9. Kai
Nine
Kai
Holy shit.
I had no idea Bingo could be this violent.
Okay, okay.
So it’s not actual violence.
Mostly.
But the verbal sparring? Intense.
And Mr. Carlson did get bopped on the head by Mrs. Liebowitz with her lucky troll doll when he knocked over her dish of butterscotch candies.
Delicious, by the way.
But if somebody ever wants to make a documentary about organized crime hiding behind church fundraisers, I know exactly where to start.
“B-12!”
A chorus of groans erupts from the crowd.
Mrs. Russo slams her dauber onto the table.
“Of course he calls B-12. I needed B-11!”
Across the room, Mr. Lombardi pumps a fist.
“Yes!”
“You hush,” Mrs. Russo snaps.
“I'm winning fair and square.”
“Nothing about you is fair and square. Especially not your butt!”
The entire table erupts in laughter.
I lean against the microphone stand and grin.
“Easy there, ladies and gents. Wowza!” I chuckle. “You people are savages.”
“We're retired,” Mr. Lombardi says. “We got time to hold grudges.”
The room explodes again.
Even I can't help laughing.
Honestly, the night has been way more fun than I expected.
The old folks are hilarious.
The church ladies are ruthless.
And apparently everyone has accepted that Mary and I are together.
Or at least together enough to gossip about.
Every time I looked over at her tonight somebody was whispering.
Every time she smiled at me another rumor probably got born.
Good.
Let them talk.
Maybe it'll help the school.
Maybe it'll help the permits.
Maybe it'll help donations.
Maybe it’ll help me actually get a shot with the curvy little schoolteacher.
Not gonna think too hard about that one.
“Last game of the night!” I announce.
The room collectively straightens.
Game faces on.
Holy Jesus.
These people are intense.
Twenty minutes later Mrs. Russo finally wins.
The victory celebration is so loud you'd think she hit the lottery.
Maybe she kinda did.
I don't know.
I've learned not to question Bingo people.
They're terrifying.
The crowd slowly filters out.
Tables empty.
Chairs scrape.
Volunteers begin cleaning.
And eventually I spot Mary stacking leftover Bingo cards behind the registration desk.
My chest does that thing again.
The stupid thing.
The thing where seeing her makes everything else seem less important.
I walk over.
“Hey, Firecracker.”
She glances up.
Immediately smiling.
“Hey yourself. You did a great job, by the way. Heard a lot of praise when everyone was leaving. And one very disgruntled complainant.”
“Ha! Who was it? Mr. Lombardi?”
“I’m not saying,” she teases.
“Whatever. Anyway, told you it'd be fun.”
“You did get into an argument with three senior citizens.”
“I won all three arguments.”
“You absolutely did not.”
I point dramatically.
“History will remember differently.”
Mary laughs.
And fuck me.
That laugh?
I think I'm addicted to it.
“Mrs. Russo threatened to hit you with her purse when you dawdled calling out that last number.”
“She respected me.”
“She called you a smartass.”
“See? Respect. Besides, she won.”
Mary rolls her eyes and starts gathering the piles of leftover Bingo cards.
I take them from her.
“Hey, I got it.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, and now both of us have our hands on the stacks of cards.
“You worked all night too.”
“I know.”
“Let me help.”
For a second, she just watches me.
Something soft moving through her expression.
Then she nods.
“Okay.”
We clean together.
Pack up supplies.
Stack chairs.
Lock up the cashbox.
Turn off lights.
By the time we're finished, the hall is empty.
It’s just us.
The silence feels different now.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Like we've known each other for longer than a couple weeks.
Like this is normal.
Maybe it could be.
Now, that is a very dangerous thought.
See, I’m not usually the guy who has time to call numbers out at community Bingo.
I work for an elite security firm.
I get called out on assignments halfway around the world with no notice.
I can’t do whatever this make-believe relationship is—not for real, anyway.
And that really fucking sucks.
So I push the thought away for now.
And I focus on the now.
Being here.
With her.
“You finished?”
“Yep. Just need to set the alarm and lock the door,” she murmurs, her big emerald eyes seem to glow in the dimly lit corridor.
They’re framed in dark brass-colored lashes, and I swear I’ve never seen anything like them.
Fuck.
She really is so pretty.
And I think I might be getting in over my head.
Funny thing, though—I’m doing nothing to stop it.