Chapter 15 Bryson
Bryson
I pull away from her apartment complex just as the rain starts to hammer at the windshield.
If it keeps up, it’s going to ruin my surprise to a degree, but now that I’ve got her out of the house and alone with me, there’s no way I’m turning back.
Thankfully, the farther I drive into the hills, the lighter the rain becomes.
By the time I pull into the gravel parking lot about twenty-five minutes north of campus, the air is a cool mist that’s somehow the perfect mix of hot and cold. Kind of like the girl.
“Where are we?” Jaden says as she steps out of the truck cab.
I race to her side before she shuts the door, so at least I can take over that part and act like a gentleman as she spins in a slow circle, taking in the market lights strung from tree to tree.
Other than a handful of cars parked near the forest edge, the lot is empty, and the towering trees feel like the walls of some fantastical circus tent.
The smell of pine tickles my nose. Beyond the trees I can glimpse the striped awnings of arcade booths, their bells and music echoing in the air.
“Welcome to Mount Jesse. Population . . .” I sprint to the entrance of the parking lot to read the welcome sign, then come back to her. “One hundred seven.”
She giggles softly, and I’m not sure if it’s my absurd performance or the tiny number I revealed. Either way, the sound is welcome. I bend my elbow and turn so my body is next to hers, and she stares at my arm for a second or two before looping her arm through mine as we begin to walk.
“How are you at Skee-Ball?” I ask.
“I’m really good.” Her quick answer forces a short, breathy laugh out of me, which earns me her sharp gaze.
“I just knew you would be. Is there anything you’re bad at?” I bite my tongue while she pretends to be thinking, her face contorted into an adorably exaggerated pensive expression.
“I’m not great at doing my hair,” she answers.
As we step onto the wood planks that cut through the trees and serve as the arcade’s makeshift boardwalk, I let go of her arm so I can properly assess her response.
Knowing I may not have another chance to do this, maybe ever, I face her and move both of my hands to the sides of her head, threading my fingers through her hair and combing the thick curls into smaller ribbons that frame her face and rest on her shoulders.
Her hair feels like silk. Wet silk, but silk nonetheless.
“You don’t have to do much for it to be pretty.”
My gaze shifts to hers, and I’m instantly aware of how hard my heart is pounding.
I shove both hands into the back pockets of my jeans and search for the perfect lighthearted joke to fix the sudden tightness in my chest. Before I open my mouth, though, Jaden’s slender arm slides back into place, linking with mine.
And it stays there until we reach the token machine next to a bank of four Skee-Ball tracks tucked into a wooden cabana.
The whirl of pinball machines and video games pings off the walls across from us, where a garage-style door is propped open.
A few local teens are pouring coins into various machines to win tickets, and the way this feels like Vegas suddenly makes me smirk.
I feed a five-spot from my wallet into the machine, then divide our tokens, giving Jaden the extra one.
The showers kept people away from the arcade for a while, but the usual late-evening crowd is filtering in from the nearby touristy restaurants.
There may not be a lot of people living on Mount Jesse, but there are a lot of people who come here like I do, to escape.
I nod toward the green and white machines with the dull red balls and offer up a new bet, something lighter than our pending tennis match.
“Whoever earns the most tickets gets all the tickets,” I suggest.
Jaden’s brow lifts on one side along with her smirk before she nods.
“It’s on.”
We step up to the two closest machines and drop our first coins in, rubbing our hands together as the balls clatter into place.
Jaden wastes zero time, taking the first ball and flinging it along the ramp with a short toss that sends it skipping into the medium-sized hole.
I study her from my periphery as I roll my first ball in my palms. Her eyes are narrowed on her target, and her muscles work from some instant memory that has her reaching for her third ball by the time I’m ready to line up my first.
I step back, then rock forward, releasing the ball with a smooth roll that glides to the right before popping into the smallest target in the upper right corner.
I sense Jaden’s body shift, and her ramp quiets as I grip my second ball and follow the same pattern, sending the ball along the same path and into the hundred-point target for a second time.
“Huh!” she huffs out.
I pick up my third ball and glance at her score, which is only half of mine even though she’s thrown twice as many balls. My gaze moves to her face as I stand up straight, and her pursed lips make mine pucker in an attempt to hide my smug grin.
