Forbidden at His Bowling Alley

Chapter 1

I’m not a criminal, but you wouldn’t believe it by the fleet of Travis County police officers surrounding my building like I just kicked off a citywide manhunt.

There’s a gun pointing at my chest. The metal glistens in the rising morning sun, waking me up faster than any large cup of coffee ever could.

I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve started my day off like this.

Unfortunately, it’s not.

But I’m most definitely not a criminal.

“Mr. Jiménez, step away from the front door, and slowly walk to the car with your hands up,” a loud, boisterous voice booms in a megaphone.

The elderly couple from the bakery next door peek their heads out, wondering what commotion is taking place. When their eyes land on me, their lips turn up in a sad smile, pity lingering in their expressions. They’ve seen this before.

“Mr. Jiménez!” the male cop barks again.

My cheeks flame red with equal amounts of embarrassment and anger. This is what I get for being a productive member of society and going to work.

With my hands raised above my head, I walk away from the front door to my building and straight toward the cops…

…who burst out in laughter the moment they see me because I look less like a dangerous suspect breaking and entering and more like a guy checking in for his regularly scheduled misunderstanding. My hands instantly drop back down to my side, and I murmur a curse under my breath.

“What was that, Jiménez?” Officer Hansley laughs, and a few officers I’ve never seen before follow suit. They must be his new trainees. Why the fuck he thought I’d be their guinea pig is beyond me, but I’ve somehow become the rookies’ first test.

“Mrs. Barnes again?” I sigh, shoving my hands into my jeans pocket. My pants sag, reminding me I’m in desperate need of an updated wardrobe. Except wardrobes require money, and I’m in short supply of that these days.

Thanks to the building looming behind me.

“Who else?” He shrugs. “And it’s a slow morning. Thought I’d bring the new recruits out to demonstrate what we would do for an actual break-in.”

I incline my head toward a redheaded officer. “Seems a bit extreme. Is he holding a real gun?”

“Yeah.” Officer Hansley must see the horror that flashes across my face. “The safety’s on, though. Right?” He directs that question to the redheaded recruit.

“Affirmative.” The redheaded recruit nods, though his eyes drift to the safety with trepidation.

“See? No harm, no foul.” Officer Hansley slaps the gun-holding recruit on his back.

He grimaces but quickly schools his features into amusement.

There definitely was harm done, which was nearly giving me a heart attack and disturbing my peace, which he obviously finds comical.

I don’t say these things though because I just want them gone.

“That Mrs. Barnes don’t like you one bit, kid,” Officer Hansley says, rather unhelpfully.

The thing is, Mrs. Barnes is actually a lovely woman, one I often help with closing her antique shop at night.

Just like the items she sells, Mrs. Barnes is old, well past her prime.

Her daughter has been trying to get the woman to retire for ages now, but she claims, if she retires, she’ll only die that much quicker.

Not sure that is solid logic, but Mrs. Barnes seems to believe it is.

Unfortunately, her tenacious attitude constantly puts me in this predicament.

She likes to think of herself as the plaza guard, which would be fine if it wasn’t for her forgetfulness.

Mrs. Barnes is a creature of habit and was used to seeing my father open up his business—the family bowling alley—every day until his death a year ago.

Although Mrs. Barnes mostly knows who I am, she doesn’t remember that I took over running the alley.

Hence the almost monthly police calls.

It’s like she knows I don’t belong in the alley.

That I’m an imposter trying to fill the shoes of a man who put everything he had into the alley.

This place was my father’s dream, one I feel compelled to keep going even after his death.

My father instilled in me the values of hard work and never giving up, which is the exact reason I’m here, to keep part of my father alive.

For me, sure, but mainly for my mother, who lost her soulmate of sixty years.

It’s the least I can do after everything they’ve done for me growing up.

“Not to be rude, but do you think you all could leave now?” Sweat prickles on the back of my neck. It’s an unusually hot morning in Pflugerville, and escaping into the bowling alley’s AC—though shitty—is appealing.

A few of the unnamed recruits meander back to their police car, fighting over the seating situation. Officer Hansley gives me a curt nod. “Thanks for letting my guys practice on ya, Ezra. Really appreciate it.”

I don’t say I had no choice in the matter because I doubt he’ll care, so I simply nod. “Always happy to help,” I deadpan. I’m never happy to help, and I hope they don’t come back for practice anymore.

“See you soon, Mr. Jiménez.” With that, the last of the cops scrambles into their cars, easing the tension I’m holding in my shoulders. They drive off the lot, lights flashing every which way. I’m finally left alone, but now I’m ten minutes late for opening.

Not like Spare Time sees a lot of customers these days, so opening late wouldn’t make a difference either way. I’m lucky if I see a few families a day. People stopped coming around shortly after my father died last year.

We were closed for over a month as a bereavement period, during which we buried my father, consulted with lawyers about appealing lapsed life insurance policies, and discussed what to do with the alley.

My mother didn’t want to let it go, and honestly, I didn’t either, even if I don’t want to be the one running it.

Losing this place would feel like losing my father and her husband all over again.

As the only son, the responsibility falls on my shoulders.

Now that I’m no longer America’s Most Wanted, I push the front doors open and am greeted by dust and a musty odor of old wood and pine-scented oil.

With no lights on and tinted windows, the room is almost pitch-black.

I use the light on my phone to navigate to the counter, feeling along the wall until I find the switches.

The fluorescent lights buzz to life with a dull thrum. Spare Time is a small bowling alley, but we are the only one in a thirty-mile radius of Pflugerville. Our alley provides fifteen lanes for family fun, as well as a game room and a quick service restaurant.

Game room might be a bit of a stretch. It’s really just a small arcade with four crane games and one old racing game that only works half the time.

