Chapter 28 #2
The wheel turned, slowing to a stop when it clicked past POP by one tick.
The balloon inflated even further—round and trembling.
The machine spat out three tickets.
“Absolutely not.” I threw my hands up. “This game is rigged. I know sabotage when I see it.”
I swiped my card again, only for the reader to flash INSUFFICIENT BALANCE in bright red.
I glared at it. Betrayal of the highest order.
I spun on my heel toward the bowling alley, scanning for Zephyr and his entourage.
“Where’s Becky? I need a refill.” I took one step before Mercer caught my wrist and lifted his own unused game card into view.
“You can have mine,” he offered.
I stopped, and the noise of the arcade faded.
It wasn’t gone, just distant, like I’d stepped underwater.
My gaze drifted past Mercer to the prize room and the neon-pink lava lamp bubbling away. The sense of want—needy, greedy—gnawed at me. Then I looked down at the maxed-out card in my hand. My fingers tightened around the plastic, and I shook my head.
“No. Use it for a game you want to play.” Stooping, I ripped off my string of tickets and folded them neatly before stashing them. I wasn’t sure my outfit was quite right for baby’s first casino, but at least it had pockets.
When I faced Mercer again, he was wearing a gentle look that reminded me of how he kissed. My gaze dropped to his mouth, and I caught myself desiring something far better than an arcade prize.
“What games do you like to play?” I asked him, desperate to keep the conversation on track. The kinds of things I wanted to do to him were not fit for the eyes of minors.
“Um…” He looked around. “I don’t recognize a lot of these, but I used to do some of the racing ones.”
Pocketing my game card, I took his hand. “Show me.”
We drifted through the room, past the basketball hoops, the joystick games, and the coin pushers stacked with rolls of quarters and gold dollars. I kept pace beside Mercer, my shoulder brushing his arm every few steps like we were tethered.
We rounded a corner and practically stumbled onto side-by-side motorcycle racing machines, each bike molded in gleaming plastic. They weren’t big sturdy cruisers like Mercer’s Victory. These were sleek, sharp-nosed little beasts with low seats and an aggressive forward lean.
Mercer tapped the nearest one. “Hop on.”
Grateful to have shorts rather than a skirt to manage, I swung a leg over and settled in.
Mercer swiped his card on both machines before taking his place beside me.
Together, we faced the massive screen as it flickered to life with the game logo—massive chrome letters over flapping black-and-white checkered flags.
“Have you ever driven a motorcycle?” he asked.
I threw him a wink. “No, but I’m an expert at riding.”
He blushed, and I was winning before we even started the race.
While the game loaded, Mercer tested his grip on the handlebars and got his feet set. His right leg was nearest me, and I paid more attention to it now, noticing the way he moved and balanced his weight.
The menu populated, and Mercer navigated it while reading the options aloud.
“We’ve got Desert Sprint, Alpine Dash, Downtown Rush, and uh, Neon Overdrive.”
“Neon Overdrive,” I said immediately.
Next menu: bike customization.
I dressed mine in magenta with an iridescent finish and white flames while Mercer picked hunter green with black pinstriping.
Once everything was set, the countdown clock appeared.
3… 2… 1…
“Lean with it on the turns,” Mercer said quietly.
My fingers tightened on the handlebars, and the race launched with a roar.
Mercer shot forward while I wobbled off the starting line like a child taking their first ride on a two-wheeler.
I leaned into the first curve exactly two seconds too late and nearly sent my digital bike skidding into a very expensive virtual guardrail.
“Lean with it,” Mercer reminded, already three places ahead.
“I am leaning!” I insisted, pitching harder while squeezing my thighs around the plastic bike.
I was leaning, then grinning, and eventually giggling until I couldn’t stop. The screen flashed rainbow skyscrapers and highways that bent like ribbons. I swerved just to see what the city looked like at different angles while the scenery blurred by in bright, dizzying arcs.
Mercer, in contrast, was all focus. Low posture, forearms braced, back straight and sleek.
He looked good like that. Damn good. Which was why I missed the next turn entirely.
My bike clipped a barrier, and my ranking nosedived from sixth to twelfth. My smile turned ornery as I swung my leg off my bike and climbed onto the back of Mercer’s.
The seat was not designed for two people, but I made it work. I snuggled in and slid my arms around his torso and my tail around his waist, clingy and shameless.
Mercer kept his attention on the screen as he moved one hand from the handlebars and brought it to cover mine where they laced over his stomach. His thumb traced slowly along the inside of my fingers.
“You know,” he said, voice and body steady while taking a curve that should have been illegal. “I was just thinking I could make these turns a little tighter with a backpack.”
I smiled with my cheek pressed to his spine, breathing him in.
“For speed?” I murmured.
Mercer’s laughter rumbled through my ribs.
“No,” he said. “For flair.”
Mercer finished the race in first place, while my abandoned bike pulled in dead last.
The screen flashed NO TICKETS AWARDED, but I didn’t care. I clung to Mercer’s back and nodded happily when he asked, “Wanna go again?”
We spent the rest of the afternoon cruising through every course the game had to offer. I watched the scenery, marveled at the sights, and raked in victories that had nothing to do with the game.
When Mercer’s card zeroed out, we peeled ourselves apart and headed to the prize room. I pulled out my humble handful of balloon-pop tickets and surveyed the options while Mercer stood beside me with his hands in his pockets.
He leaned down, breath warm on my ear and voice soft as he asked, “Was there something specific you wanted?”
My gaze darted to the lava lamp glowing in all its pink glory. Dreamy. Bubbly. A beacon of tacky majesty.
When I checked the tag beneath it, I nearly choked.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “But I don’t have enough. Maybe I’ll…” I smoothed the string of tickets then glanced at Mercer. “Can I save these? And we’ll come back sometime? Just you and me?”
Mercer’s brows lifted, and he started to nod when Oz wandered in with ropes of tickets draped around his neck and across his shoulders like a royal mantle.
“You guys need tickets?” he asked, beaming.
I blinked. “Where did all those come from?”
Oz pointed both thumbs at Elliot, who trudged in a few steps behind him with his tail threaded through his hoodie pocket and his hands tucked in alongside it.
“El’s a pro at that dance game,” Oz bragged. “The one with the little squares you stomp? He demolished it.”
Mercer laughed. “I remember that game. Used to kick my ass.”
Oz’s grin got larger. “He didn’t miss. There was a crowd. People were cheering. It was epic.”
I stared at Elliot. Grumpy, do-not-perceive-me Elliot. Drawing a crowd?
“And I missed it?” I demanded.