Chapter 17
When my mind is a flurry of emotion, and I can’t process half of what I’m feeling fast enough, I go to my room and open my sketchbook to help calm the storm brewing in my mind.
I’m down to my last few pages and will soon need to hit up Marco’s Art Supply to grab another.
The black markings on the page make little sense at first. There are just harsh lines and shading that mean nothing until my mind can create the image.
The sketch is different from the neo-traditional style I typically go for.
Kind and seductive eyes stare back at me, lips slightly parted.
His artfully disheveled hair looks as if he just raked his fingers through it, leaving behind an effortlessly tousled look on the border between careless and intentionally rugged.
Florals frame his face, giving him an ethereal, otherworldly look.
Without having realized until now, I drew Truett. Majestic, handsome True.
Fuck, I have it bad for him.
Memories of last night have replayed in my head like a movie, a very pornographic movie.
The way his pink lips looked around my cock, how deep he could take me, the way he kissed me with my cum still on his tongue.
Even thinking about it now has my balls tightening and my cock ready to experience it again.
Preferably without getting caught by my tía this time.
Who knows what we would have done if left undisturbed?
My brain has done a great job supplying exactly what I wanted to do to Truett. The whole scene played out last night while I was in the shower. I don’t remember ever coming so hard—by just the thought of him.
Like I said, I have it bad for a certain professional bowler.
After being presented with the check, my family stole me away so they could tell me how proud they were of everything I’m doing.
How I’m keeping my father’s memory alive and doing what he always wanted me to do.
Guilt gnawed at me, churning my stomach.
They all thought I loved taking over the shop and truly wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps.
None of them know the truth because, if they did, they would see me for the liar and fake I am.
I can’t take their disappointment, especially Mom’s.
To her, I’m the perfect son who is continuing the legacy.
That is the role I will continue to play for her sake.
I had hoped Truett would rescue me from my family’s relentless and undeserved praise, but when I glanced over at him, I saw my mom had cornered him.
They spoke in hushed whispers, their heads tilted close together as if conspiring on a secret mission.
Suspicion prickled at me, wondering what the two of them could possibly talk about.
When I finally managed to slip away from my tías and confront Truett and my mom, they didn’t answer right away—just exchanged a quiet, knowing smile. But there was something off about Truett’s, a tightness at the edges that felt a little too close to guilt.
Before I could press for answers, Truett was already gathering up leftovers, dodging my questions with a quick grin and kiss.
It shocked the hell out of me that he brazenly kissed me in front of my whole family, leaving me looking like a gaping idiot.
“See you Monday,” he promised, then disappeared out the door, leaving me standing there more confused than before.
As I helped my mom and Tía Lucia clean up from the barbecue, I tried to get any information out of her. Why was she talking to Truett? Why the secrecy? But she eventually grew tired of me asking and banned me from the kitchen, forcing me away. Needless to say, I got nothing out of her either.
The alarm on my phone blares to life, pulling me from my thoughts, its chimes growing louder with each passing second—a not-so-subtle reminder that it’s time to drag myself out of bed and get ready to open the alley.
With a sigh, I steal one last glance at the drawing of Truett, tracing the lines with my eyes before snapping my sketchbook shut.
I send a quick message to Truett, asking him if he intends to come to the alley today, but I don’t hear back from him. With time quickly slipping away before the bigwigs from the USBC come back for their final inspection, there’s still so much that needs to be done.
I dress and then all but inhale breakfast, heading to the alley in record time.
For once, I’m here before most of the other shop owners, including Mrs. Barnes.
Thank god. Still, I can’t help but let my gaze wander over toward Damien’s tattoo parlor, a longing in my chest I fear will never go away.
I really need to get back over there and shadow him.
I still owe Damien a favor, and it’s one I’m happy to do.
My fingers itch for the tattoo gun and the soft buzzing while I create permanent art on another’s body.
To be able to do that every day until my hands are no longer steady and my eyes can’t focus would be the dream. However, that’s all it will ever be. A dream. Because my legacy—my family’s legacy—is this damn alley.
