14. The Name of the Game
CHAPTER 14
The Name of the Game
JOEL
I ’m nervous. Really nervous. And not the good kind of nervous, like right before a show. More like the kind of nervous where I might barf up my breakfast in the bushes over there. What if she doesn’t want to see me again after all? Her voice on the phone when I called to arrange this date was strange. Happy but also not?
What the fuck is happening to me? Just as I begin to spiral, the door opens and the breath is knocked out of me. She stands there in a pair of skintight white jeans and a white cherry-covered shirt cinched at her impossibly tiny waist by a bright red belt. Her lips match and she’s got her wild curls piled on top of her head with a white-and-red polka dot bandana. And those shoes. Those fucking red heels almost kill me. The freckles that grace her face are also on her arms, her ankles, and I bet they’re all over her.
I could strip her naked and play connect the dots for hours with them.
“Hi,” she says, pulling at her shirt slightly. Could she be . . . nervous ? I shake the thought away.
“Wow,” I exhale. “You—hot damn, you look out of this world.”
Her cheeks darken almost to the shade of her lipstick. “Really?”
I grasp at my chest. “Think I almost had a heart attack.”
She grins and moves back, letting me into her apartment. Her eyes flick next to me for a moment. “And what’s that?”
From under my arm I procure the rolled paper and present it to her with a smile. “A gift.”
“For me?”
“No, for Stella, but something tells me she’d probably destroy it.”
She laughs and the sound rings clear through the small space. “You’re right, she loves to chew on paper. What is it?”
“Open it.”
She rolls the elastics off the paper, then glances at me one last time before unfurling the gift. I watch as she takes in the picture, the smile falling away from her face.
“The poster for To Catch a Thief ?” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly regretting my decision. “I remember you said it’s your favorite movie. Thought this would be better than flowers.”
She smiles, but it’s short lived, and something heavy drops in my stomach. Maybe I really fucked up on this. Sitting down on the edge of her bed with the poster in her hands, she looks up at me. “Joel, I?—”
My heart sinks. “If I misheard you and it’s actually your least favorite movie, I’ve got a lighter. We could go downstairs and set that sucker on fire.”
She breathes out a laugh and shakes her head. “No, it’s just . . . before we go—I need to tell you something.”
My eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
“And it’s something that…” She fidgets with her other hand, plucking at her fingernails. “After you hear it, you might not want to see me anymore.”
That’s surprising. “Oh.”
She presses her hand to her forehead. “I should’ve told you right from the start. But I didn’t think you were serious, and to be honest?” She looks up at me with the most heartbreaking smile. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”
I walk over and sit down next to her on the bed. “Well, what is it? Are you a hitman for hire?”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “No.”
“You’re a mermaid like Daryl Hannah in Splash ? I have to say, I’m kind of hoping that’s true, because mermaids are hot?—”
“Joel, focus,” she reminds me gently.
“What is it?”
She sits up straight and takes a long deep breath. “You know how I told you I work nights for a call center?”
My brow furrows. “Yeah?”
“It’s . . . well, it’s not exactly customer support.”
“So what is it?” I ask.
She bites down into that cherry red lower lip. “I’m a fantasy phone girl.”
I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “Oh . . . okay.”
Her eyes widen. “Okay?”
I shrug. “Yeah, okay. When we first met you were a stripper and I wanted to date you then. This isn’t much different.”
“You—really?” she asks.
I smile. “Really.”
“But you realize that I help men get off over the phone. Like . . . intimately.”
“You’ve got to make a living, right?” I ask.
She blinks. “I mean, yeah, it pays good, and it’s actually safer than stripping. But it’s still sex work and I?—”
“Did you really think I’d have a problem with this?”
“Most guys would.”
I reach out and place my hand on her bouncing knee. “Look, I’m not a jealous guy. Like . . . at all. And as someone who frequents strip clubs? It would be pretty hypocritical of me not to support sex workers since they’re some of my favorite people.”
“But could you date one?”
“I’d date you.”
She closes her eyes for a long moment then looks up at me. “But the stuff I have to say, the way I have to act—how can that not bother you?”
I try to think of a reason but nothing forms in my brain. “Do you have feelings for those people?”
She shakes her head. “Well, no?—”
“And you kind of sort of have feelings for me or you wouldn’t have agreed to go out with me, right?”
A pretty pink blush paints her chest. “Yes.”
I shrug. “Then nope, it doesn’t bother me. Actually, it kind of intrigues me. Does this mean that you’re a professional dirty talker?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her and she laughs.
“Hey, just because I’m a fantasy phone girl doesn’t mean I dirty-talk on the first date.”
I raise my hand to my chest in mock disbelief. “I would never suggest it m’lady. A perfect gentleman is what I shall be this fine afternoon.”