“You asshole! You’re a pro!”
I laugh out loud as I go through my motion, this time sending the ball to the top for fifty. I want to give her a chance.
“I never said I wasn’t. I asked if you were any good.” My gaze passes hers as I bend down for another ball, and she growls before locking in and sending the rest of her balls up her ramp in a speedy fashion.
She crosses her arms the moment she’s done and pins me with a hard stare as I finish up my final two balls. My score of seven hundred and fifty practically doubles hers, so I bend down and tear away my first line of seven tickets before glancing at her measly four.
“Oooof. That’s rough,” I tease.
Jaden huffs out an astonished laugh, but there’s a lightness to her that wasn’t there when we drove here. There’s also a glimmer of her competitive edge.
I fish another token out of my pocket and tilt my head as I give her a sideways look.
“Go again?” I lift an innocent shoulder, clearly egging her on, and she’s quick to take the bait.
“Oh, we’re going again. You lucky ass . . .” she mutters, placing her coin in the slot and dropping her hand into the ball return before any of them even arrive. She grabs the first one the moment it touches her fingers and manages to score a hundred with her rapid release.
“Ha!” She shoots me a short glance, then dives right in again. I stand back and watch as she blasts through the nine balls and earns a score of six hundred this round. She crosses her arms over her chest and juts out a hip in challenge to me.
“Well? You gonna go?” Her sense of urgency is so freaking cute. She hates losing, and I know that’s why today was so hard for her. She lost her pride, and for Jaden Johnson, pride is a pillar of her character.
I saunter up to the front of my machine and take my first ball in my hand, then rock back and release it straight up the middle and into the center target.
I do the same with the next seven, but as I reach for the last one, Jaden’s hand brushes against my bicep, and she utters, “Hey.” I twist to look at her as I straighten my spine.
“Don’t throw this game just so I can win. I know you’re aiming for that one on purpose,” she says, slanting her head a smidge toward my scoreboard as suspicion crinkles the edges of her eyes.
I hold her stare for a long, quiet second.
That touch of deep hurt that was there when she first answered her door is trying to show itself again, threatening to make her eyes glassy.
My gaze slips to her mouth for a breath, and I catch her teeth holding on to the inside of her bottom lip.
I’m not sure if it’s nerves or dejection she’s trying to hide by holding it hostage, but all I want to do is coax it loose with a graze of my thumb.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, bringing my gaze back to hers.
I feel the divots of the aged wooden ball against my fingertips as I roll it in my palm, loosening my grip before swinging my arm across my body while keeping my eyes on Jaden’s face.
I send the ball to the familiar corner, and I’m rewarded with the three-note sound the machine makes when someone scores a hundred.
Jaden’s gaze slides to my score and instantly dims. Her jaw tightens, but the moisture is no longer pooling in the corners of her eyes.
“You’re a ringer! Who’s that good at Skee-Ball?” She drops in her final coin, the extra one. When she realizes I’m not playing alongside her, she turns to face me and holds her fists on her hips, dropping her chin a tick as she pushes her tongue into her cheek to show off her toughness.
There she is.
I shrug.
“I gave you an extra one. I don’t need it.”
The charged laugh that spills from her lips is almost better than the giggle from earlier. Jaden’s garnered a bit of an audience now, including two girls who look like they’re maybe twelve or thirteen and are definitely rooting for the girl to beat the boy.
Jaden slows down this time, holding each ball in both hands as she sets her focus on the smallest target.
She sinks the first ball but misses with the second, barely earning any points after it ricochets off the edge.
She regroups, though, turning to her two young fans to pound knuckles for good luck.
By the time the last ball is in her hand, she’s easily eclipsed me.
If I’ve learned anything about Jaden Johnson, there was zero chance we were walking away tied.
She’s all or nothing, and sometimes, I bet that’s exhausting—the lack of compromise, even with herself. She doesn’t know any other way, though.
Jaden brings the ball up to her chin, then drops her lips on it, a kiss for good luck, before lowering her arm and swinging the ball back to give it enough speed. It races up the ramp and launches toward the hundred-point hole, sinking in and sending a row of tickets pouring out of her machine.