. Try a heavier ball, and channel your power.”
She lines up on the small arrows engraved in the floor. His hands touch her waist and he pulls her over an inch. “There, focus on the center pin. And release with your wrist, not just your fingers.”
It all sounds like gibberish to Astrid, but she’s trained enough people to know the little things matter when mastering a skill.
Astrid pulls her arm back and then releases; the ball careens down the middle of the lane. The ball crashes into the pins, knocking over seven, and she jumps up and down and throws her arms around Owen.
The weight of his arms feels good and the pounding of his heart reassuring. She’s getting used to these men, their bodies and the way they feel. It’s good. A change from how things were before they entered her life. Owen lifts her off the ground and she spins, catching Quinn’s eye as he watches the two of them from the scoring table.
“Thanks,” she says to Owen, giving him a final squeeze. “You’re up.”
Owen walks to the ball rack and plucks out a black and silver ball. Astrid moves to sit next to Quinn in the curved, plastic bucket seat at the table.
“Nice frame,” he says, tallying up the score. He’s winning, of course. “Owen’s a good teacher.”
“He is,” she says, watching him set up his first attempt. “We’ve been spending some time together.”
“I noticed.”
She rests her hand on his thigh. “How do you feel about that? Really?”
“I think that we all have a bond—something deeper than a regular relationship. We’re special. Unique, and the first time I kissed you I knew it was something special.”
His response flusters her. “I don’t think you answered my question—about Owen.”
He places his hand on top of hers, linking their fingers together. “I think he’s trying to fit in and yeah, I think he likes you.”
“I like him,” she confesses. “And you.”
The sound of pins falling bounces down the lane and Quinn locks eyes with her. “Good. We’re a team, with people trying to kill us, an arsonist burning down the Swamp, and a supervillain I’m not sure is entirely stable. The last thing we need is some kind of weird love triangle distracting us.”
She laughs, because when he puts it like that he’s right. They’re three freaks trying to figure out how to survive and help their city. Beyond that, they need to just take care of themselves.
Owen walks up, smiling because of his strike—which now puts him in a slight lead over Quinn. Quinn hops out of the seat, vowing to take back the lead, and Astrid can’t help but laugh.
“What’s going on?” he asks, sliding into the seat.
“We were just talking about how happy we are to have you with us,” she says, leaning over and kissing his cheek. His eyes light up and he slings his arm around her shoulder. “And thanks for making us come out tonight. You were right, we needed it.”