Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (best ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📗

Four of my first six balls were gutter balls. Things started to come around for me the second half of the game, and I ended up tied for fourth. Alexa rolled the best game, a 157. Jerry second best at 146. Wheeler third with 121. Joan and I tied with 97. And Randall brought up the rear with a measly 84.

As the losing couple, Wheeler and I were on the hook for shots. I hadn’t seen our waitress in close to half an hour and I made my way to the bar at back where the crowd had doubled since we first arrived. Fifty people were spread between a handful of tables, three pool tables, a dart board, and three Big Buck Hunter machines.

I wormed my way through the standing crowd, then plopped down on the only open stool. A moment later, I ordered six shots of tequila from a bartender with a man bun.

“Looky here,” a voice shot from behind me.

I turned.

It was Officer Matt Miller.

It was the first time I’d seen him out of his police uniform. He was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, flip-flops, and a trucker hat. His hat was lifted up a few inches, his curly hair flopped sideways across his forehead, and his cheeks had a rosy, alcohol-fueled glow. He looked like a kid on Spring Break in Daytona.

We were nearly eye level with my being seated and I stood up. “Hey, shithead,” I said.

It was dark, so I’m not sure he noticed that one of my chins had dissolved since he’d last seen me.

“What are you doing here?” he spat.

“Bowling with your ex-fiancé,” I grinned. “Sorry, your ex-ex-fiancé.”

I probably wouldn’t have said this if it weren’t for the three beers I drank.

Then again.

He craned his head back and peered through the glass partition of the bar. He squinted, then said, “Ah, and I see you brought your big nigger friend with you.”

I’d heard the n-word plenty on the basketball court. I’d even had a number of assholes I was arresting call me the n-word. But I’d never heard the n-word directed toward a black person whom I knew personally.

“What the fuck did you just say?” I demanded.

He grinned.

A few bar patrons had taken notice of our exchange and turned around. I pondered cold-clocking Miller in the face, but that’s exactly what he wanted. He was a cop. Even off-duty, he couldn’t throw the first punch. But he sure as shit could throw the second, fifth, and thirtieth.

Luckily, Man Bun finished pouring my shots, and in the time it took for me to grab cash from my wallet and pay, I talked myself down.

I took the tray of shots, pushed past Miller with a sneer, then made my way back to our bowling lane.

After the six of us toasted and drank our shots, I beckoned Wheeler toward the bathrooms and told her what happened.

“He actually said the word?”

I nodded, then asked, “Did you know he was a racist piece of shit when you dated him?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, then nodded. “It comes out when he’s drunk.”

“You knew and you still dated him? You still got engaged to him?”

“He hid it pretty well. He never said anything around me, but a couple years ago I saw a video his buddy took of him when he was wasted and saying all sorts of terrible things. I broke the engagement off with him the next day.” She crossed her arms and silently dared me to criticize her.

I was unfairly judging her and I said, “I’m sorry.”

She nearly started to cry and I pulled her into a hug.

“I love Randall,” she said.

“I know,” I said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I do too.”

“Are you gonna tell him?”

I was guessing it would make Alexa far more upset than it would Randall. “Not tonight,” I said.

“Here you go,” I said, handing Jerry fifty bucks.

Jerry rolled the high score of the night—a 188. I rolled a bit better the second game, a 121. And Randall finally broke a hundred, actually he rolled exactly 100, but by the little dance he did at the end you would have thought he rolled a 250. As for the women, the two martinis and the shots of tequila did both Alexa and Joan in, and both women rolled scores in the fifties. It was almost hard to watch. Wheeler, who apparently had a higher tolerance than the two mothers, beat me by two pins.

“What’s this for?” Jerry asked. “We only bet five bucks.”

“I owed you forty-five from our golf game.”

“Oh, right,” he said, pocketing the cash.

Technically, Randall and Alexa were responsible for buying another round of shots, but Alexa was having trouble getting her bowling shoes off, and no one else seemed eager to consume any more alcohol.

Ten minutes later, our group shuffled our way to the front desk to return our shoes.

I plopped mine down on the counter. That’s when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was returning from the bathroom, flip-flopping his way in our direction.

Wheeler followed my gaze and I could feel her tense up next to me.

“Hey guys,” Miller said as he came to within ten feet. “Did you all have a fun night of bowling?”

“We did,” Joan replied drunkenly.

Randall was behind me, and I instinctively turned and glanced at him. He was the only other person who knew about Wheeler’s history with Miller. He might even know that Officer Miller wasn’t the most tolerant of folks. I tried to read his expression, but for the moment, he seemed undeterred by the little guy’s presence.

“How’d you bowl, Wheeler?” Miller said, taking a drink of what I guessed to be a gin and tonic. “You bowl good?”

“Sure,” she said. “Been awhile.”

“Yeah, probably not since the last time we came together. What, like two years ago, was it?”

Jerry, Joan, and Alexa all glanced at one another as they realized this wasn’t just a friendly bar patron