I’m surprised I was able to talk Summer into this. It was a spontaneous suggestion and probably not the best one. Last night, I was trying to think of anything to entice her to stay in town one more day before flying back to Las Vegas.
“Want to go bowling tomorrow?” I’d asked her in the dark hours of the night when I was hoping her resistance would be down. I knew she had an early morning flight booked back to Vegas.
“Bowling?” she’d replied sleepily.
“Sure, why not? Instead of flying out early in the morning, you can fly out tomorrow night. You’ll still make it back to Vegas in time for dinner with the time change.”
“Did my sister tell you I like to bowl?” she’d asked.
“Maybe. When one gorgeous Stanley sister stopped returning my calls, I interrogated the other pregnant Stanley sister until I had all the secret tips I needed.”
Summer had snuggled closer under my arm.
“You do realize that my sister doesn’t know me very well,” she’d pointed out.
“The other option was interrogating Ms. Stanley’s father, which for reasons I’m sure you can understand, was not overly enticing to me.”
Summer laughed and trailed her fingertips down my arm.
“Fine,” she’d relented. “If you’ll stop talking about me in third person.”
I kissed her hair and secretly wondered if she could be talked into anything else since she was in a compliant mood.
“Whatever you say, Ms. Stanley.”
As it turns out, the bowling alley was only a five-minute walk from her hotel. The walk over is nice.
The sun is shining, and I have Summer Stanley beside me.
Although we don’t really talk to each other, she looks content. With the wind batting her long, flower-covered dress back and forth, and the balmy sun kissing her face into an even more radiant than usual expression, she looks almost carefree and happy.
As soon as we step into the black-tinted glass doors of the bowling alley, she turns to me pointedly.
“Just so you know, I’m good at bowling,” she says. “I hope you’re a gracious loser.”
Summer strides past me to the front desk.
She chats with the bowling attendant and gets us a lane for one round and picks up two pairs of the ugliest bowling shoes I’ve ever seen.
“You wear a size eleven, right?” she asks. “I already paid.”
I swallow back my offer to pay, and instead say, “You want to be my Sugar Momma! I love it. Hell, yeah. I’ll be your sexual slave any day if you’ll keep me in my luxurious lifestyle.”
“Hush,” she warns with a smile. “The kid will hear you.”
She tilts her head to the pimple-faced attendant who is pretending as if he doesn’t hear our conversation.
Our lane is the one on the far right, although there aren’t many other people here. The only other lane is taken by a little preschool-age boy and his grey-haired grandmother.
Every time he rolls his heavy ball, she claps her hands together with encouraging delight even when it goes straight into the gutter.
After taking our time picking out our balls and testing the fingerholes we head to our lane.
“Ladies first,” I say, with a wave toward the lane.
When Summer picks up her ball and tests her swing, I nudge her.
“I hope you’re as supportive of me as that woman is of her grandchild.”
I gesture over to the once again clapping grandmother, and Summer smiles.
“I make no promises,” she says airily. “This is a competition and your bright idea, if you need reminding.”
Turning her back on me, she assumes her bowling stance, strides forward a few paces, and lets the bowling ball rip.
A few seconds later, the bowling ball slams right smack dab in the middle of the pins, wiping them out with one blow. As the screen with our scores buzz with congratulations, I gape at her. She walks back with her head set at a jaunty angle.
“Now I see why you like bowling,” I say, with a note of admiration in my voice, “you’re a pro at this. Damn girl!”
Summer sits down on a seat with a noncommittal shake of her head.
I turn to the bowling lane, preparing myself for what’s to come. Although she is clearly super talented, that doesn’t mean I can’t make a good go of it too.
Even if the last time I bowled was at a friend’s birthday party when I was ten. All the boys at the party were trying to impress each other with progressively outrageous ways of throwing the ball. Over hand, underhand, backwards. One-handed, one-thumbed, even bouncing. Clearly, that tactic won’t work this time.