With one last glance at Damien’s parlor, I get out of the car and make my way inside.
I flip on the lights, and thankfully, the strong paint smell has all but gone away, leaving a faint pizza smell in its wake.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I dig it out.
Disappointment colors my features when I see the message is some spam text and not a reply from Truett.
The silence over the last two days has planted a seed of doubt in my mind, poisoning the memory of what we did on Saturday.
Did he regret it? Was he now trying to pull back and keep his distance?
He promised to see me Monday, right after he kissed me in front of my family.
I don’t have any reason to believe he would lie, and yet my stomach still churns anxiously.
Pushing all thoughts of sex and Truett to the furthest points of my mind, I robotically go through the opening routine.
By the time I finish, my first customers of the day arrive, an elderly couple who pays for an hour on Lane 8.
I’ve seen them here before. Mr. Glasgow, according to his name stitched into the bowling shirt he’s wearing.
“New paint job, young man?” Mr. Glasgow asks.
“Yes, sir, what do you think?” I want an outside perspective. He’s the only one who’s noticed the change in the alley—then again, it’s not like I’ve had many customers since reopening.
“A little dark for my eyes, but it’s what the young ones like. Definitely an improvement from the shoddy paint job before.”
“Thanks?” I think, which earns me a pat on the back, the thing old people do after they feel like they just bestowed a wealth of knowledge on you.
I watch as Mr. Glasgow walks off with his wife, grabbing a neon orange ball while also snagging a pink one for her.
They get settled in their lane, and I can’t help but wonder how long they’ve been together.
Familiarity like theirs comes from years—if not decades—of companionship between two people.
Their love is clear in all the little things they do.
How he carries her bowling ball. The way she sets his bowling shoes out for him.
The Tupperware she pulls out with their favorite snack.
Technically, I shouldn’t allow outside food or drink, but I let it slide.
I’ve never dreamed of a lifelong love, but perhaps this couple has something figured out I don’t.
The chime from above the door pulls my attention away from the Glasgows. Three large men and a petite woman walk in, all wearing the same bright orange shirt with Harvey’s Furniture Co. written across their chests.
I frown, eyebrows knitting together as they make their way toward me. “Can I help you?” I ask once they are close enough, but they just smile at me and keep walking toward the arcade, completely ignoring my question. “What the hell?”
The group stops in the arcade, and the woman points to the decrepit tables and chairs. “Take these out,” I hear her say.
“Whoa, hold on, what’s going on?” I scramble out from behind the counter, nearly tripping over the pile of bowling shoes that need cleaning.
“What do you think you’re doing with those?
” Yeah, I get they’re shitty, but they are all I have for furniture in the arcade.
Forcing customers to sit on the floor instead of wobbly tables and chairs is arguably worse.
The woman tilts her head to the side, eyeing me like I’ve had one too many drinks. “We were hired to do a job, so we’re doing it.” Her no-nonsense tone tells me she isn’t one to cross.
“Hired? I’m the owner. I didn’t hire anyone. What are—”
“Ezra,” a familiar voice calls from behind me just as the door swings shut, a gust of wind rushing in with it.
I don’t need to turn to know it’s Truett—my whole body already knows, every nerve going sharp as his footsteps close the distance.
Still, I glance back, catching him mid-stride, that same sexy smile already in place like he knows exactly what he does to me.
“I hired them. Well, that’s not technically true. Your mom and I hired them.”
I would have been less surprised if Truett showed up in a clown costume and started making balloon animals for everyone. “You…her… What?” My brain struggles to make sense of it all.
Truett takes my hand, pulling me out of the way of two of the men removing a table. Just as they make it to the door, the base of the table falls off, plummeting to the ground and splitting in two. “We’ll take care of that!” the redheaded man bellows.
“So, remember when your mom pulled me aside at the party, and we wouldn’t tell you what we were talking about?” Truett asks, his cheeks blooming red as if he’s suddenly unsure what he’s going to say. “Well, she didn’t trust that you wouldn’t use the money to get ahead on the mortgage.”