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Another text dings.
“Open it! What other gems did she send you?”
My pulse thunders in my ears as “Dad” appears on the display. My fingers tremble as I delete the message without reading it. There’s absolutely nothing he can say that will change my mind.
“It’s nothing. She, uh, said ‘have fun.’” With a jagged breath, I face the dark window, refusing to shed another tear for my father.
Instead of the newly updated bowling center connected to Fun Junction, Nicole heads for the bowling alley on the old side of town. According to Nicole, Fun Junction would be packed with kids on a Saturday night, and no self-respecting sorority sister would be caught dead in the kid zone. But after crossing the abandoned railroad tracks and passing the charred remains of a trailer park and several old, abandoned industrial warehouses that look straight out of a zombie apocalypse, I think I’d rather take my chances with a horde of sixth graders.
Nicole pulls into the deserted Twilight Lanes parking lot, and the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
She parks her shiny red coupe at the end of the first row, a good ten yards from the only other cars in the lot—a rusted-out powder-blue Pinto and an ancient orange pickup—and at least that far from the front door.
“Are you sure about this place?” I gape up at the flickering neon sign. “Looks kinda sketchy.”
She rolls her eyes and climbs out of the car. “It’s fine. Jeremy comes here with the guys all the time.”
“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”
“It’ll be fine.” Nicole hops out, seemingly oblivious to the fact that there’s a huge difference between a bunch of college guys hanging out in a dive bowling alley and two unarmed females. “Are you coming?”
Instead of locking myself inside, I reluctantly open my door, wishing my mom had packed me mace and a stun gun for protection, instead of a lifetime supply of condoms.
“Where is Jeremy?” I glance around the deserted parking lot. “Shouldn’t he be here by now? And what about the other guys?”
Nicole checks the time on her phone. “They should be here any minute. I guess we’re a little early.”
“What happened to being fashionably late so everyone can gawk at me in the sexy red heels?”
“Stop whining already.” She grabs my wrist and tugs me across the crumbling pavement, past the decaying Pinto, to the main entrance.
Somehow, the inside of the bowling alley is even dingier than the outside. The overhead lights flicker and buzz, like a bug zapper in the heat of summer, and the stench of sweaty feet, stale cigarettes, and Lysol floats through the dank air and clings to my skin like an invisible film.
The guy behind the register watches us out of the corner of his eye as we step toward the counter, and I swear I’ve seen him somewhere.
“Why do I feel like I’m in an episode of American Horror Story?”
“Because,” she snickers, “you’ve lived a sheltered life, and you need to get out more.”
I glance at the brown splotches on the guy’s Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, then back to his empty eyes. “No, I don’t think that’s it at all.”
Dragging me behind her, Nicole marches up to the counter and slaps down a credit card. “We need two lanes. Our friends should be here in a few minutes.”
“Y’all gon’ have to wait.” He drags out the words as if they refuse to cooperate.
“Wait?” I glance over my shoulder.
The only other person in the whole place—an old man in a pair of dirty denim overalls—rolls a ball down the lane at the far end of the building.
The man behind the register narrows his eyes on me, and I suddenly remember who he reminds me of. Since I’m pretty sure the cast of The Walking Dead doesn’t moonlight in seedy bowling alleys on their days off, this guy can’t be Daryl Dixon.
He spears me with a dark look. “Did I stutter?”
“N-no?” I stumble backward, nearly snapping off the heel of my shoe, and point to a row of plastic seats along the wall. “We’ll wait over there.”
“Not so fast.” Nicole hooks her arm in mine, holding me in place while she addresses Daryl. “Why do we have to wait if there’s only one other person bowling?”
The guy drags his lazy gaze from me to Nicole as if he only has one speed—extra slow. “Because Earl there”—he points to the lone bowler—“he’s the only one who can run the register.”