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard somewhere that on the final step, you’re supposed to angle your foot the way you want the ball to go. I stride forward, slam my foot down, and let loose.
I watch dismally as my bowling ball beelines for the gutter. Maybe I was supposed to angle my foot in the opposite way I wanted the ball to go?
I turn around to find Summer chuckling sympathetically.
“Nice try. I see you do this often.”
I slink down on the bench.
“I’m only warming up. You’ll see. I’ll still beat you, so watch out.”
Summer tosses me an evil smile over her shoulder.
“Not a chance.”
The rest of the game advances similarly. Summer gets a strike almost every time, while the few times I do manage to hit a pin or two are the odd times out.
Summer is virtually impossible to distract too. I try yelling out random numbers and equations at her. I try stamping my feet. One time right when she was ready to turn loose of the bowling ball, I threw a loud, coughing fit. She turned around to deliver me a scathing glare and still did better than me.
“Oh sorry, didn’t mean to distract you,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder.
She rolls her eyes at me.
“I’m not easily distracted,” she says. “Not when I’m on a mission.”
“I think I know that already.”
By the end of the game, Summer has a score almost triple mine.
“Not bad,” I say, trying to smile. “If you give me a chance to redeem myself, I’m sure I can win next time. How about double or nothing?”
She shakes her head firmly.
“I said one round. I really do have to head to the airport soon. I’ve already changed my flight once.”
My lips seal together in a firm line.
“Suit yourself. How about a chocolate milkshake then before you go?”
Summer’s face softens.
“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “A milkshake sounds great. I can’t remember the last time I had one.”
My heart leaps.
I’m hanging onto any reason to keep her around a little longer. Once she returns to Vegas, the magical spell we’re in will be broken. Her Dad will get to her and convince her not to see me again. From what I can tell, he’s a tough old bastard who is used to getting his own way about everything.
My next race is in Vegas too. Something tells me I’ll be going head-to-head with her Daddy.
The milk shake joint next door is deserted. Summer and I wait a good ten minutes for someone to come out and greet us. Giving up, I walk to the door leading to the back, open it and yell, “Hello. Anyone home?”
Half a minute later, a short, brunette hurries out.
“So sorry about that! How may I help you!”
I open my mouth to respond, and she staggers back a few steps with a high-pitched gasp.
“I know who you are! You’re Johnny Jones! The racecar driver!”
Inwardly, I sigh. Behind me, I can almost hear Summer shriveling in her seat. What is it about being with Summer that makes every woman fling themselves at me even more than normal?
“No, sorry,” I say. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
The girl’s face falls.
“You really look like him,” she says a bit defensively, hands on her thick hips.
“I know,” I say. “People tell me that all the time. If only I had his money.” Jabbing my thumb back at our table, I say “We’d like two chocolate milkshakes, please.”
The waitress stands there for another minute or so, then, sticking out her lower lip, trounces off.
Back at the booth, Summer is eyeing me strangely. I squeeze in beside her rather than sitting on the other side of the booth.
“Why did you lie?” she asks, her face turned to me with genuine interest.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Lately I haven’t felt like “The Johnny Jones” as much. It’s starting to feel more and more like he’s a caricature I created to deal with the craziness of the racing world and being a celebrity. When I do all those crazy stunts, like throwing myself in the crowd and signing everyone’s hats, shirts and babies, I’m not always in a good mood to start out with. I force myself into it because that’s what the fans expect, and then halfway through, I really am in a good mood. I love being with the fans, but I don’t always want to be the guy who can’t get a milkshake with his girl in peace.”
Summer nods her head and smiles.
“I’m your girl now?” she asks quietly.
“As far as I’m concerned you are. If you want to be.”
Her answer is interrupted by the waitress appearing. She slaps down our two milkshakes and immediately stalks off without another word.
“She’s mad because you’re not Johnny Jones,” Summer says, giggling.
“Who would want to be that asshole anyway?” I reply with a wink.
I lift my milkshake in toast to Summer.