Placing her hands in mine, I pull her up. “Okay.” She smirks again. “But maybe not too gentlemanly.”
“Perfect, because I don’t know if I’ve ever been called a gentleman in my whole life. Let’s go. And Stella?” I turn and look at the fluffy orange cat watching me from the window sill. “Be good, there’s a lot riding on this date.”
* * *
“Bowling?” she asks as we exit the car.
“You don’t like bowling?” I ask.
She taps a finger to her mouth. “I don’t know. I’ve never been.”
“You’ve never —Jesus Christ. Okay, this should be an experience for you, then.”
“You’ll teach me?” she asks, an adorable wrinkle of worry creasing her forehead.
“Of course.”
I grab her hand and entwine our fingers. She grins at me, and we walk through the double doors into the noisy bowling hall. The bang of bowling balls shooting down the lanes followed by the clatter of pins being knocked down is something I’ve been familiar with my whole life. It’s somewhere I feel comfortable and confident, and I hope that comes across during this date.
“It’s loud!” she says when we get to the shoe rental counter.
“Is that okay?” I ask over the noise.
She nods. “I’m used to loud.”
“What size are your feet?” I ask.
She looks down and back up. “What? Why?”
“Because I was hoping I could try on those heels.”
She blinks, but then I smirk and she playfully pushes my shoulder. “Ha-ha, very funny.”
“When you bowl, you have to wear special shoes. No fancy heels on the lanes, I’m afraid,” I say, jerking my head toward the other patrons.
Her lips part. “Oh. Umm . . . well, I usually wear a size nine.”
I hold up a finger to signal the bored teenager behind the counter. “Ladies size nine and men’s size twelve.”
After paying for the shoes and the lane, I tuck my wallet back into my back pocket to find her staring at me with a smile. “What?” I ask.
“Size twelve, huh?”
I grin widely and grab the shoes off the counter. “It bodes well for me that that impresses you.”
“Well, you know what they say about guys with big feet.”
“Big bowling shoes?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Something like that.”
“They may not be stylish,” she says after she’s slipped her feet in, “but at least I’m less likely to have a wipe-out in these.”
“If you were allowed to wear them, I’m sure you’d crush in heels.”
I pull up the screen for score keeping and make a sudden discovery.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sensing the change on my face.
“Moment of truth,” I say with mock seriousness. “I’m going to need to know your name.”
She tucks her chin to her shoulder. “I thought you were going to guess it.”
She wants to play, huh? I can do that. “All right then, Red,” I say, punching in the three letters as a placeholder. “Ten questions to guess your name.”
Her mouth twists. “And what do I get if you guess wrong?”
“What do you want?”
After tipping her head back and forth for a few seconds, she says, “Pizza.”
“And what do I get?” I ask.
“You get to know my name.”
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” I counter.
“Okay,” she says, leaning over the console between us. “I’ll sweeten the deal. You guess my name right after ten questions and . . .” She turns to make sure no one’s listening in and curls her finger to pull me in closer. “I’ll give you a preview of what I do at my job.”
I swallow hard as her breathy voice tickles my ear and causes shivers to race down my spine, hitting me right in the groin. Fuck, she’s sexy. I can see why guys would pay to listen to her on the phone for hours at a time. Unbelievable.
She pulls back with a sly smirk, and I can’t help but appreciate the way her arms squeeze her tits together, the line of her generous cleavage disappearing beneath her white shirt.
“Deal,” I say, my voice deeper than normal. Fuck, what this girl does to me.
Straightening up, she bounces over to the ball return. “Okay, so how does this work? Do I just pick any ball?”
“Yup. You want me to go first?” I ask. “Show you how it’s done?”
“Yes, please.”
I push off my thighs to stand and walk over to the ball rack. After carefully inspecting half a dozen, I find a brown-and-red ball that lives up to my expectations. Then, I pull out the gloves from my pocket and pull them on.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” she says, holding up a hand. “Gloves? I didn’t know we needed to wear gloves.”
“You don’t.”
She frowns. “Oh no. You’re one of those serious bowlers, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Grabbing the ball, I line myself up on our lane, centering my shoulders, then let it rip. The ball rockets perfectly straight down the middle. Strike . Turning around, I dust off my shoulder and slide back over to where she’s sitting, visibly shocked.
“You didn’t tell me you’re a ringer.”
I shake my head. “I’m hardly a professional.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Okay, I may have come in second place during a state championship when I was twelve.”
“Fascinating.”
I wave her forward. “Come on, grab that green ball.”
She scoops up the ball with a strangled “Oof, these are heavy,” and walks in my direction.
“Yeah, fair warning, your shoulder might be sore tomorrow.”
“A reminder of how you defeated me on our first date then,” she teases.
I laugh and turn us both toward the lane. “Okay, feet like this,” I say, kicking her left foot forward. “And these three fingers through the holes.”
