The Risk (Briar U #2)(53)

When he notices my phone light up, a deep groove appears in his forehead. “No phones at the dinner table.”

“I’m not even checking it,” I protest. “I can’t control it from going off.”

“Sure you can. It’s called the power button.”

I glance pointedly at the phone near his right hand. He’s already received four emails since we sat down. “You can turn yours off, too.”

We stare at each other. Dad makes a grouchy sound, twirls some noodles around his fork, and shoves them in his mouth.

I don’t open Jake’s message until I’m upstairs in my room. My jaw drops when I learn where we’re going tonight.

ME: Bowling????





* * *



JAKE: What do you have against bowling?





* * *



ME: Nothing. But I suck at it, so if you’re hoping for any sort of competition, you won’t get it from me.





* * *



JAKE: No competition necessary. Let’s just have fun. You cool with it?





* * *



ME: Sure, what the hell.





* * *



JAKE: Meet around 8?





* * *



ME: Sounds good.





That gives me an hour and a half to get ready, but I’ve already decided I won’t go to great lengths to look good for Jake. The only reason I’m going out with him tonight is because he came to the dinner party with me.

Once I’m showered and dressed, I pull up Google maps and load the address of the bowling alley. It’s a twenty-five-minute drive, which makes it much closer to Hastings than Cambridge.

A while later, I go downstairs and linger in the living room doorway. Dad’s on the couch, fast-forwarding through the Harvard-Princeton game from last weekend. Jake is a streak of lightning across the screen, and I wonder if my father would appreciate the irony that I’m about to go meet Jake in person.

“Hey,” I say to get his attention. “I wanted to see if I could borrow the Jeep. I’m meeting a friend tonight.”

“All these mysterious friends,” he mutters, his eyes remaining glued to the screen. “Do any of these friends have names?”

“They sure do.” But I don’t offer them.

Dad snorts. “The keys are in the front hall. Try to be back at a reasonable time.”

I want to say something snarky, but he’s lending me his car, so I refrain. “Don’t wait up,” I say instead.





Jake is already there when I pull into the nearly empty parking lot in front of Bowl-Me-Up. The name of the bowling alley is perplexing to me. Maybe it’s supposed to be a play on “Beam me up”? But a dated sci-fi reference doesn’t quite convey bowling, so I’m not sure what they were really going for.

I park the Jeep next to the shiny Mercedes that Jake is leaning against. Along with our cars, the lot contains a sedan, a pickup truck, and five or six motorcycles parked near the front doors. It’s basically a ghost lot. “Nice wheels,” I remark as I jump out of the Jeep. “Did you buy that with your signing bonus?”

“Nope. I haven’t spent a dime of it, actually,” Jake admits. “This is Brooks’s car.”

“Why does he need a car in the city?”

“Because he’s a millionaire, and millionaires own cars. Jeez, Hottie.”

I have to laugh. “Makes perfect sense to me.” I gaze up at the massive sign above our heads. Next to the words Bowl-Me-Up is a huge neon-pink bowling ball that keeps flickering. “You come here often?” I ask dryly.

“Every weekend during the off-season. This place is dear to my heart.”

That catches me by surprise. “Really?”

“No. Of course not. I picked it because it’s roughly halfway between our houses.” He snorts. “So gullible.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” I say with a sigh. “I should’ve known better than to believe you have a heart.” I lock the Jeep and tuck the keys in my purse.

As we walk toward the entrance, I notice Jake slowing his long gait to match my much shorter one. “I totally have a heart,” he argues. “Here, feel.”

Next thing I know, he’s grabbing my hand and placing it inside his unzipped coat. Man, oh man, his pecs are delicious. And I can feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers.

“Your heart’s beating fast, Connelly. You worried I’m going to kick your butt in there?”

“Not in the slightest. You already told me you sucked.”

Damn. He’s right. I chide myself for telegraphing my suckiness in advance.

Inside, we encounter another ghost town. The bowling alley consists of ten lanes, and only two of them are in use. At the main counter stands a gray-haired gentleman with leathery skin that hints at too many years in the sun. He greets us with a smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth.

“Evening, folks! How ’bout some shoes?” His voice is so raspy, it sounds like he smokes two packs of cigarettes a day.

We get our bowling shoes, and the old man with the gray ponytail tells us we can take any available lane. We choose the one that’s farthest away from the other patrons—an older couple, and a group of scary-looking bikers who’ve been taunting and catcalling each other since Jake and I walked in. One of them, an overweight guy with a bushy beard, just bowled a strike and he thrusts his arms up in a victory pose.