“To a new beginning for us.”
Summer clinks her cup against mine.
“It hasn’t been easy so far,” she says.
“Tell me about it,” I agree, taking a big sip of my milkshake.
Peering over, Summer starts giggling, lifting a delighted hand to her mouth.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Your…” Summer points to my lips.
“Do I have a milk mustache?” I ask, pointing to my upper lip.
Eyes still laughing, Summer vigorously nods.
“Got it,” I say, taking a napkin and starting to wipe my face. “Or do I?”
I turn, smash my lips against her cheek and rub them around.
“Stop!” Summer squeals, wrenching herself away. “You’re covering me with milkshake.”
I regard her milk-smeared cheek with satisfaction.
“The color looks good on your creamy skin,” I say.
Summer elbows me hard in the side.
“Ow!” I cry in an over-the-top manner, doubling over and breathing deeply. “That’s my injured rib.”
“Hey,” Summer says, a tremor of worry in her voice. “Are you okay? What do you mean? Injured rib? Are you hurt and didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you say something?”
Still wheezing out breaths, all I can do is shake my head.
“I mean it,” she says, sounding even more worried. “This isn’t funny. I know you’re faking.”
Although she sounds even more unsure now.
When I start coughing in a choking manner, she grabs my hand impulsively. I turn to her with an evil grin, my coughing stopping as easily as it started.
Just as her next indignant cry is halfway out of her lips, I kiss her.
Drawing away, I say softly, “I just wanted to see if you cared and to steal a pity kiss.”
Breathing a bit deeply herself, Summer’s gaze flits across mine, as if she can’t decide whether to be indignant, angry, happy, or all three.
I lift her straw to her lips.
“Drink up,” I whisper in her ear. “I love the way your lips look wrapped around that straw. It reminds me of other things. Things you did last night. Things I’ll never forget.”
Under the table, Summer stomps on my foot. I give her a sweet kiss on the cheek.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it too.”
By now, Summer’s about finished with her milkshake. Grabbing some plastic cups that are wedged beside a big chrome napkin dispenser, I extend them out to Summer.
“What do you say we take these drinks to go? I don’t want to cause you to miss your flight.”
“As much as I’d like to spend the day hanging out with you, I really do need to get back home,” she says with a long sigh.
I turn serious for a minute.
“Are things going to be the same between us this time next week? Once you get back home to Vegas?”
She frowns at me.
“Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Your Dad is there, your work is there, I’ll be there in a couple of days for the race next weekend. Everything might change. If that’s going to happen, you need to tell me now.”
Summer reaches up and wipes a remaining bit of milkshake from my upper lip.
“Nothing will change the way I feel about you,” she says.
I squeeze her hand tightly in mine.
“I hope you’re right. The big, bad world is out there. Once we step out these doors, we’re going straight back into it.”
She nods in understanding and a worried look crosses her face before she hides it from me.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask, sliding out of the booth.
We waste no time in emptying the remains of our milkshakes into the cups and hurrying out. I leave a large bill on the table for a tip on our way out.
Outside, the weather is balmy and warm. Summer, however, doesn’t match my quick-walking pace. She’s walking slow like she’s in no hurry to catch her flight.
“Want me to carry you?” I offer, surrounding her with my arms.
Frowning, Summer shakes her head and pulls away.
“We’re on the street,” she reminds me.
“So?” I shoot back, “it doesn’t mean I can’t do this.” I give her a great big smacking kiss on the lips. Pulling away, I squeeze her ass gently. “Or this.”
We kiss passionately for a minute, our lips touching together in memory.
But then Summer pulls away.
“I don’t think…”
“You’re right,” I say, starting to walk again and taking her hand. “We need to get you back to the hotel, so you can pack and head to the airport.”
“Back to the real world,” she says in a slightly sad voice.
“Everything will be fine,” I say in a more cheerful voice than I feel. “I’ll call you the minute I arrive in Vegas to let you know I’m in town.”