Page 134 of Off the Rails

The sign had a vintage look, like it had been put up in the 1950s but not a drop of rain had touched it.

In a classic fifties scrawl, the neon sign blinked: “Split Happens Bowling Alley.”

I remembered it being here when we were kids, driving past it in the church van. But the siding was peeling back then and the parking lot cracked and the signs were covered in debris.

Now, the whole place had been refreshed as if some magic fairy godmother had rolled up and given it a nice paint job.

“Yep.” Nash smiled as she parked the car right up front.

“Doesn’t Feverpoint have one?” Looking out the window, I couldn’t see past the tinted glass doors of the Alley.

Blade turned in her seat. “Nope. Kind of an oversight. Except, no one who pays for an amusement park is going to spend the day bowling.”

Before I could ask more questions, Nash hopped out of the driver’s seat and pulled open my door. “Let’s go, Sweet Lamb.”

I followed their lead as Blade held open the front door.

As soon as we stepped inside, the patterned carpet and clatter of falling pins put me at ease. It wasn’t how I remembered it, no dank smell smacking my nostrils as we waltzed toward the counter.

A young woman with a long ponytail leaned against the polished wood, wearing a red and black striped shirt. “Hey, y’all. What can I do for you?” There was a recognition in her voice and the gentle smile she offered my pierced and tatted Freaks.

Blade took the lead, flashing a smile back and gripping the edge of the counter. “Hey, can we do Lane 9, three shoes, please?”

“You got it.” Danielle, according to her nametag, got to work.

As she collected shoes and put our lane into the computer, I turned and looked at the lanes. The floors were perfectly polished, a light wood that shimmered under the mutli-color LED lights embedded behind wood panels along the walls and ceiling.

Someone had come in and renovated the whole place, replacing musty carpeted walls with twenty-first-century design.

Once Danielle slid the shoes over the counter, she nodded toward Lane 9. “You can place food orders on the screens and we’ll bring it over.” It was clear that she was speaking to me, knowing that Blade and Nash already knew the drill.

As we walked over to the alleys, stepping down into the pit where black leather booths sat at the end of each lane, I turned to Blade. “How often do you come bowling?”

“More often than most people.” She laughed, an inside joke I wasn’t a part of just yet.

But we reached our area, quiet and near the edge of the building. Nash walked up to the computer screen at the center of the booths. Getting to work inputting names and setting up our system, Nash’s brow furrowed as she concentrated.

It made my stomach twist, watching her focus. I could see her in her studio, toiling away at drawings of me — sculpting my cunt.

“All set.” Nash threw herself down into the booth, sitting close to me. “Like your name?”

Looking up at the overhead monitor, three rows of players set up for a ten-round game, I rolled my eyes. “Sweet Lamb? Seriously?”

I nudged her with my shoulders.

In a deep growl, Nash pulled me closer. “You were such a sweet, obedient girl last night. It’s the perfect name for you.”

Blade stood up, first to bowl, and grabbed a neon green ball from the ball return. “Try not to be intimidated, Trinket. We’re regulars.” With a wink, Blade sent her bowling ball ripping down the polished wood and into the ten pins at the end of the lane.

Hitting eight of the ten, the remaining two formed a cluster on the left side.

Should be easy enough.

“Did you take me here to show off?” I narrowed my eyes on them.

Blade shrugged. “Well, we thought it was only fair to give you a game you stand a chance at winning, since you lost so fast last night.”

Scoffing, I licked my teeth. “Oh, you asshole.”