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye and I try very hard not to make contact because I’m thinking exactly what she is and damn, I’d like to fit my three fingers in her holes.
“Now you’re going to swing back and as it rolls forward? Release.”
I feel her intake of breath against my chest, my hand ever so gently atop of hers, guiding it back, then forward, then . . .
“Oh my god! I hit one!” she cries.
“Damn right you did.”
“This is fun ,” she says.
Something in the way her voice breaks makes me realize that maybe she hasn’t done anything fun in a long time. “Good. You get another turn, since you didn’t knock them all down on the first try.”
“Oh!” She turns around to find her green ball again and shuffles back to the center of the lane. I watch while she places her feet, her brows sewn together in concentration. She winds her arm back, releases, and hits all but two pins down.
“Holy shit!” she says, spinning around. “Joel, did you see that?”
I grin. “Knew you were a natural.”
The pins reset, and she sits down at the console while I grab my ball. “So, first question,” I say. “Is your name popular?”
She rests her cheeks in her hands. “Nope. Not at all.”
I groan. “Damn . . . so this is going to be a tough one, huh?” Another strike.
She stands and passes me to grab her ball. “Is that your second question?”
I bite my lip. “No. Is it a name that could be for a boy or a girl?”
After she rolls her ball into the gutter, she waits for it to return and answers. “Umm . . . yeah, I suppose it could be.”
“Hmm, interesting,” I say, my eyes glued to her backside as she rolls the ball again to knock down half of her pins.
I step forward and take my turn. Another strike. “Does it end with a Y ?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Can I ask questions too?” she asks, standing up to take her turn.
“Of course.”
She positions herself and throws the ball, knocking down all but one. With a shout, she jumps and claps her hands. “I almost did the strike thing!”
“Try throwing the ball with a bit of spin, it’ll knock down that last pin if it goes straight down the middle.”
With a tilt of her head she takes my direction, but maybe with too much spin because it ends up in the gutter. She turns around with her hands on her hips. “You trying to make me lose?”
I shake my head and pass her. “Of course not, I’m already whooping your ass.”
While I take my turn, she sits. “How’d you get to be such a good bowler, anyhow?”
“My grandparents owned an alley back home in Wisconsin.”
She nods. “Ah, now it all makes sense.”
There’s a loud crash as the pins drop. “My parents would leave me with them all the time, so I got my run of the alley. Then when I was in junior high, I started working there. Resetting the pins and sanitizing shoes. It was something to keep me out of trouble.”
“Sounds like you had a fun childhood,” she says, standing up to face me, the timbre of her voice giving away that maybe she didn’t. I would ask her, but I need to keep these questions about her name for now.
“Does your name start with a vowel or a consonant?” I ask.
“A consonant.”
“Damn,” I say. “Was really hoping to only have to pick through five letters.”
She grins and takes her turn.
“Does your family still own the bowling alley?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. When my grandad died, my parents couldn’t afford to keep the place up and running. Plus, they had their own careers.”
“Oh, Joel,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It’s fine. It was years ago.”
“So you worked at a bowling alley, then were in military school . . .” She counts on her fingers. “Exactly what did you end up doing for work?”
This time I miss, a single pin still standing at the end of the lane. “I’m a musician.”
Her eyebrows rise for a moment before dawning sets in. “Wait, but you said?—”
“You really didn’t believe me, huh?” I tease.
She shakes her head. “Wait, so you’re actually in a band?”
I smile. “Yeah. And a pretty damn successful one at that.”
Her mouth drops but I hold up my finger. “Uh-uh, my turn.” Her lips press together, but there’s tension in her step now. “Does your name have less than ten letters?”
“Yes.” She’s standing in front of me now. “So you’re—you’re really a rockstar?”
I frown. “Don’t tell me you’re disappointed.”
“I’m not!” she insists. “I’m just—wow, that’s . . . amazing. You know, I knew a musician once.”
“Really?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, we, uh . . . we grew up together. On and off.”
“What happened to her? Or him?” But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks away, the color leeching from her cheeks. “Hey, you okay?”
With a deep breath, she picks up her ball and shoots it right into the gutter. “My name starts with the letter D .”
I blink in surprise. “Oh.” Okay, I think I hit a nerve there. Does she have a problem with all musicians, or just one? Was it a guy? An ex? A friend? She’s trying to distract me, and that’s okay. I don’t want to make her upset. “Starts with a D and ends with a Y , is unusual, can be for a boy or a girl and has less than ten letters. Okay, I’m feeling good about my odds.”
I bowl another strike, getting back in my groove, while she taps her finger to her chin.
“What instrument do you play?” she asks.
Pretending to play air guitar for a minute, I wink at her and say, “Bass.”
A smile tugs on her lips. “A bass player, huh? You must have good rhythm.”
