Page 15 of Troubled Water
I went bowling.
14
ELEVEN YEARS AGO—AGE 33
If anyone ever knew what I did, my clearance might get docked.
I could lose my job.
I might be sent away by the Agency to some post in Timbuktu—yeah, no. That wasn’t happening. I’d just quit and go work somewhere else. Still, I’m uncomfortable with what I’ve done to the point I’m shifting in my Saville Row suit outside what looks like the entrance to a dive bar, all so I could “run into” Bethany. But what has me doing the fire ant dance in my pants is how I got the intel to be here.
I couldn’t convince Libby or Cal to tell me anything about her beyond confirming what I heard yelled at their home a few nights ago. Bethany McCallister led the construction teambehind Deja Vu’s build out of Hudson Investigation’s new office in DC. It wasn’t her father, Linc, a man I’ve actually met.
It is the blond sprite who has been living in my dreams since that kiss on the balcony in Mexico. I never thought our lives would intersect again, which is why I never looked before.
I did today. I did the unethical. Something I’ll have to report on my next clearance re-up. I used my Agency credentials to track Bethany to where she is right now—just beyond the doors inside Spare Tavern. According to her cell pings, she comes here at least once a week for several hours, so I brace myself before going in.
I hadn't planned on coming to her weekly bowling match. In fact, bowling wasn’t my thing. But the moment I heard from one of my analysts that this was where she went every Friday night with her crew, I couldn’t shake the idea. Call me persistent, but I wasn’t going to let our reconnection—as awkward as that meeting was at that party—be the end of whatever this could be between us. If it even is anything. At this point, I’m not even sure where this may go, but I know I want to find out.
My shoulders droop imperceptibly as I make my way to the door. She doesn’t owe me a damn thing, but I hope she’ll hear me out. When I realized Bethany has a clearance of her own—a clearance level definitely lower than mine but not too shabby—I realized I could let her in on why I had no choice but to leave.
Why I can make the choice now to stay—if she’s amenable to spending time with me. To seeing where these—god, are these emotions? No wonder people fuck up all the time over them,I think, disgusted. I yank open the door, anxious to get a drink in my hand so I can numb them slightly.
But the moment I cross over into Spare Tavern, my mind blanks except for one single thought.They must have superior soundproofing.
The cottage-esque exterior is a superior camouflage for what lies in the heart of Spare Tavern. Over and over, as I absorb the trap I just walked into, lightning cracks over and over. In reality, it’s the sound of resin striking wood in the lanes just below the upper landing I’m standing on.
The sound hit me first—the loud crack of bowling balls smashing into pins, the hum of laughter, and the occasional groan of defeat—whether that’s because they missed a critical ball or guttered it entirely. I’m frozen in place temporarily, shock over the wall-to-wall people embracing a tried and true American tradition.
All those years I spent fighting in hell holes around the world, and I never realized until right now, I did it for this—for the first date, I clocked at twelve o’clock. For the family birthday party over in lane six. For the league of at least semi-pro players in matching attire, and, though I didn’t spot her right away, a group that I instantly knew were her people. Construction workers. Big, loud, covered in tattoos and paint splatters, probably as comfortable in steel-toed boots as I was in a tailored suit.
Then I see her amid the burly men in lane eight, and the world fades away.
Leaning casually against the scorer’s table, holding a beer, her blond hair in a messy ponytail and a worn baseball cap pulled low over her brow, she looks like she belongs here, with those rough and tumble workers, like she’d never felt out of place a day in her life whereas I’m using deep breathing exercises to propel myself toward the stairs toward her.
That’s when a voice shouts near my ear above the din. “Hey, mister?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you planning on going down below?”
Not losing Bethany in my sights, my chest aches. She leaps in the air after a particularly impressive roll of the ball. Having never been bowling, I know back slaps and the military. But this? I’m completely out of my league.
I give an imperceptible tip of my head, whereupon the kid says, “Then we need to get you shoes.”
I glance down at my Church’s dress loafers and raise a brow. “These shoes are perfectly fine, thank you.”
The kid’s lips split, revealing a wide line of braces. “Not for the alley, mister.”
“Ahh, you have a uniform.”
“Yeah, whatever. What size?”
“A twelve should work.” Then I watch in fascination as the kid plunks a pair of shoes on the counter and sprays them with disinfectant. I blurt out my thoughts before I can hold them back, “You voluntarily do this?” Revulsion drips in every word.
He snorts. “What reason do you think I’d risk inhaling stank feet?”
Fair point.“It’s a paycheck.”
