Page 49 of Jesse's Girl
I hesitate for a second, but I’m grateful for the excuse to put some space between me and Ada. At least it’ll give my horny brain gremlin time to cool off.
Despite the semi in my pants and the lingering distraction of imagining Ada done up like 1940s babe, I manage to bowl straight down the middle of the lane. Still, the ball only takes out the pins in the center, with one pin left standing on either side. The word “split” flashes under “Man Bun” on the screen above my lane. That’s when a text notification chimes from my back pocket. When I catch sight of Ada putting her phone away, I get a sinking feeling I know what that text is. I don’t touch my phone—don’t want to seem overeager—but it’s suddenly burning a hole in the back of my jeans.
Maybe if my ass catches fire, I’d have an excuse to run out of here.
Ada stands to bowl her frame in the next lane, and our eyes meet over the ball return between us. As she chooses her ball, she cuts an appraising look at my unfortunate split-frame situation and leans in slightly. “You know, you’re supposed to try to knock down all the pins.”
I huff a laugh. “Alright, Chuckles, let’s see what you got.” I brace my ball against my stomach and tilt my head at her lane. “Ladies first.”
She scoffs and hefts a ball into her hands, and—fuck me—immediately rolls a strike. Victorious, she whirls around to face me. “Ooh, I really wish we didn’t have that rule about swear words!”
“Oh, yeah? You’d use a choice few?”
“All the good ones.” She grins, practically glittering with smug pride.
Letting out a defeated breath, I rub my forehead with the back of my hand and set up to bowl. I’ll have to put some spin on the ball to have any hope in hell of a spare. I decide to aim for the pin on the left, hoping it’ll shoot sideways and take its buddy out with it.
Right as I wind up, Ada says, “Oh, I texted you that picture of my costume.”
Fuck.
Her words shoot through my nerve endings, tensing all the wrong muscles as I let go of the ball. It seems like a half-decent attempt at first, but I can tell I overshot it, and the ball inevitably winds up in the gutter. I straighten with a sigh and wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans.
“Thanks for that,” I grumble, unable to avoid the broad, beautiful smile beaming back at me.
“Aw, don’t cry, Jess. I can ask if they have one of those little ramps for you.” She tilts her head toward a group of young kids several lanes away. “I think that birthday party is almost done with theirs.”
Shielding one hand from view with the other, I flip her off.
“So, about that popcorn deal,” she says, tilting her head at the front door. “We gonna do that in the parking lot like old times? In front of the children?”
“Oh, no,” I assure her, lowering my voice. “That’s just between you and me.”
She flushes, a delicate pink creeping over her cheeks.
I catch myself staring again—looks like the horny gremlin is back—and, shaking my head, return to the benches behind the console. “Dalia, your turn,” I say as I sit, then lean forward to squint at the screen. “Or should I call you… Dalulu?”
Dalia swats Rolando’s shoulder as she heads to take her turn. “Clown.”
He snickers into his fist.
My knee bounces and I chew on the inside of my cheek. Unable to wait any longer, I pull out my phone. After a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Ada’s otherwise occupied, I open the text.
Thank God I’m sitting down because my dick twitches to attention like a soldier reporting for duty. In the photo, Ada’s dressed as a pinup version of Rosie the Riveter, the iconic red and white polka-dot headscarf tied above curled, dark bangs—her natural hair color. A tight-fitting denim shirt is knotted under her breasts to reveal her bare waist and unbuttoned at the top to show her cleavage. Tiny, high-waisted, button-up shorts hug her hips over fishnet stockings. And, if that wasn’t enough to have me grinding my teeth, she’s sporting a pair of red stiletto heels. Fuck-me heels. One arm is held in Rosie the Riveter’s iconic bicep curl, with the other slung around Katie’s shoulders. And her smile. Painted with bright red lipstick, it’s broad, genuine, and sexy as hell.
“Whoa, dude, who’s the snack?” Rolando’s voice snaps me out of my Ada-induced vortex. I rush to shut off my phone, shoving it back in my pocket.
“You’re looking at her,” Ada replies from my other side, and I whip my head around, feeling the blood drain from my face.
Shit. How much did she see?
Thankfully, her gaze is fixed on Rolando, who has the decency to act embarrassed. “I think you’re up next…”—she eyes the scores on the screen above our lane—“Rizzero?”
“Rizzero?” he repeats, frowning in confusion when Rupi and Dalia break into laughter nearby.
“Yeah,” calls Dalia, cupping a hand to her mouth. “’Cause Roly’s got zero rizz!” She and Rupi double over in their seats, laughing and holding onto each other for support.
Rolando scoffs and ignores the girls, turning back to me. “’Kay, hold up, though. That was Ada?”