“The best,” I say, puffing out my chest. “Your name . . . did your parents pick it for a specific reason?”
She sits on the bench, her fingers wrapping over the edge and looks at her shoes. “Yeah. Or rather my mom did. It has a bit of a biblical meaning.”
This surprises me. “Now that I wouldn’t have guessed.”
She shrugs. “I was raised fairly religious, but for all the wrong reasons. Mama wanted to be just like the church families who had nice things and loved each other. My dad, he just wanted a way to control us.”
My heart aches. I think about Key and Becks and how much religion has played a part in the difficult parts of their lives. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m not religious. Never was . . . but going to church felt normal when a lot of my childhood wasn’t.” She frowns and swings her feet back and forth. “Sorry, I’m kind of—let’s change the subject. I’m being a huge bummer.”
“Sure.” I bite my lip. “But just for the record, you’re not bumming me out. Getting to know you is the fun part, remember?”
She clears her throat. “So, your band. They’re popular?”
I nod. “Yeah, we’re even on the radio. You heard of Carnal Sins?”
Her eyes widen and she drops the bowling ball on the floor with a loud crack . “Holy shit, really?”
I smile. “You’ve heard us?”
She nods vigorously. “Only recently, but yeah! Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s you I’ve been hearing on the radio.”
“That’s me.”
Staring in awe, she places her hand under her chin. “Wow. That’s incredible.”
“Maybe you could come to a show one night.”
“You’ll have to tell me in advance, you know I work nights.”
I nod. “Of course. You can come backstage and meet the band and everything.”
“That sounds incredible.”
I bowl next, taking home a spare. “Okay, so I think I’m getting close to your name. Is it a name that has to do with nature?”
She bites her lip. “Hmm . . . that’s a tough one. I suppose, yes, but not in a traditional sense.”
I scratch my head. “Huh, okay.”
“I really don’t think you’re going to get it,” she teases.
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
She grins and steps forward to the ball return. “How did you learn to play bass?”
“Probably the same way most people do when they learn an instrument. Showed up to music class in junior high one day and the only instrument left was the bass. The only time being late for class worked out for me. Turns out, I’m really good at it.”
“Wow.”
“What about you? You ever learn an instrument at school?”
“I wasn’t really allowed to go to school.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “It wasn’t until high school that I ever attended a real school. My dad was convinced it would turn his baby girl into a commie.”
I blink. “Yikes.”
“Yeah.”
“He still thinks that way?” I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders. “No idea. Haven’t seen him since I was thirteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. Being rid of him was the best thing for me.”
I want to ask her about her mom. Are they close or are they estranged now too? But I have my priorities. “Is your name strictly a name? Or can it also be used in another way?”
“It’s a name that can also be a word,” she says, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear.
This girl . “Is the first vowel an A or an E ?”
Rolling her ball, she hits seven pins and does a little dance. “Nope.”
I press my lips together and roll another strike.
“You’re kicking my ass,” she teases from behind me. “I have to admit, it’s pretty hot.”
Grinning, I walk toward her and gently place my hand on her hip. “If you could please go back in time and tell that to my twelve-year-old self, I’d really appreciate it.”
She pushes my hair behind my ear. “Not so popular with the ladies in your youth?”
I scoff. “Definitely not.”
“I bet they line up for you now. Successful, good-looking rockstar? Makes why you’re here with me all the more confusing,” she admits.
“I’m not confused,” I say. “Actually, I’ve never been more certain that I’m in the right place.”
Her blue eyes scan my face, once again looking for the lie, but she won’t find one.
“Does your name have anything to do with flowers?” I ask, pulling her in closer, snaking my hand around her waist.
The corner of her mouth twitches. “No.”
Goose bumps scatter over my skin as her hands rest on my arms.
“That’s ten questions. Now you have to guess.”
“I think I know what your name is,” I say, pulling her close so her chest brushes against mine. The smell of her hair is making my head swim.
She swallows, her lovely throat bobbing with the movement. “Then I guess you’re in for a show,” she winks with a sultry tone. “A deal’s a deal.”
My eyes trace the shape of her lips, and the only thing that is clear in my head right now is how badly I want to kiss her—even here amongst the arcade noises and screaming children.
“Your name is . . .”
Her eyebrows rise in anticipation, her fingers pressing into my skin.
“Divinity.”
Immediately her face falls, and she bows her back to cross her arms over her chest. “Divinity?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Very wrong, Joel. Not even close.” She swats my arm and I laugh. “Divinity . . .” she mutters under her breath. “Who the hell is named Divinity?”
I grin. “Apparently not you.”
She pushes away to take her last turn with the bowling ball, knocking down every single pin. “Looks like you owe me pizza.”
“That’s right, a deal’s a deal,” I admit, but I grab her around the waist from behind and lower my voice to whisper in her ear. “Dusty.”