The restaurant sells your normal bowling alley food: burgers, pizza, and cheese fries, as well as a few other snacks from the bakery next door.

I used to have a friend running the kitchen, but low funds forced me to let him go.

Although he wasn’t upset, I still hated firing a good employee.

Especially Damien. He’s one of my closest friends and helped me out after my father’s death.

Without him, I don’t think I would have survived those first few months.

Damien didn’t go far—just to The Skin Quill, the tattoo shop down the plaza. Lucky bastard. Just thinking of him as a tattoo artist sends something tight and bitter curling in my chest.

Damien gets to spend his days hunched over skin and ink, turning people’s stories into something permanent. And me? I don’t even let myself want it out loud. Because wanting it would mean admitting I could choose something else. That I could walk away.

But I can’t.

Not with everything resting on my shoulders. Not with the unspoken rules stitched into me since I was a kid—family first, always. Responsibility over everything. Dreams are a luxury we don’t get to keep. Do what makes you happy, especially if it’s running a bowling alley.

So, I stay where I’m supposed to, in the alley, pretending it doesn’t eat at me. Pretending I don’t resent how easily Damien gets to chase the thing I’ve never been allowed to reach for.

And that’s just how it is.

Once I make sure the register is on and the bowling shoes are in order, I head to our back control room to turn on the lanes.

Our equipment is old, so it’ll be another ten minutes before every monitor and lane come to life.

The only one that works instantly is Lane 7.

Just last week, I spent a good chunk of our meager savings fixing it because it gave us problems for the last few months, and my mother insisted it was fixed.

It’s what my dad would do. Eventually, she wants to update the entire system, but I only see this happening if our town suddenly gets really interested in bowling.

When people think of bowling, they think of high school date nights from the 50s and 60s. It was the place to be on a Friday night with your friends. People came early just to make sure they had a lane to bowl in.

Times have changed and changed hard. Very few people come and bowl, save for the occasional family or older person wanting to relive their glory days.

That’s not to say there’s no interest in the alley.

There is, but it’s more of a niche sport than anything.

Popular to a select few but not as popular as something like football or baseball.

The alley feels like a time capsule of the 80s, when my father first opened the place.

I’m fairly certain there are still unidentified stains on the carpet from that time.

Hell, even the carpet is from the 80s—black print with neon swirls all over it.

It’s not the most hideous thing in the world, but it’s a far cry from modern.

As I make my way to the kitchen to start up the pizza oven, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out and don’t look at who’s calling. There’s only one person who ever calls me, since she refuses to text.

“Mamá, hi.” I balance the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“Mijo, are you okay? Mrs. Barnes said she accidentally called the police on you again, and they pulled guns on you!” My mother’s concern is palpable through the phone.

“It wasn’t guns. It was a gun.”

“?Dios mio!” my mother gasps, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Is that meant to make me feel better?”

“Ma, I’m fine. But maybe let Mrs. Barnes know she doesn’t need to keep calling the cops? Officer Hansley responded to the call to train his new recruits. The gun had its safety on.” Probably, but I didn’t add that part.

My mom huffs. “I’ll talk to her. That poor woman. Still, she can’t keep doing this. I should—”

“You’ll do nothing. It’s fine. Is that why you called? To ask if I’m alive?”

“Ezra, sometimes I don’t understand your sense of humor. Is it so bad that a mother cares about her son? You’re all I have left, mijo.”

Guilt churns my stomach. Sometimes I’m a fucking idiot, because what son would joke about death when his mother lost her husband just a year ago? It makes sense why she’s concerned and overbearing at times. At twenty-three, I may be well past childhood, but I’ll always be her child.

“Perdóname, Mamá. I’m fine. I’m opening up Spare Time now.”

“Good.” I hear the smile on the other end. “I’m glad you’re safe. Did you clean the kitchen? Is the front counter dusted?”

Sometimes I wonder if she remembers I’ve been working here since I was fourteen—nearly a decade of repeating the same routine until it’s become second nature. I could manage it half asleep without missing a step. Still, she worries.

Even though she's technically retired, my mother still handles the finances behind the scenes and rarely sets foot in the alley herself, but she never stops asking about it.

She offers her help in other areas, to come in and clean, but I try to deny her the best I can without being rude.

I know every time she steps into this place, the spirit of my father overwhelms her.

“Everything is cleaned and dusted,” I say.

“Good. I don’t know why I worry. You’re as good as your father when it comes to running that alley.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

There’s so much pride in my mother’s voice.

Pride I don’t deserve. She doesn’t understand that my heart isn’t into it, no matter how much I try to be the man my father hoped I’d be.

This alley was his freedom, but it feels like my prison.

Especially when I look out the window and see the tattoo shop’s neon sign—the shop I wish I went to every day instead.

And I fucking hate feeling this way.

Before I can respond, a loud boom reverberates around me, coming from the kitchen.

“What the fuck—”

“Watch your language,” she chastises. “But is everything okay?”

“I need to call you back.”

“Ezra, what’s happening?” My mother’s voice grows shrill on the other end.

“Nothing. Something fell,” I lie, quickly moving toward the kitchen. She doesn’t need to concern herself any more with me today. “But I’ll call you back. People are coming in.” Another lie.

I don’t wait for her reply. The call ends, and I slip my phone back into my pocket as I shove open the kitchen door.

A thick cloud of smoke hits me instantly, heavy and choking.

My stomach drops as my eyes lock onto the fryer.

For one brief, panicked second, I think the grease has gone up, but it hasn’t.

Thank god. The smoke is darker, harsher, curling up from the back where the cord meets the wall, and the sight of it sends a sharp spike of alarm through me.

Just the icing on the fucking cake for my morning.