Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 46785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You haven’t asked me to do anything with you in, oh, forever. Now Mort’s here, you suddenly want to be bowling buddies?”
Tristan was adorable when he was jealous. He wore it clearly on his face and in the set of his shoulders, the tension of his body. Everything about him screamed go away without him needing to say a word.
“I just thought maybe it’s time we all let bygones be bygones, you know?”
“I think it would be nice to indulge in some social activities,” Mort piped up from the kitchen table. “We were just saying how we have been too insular, Tris.”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder briefly at Mort, blue eyes flashing for just a moment.
“Fine.”
Tom was excited in spite of Tristan’s clear lack of interest. “It’s the Bowlerama in Perdition. First playoffs are tonight for the league. I can pick you guys up if you want?”
“We’ll drive.”
Tristan shut the door in Tom’s face.
“Your manners leave quite a lot to be desired,” Mort noted, not really concerned, but thinking it worth mentioning anyway.
“He’s an asshole. He bullied me for years. Helping you out once or twice doesn’t make up for it.”
The Bowlerama smelled like sweat, beer, and candy. Mort would never have noticed that as reaper. All places were simply backdrops to him then. Now, every bit of it was as real as he was, as mortal as he was. When he stepped into the cavernous space with the balls rolling like boulders and the repeated crash and clash of pins, he became a part of it, and it became a part of him.
Tom was there with three beers, one for him, and one for Mort and Tristan. Tris took his without a word of thanks. Mort accepted his reluctantly. His one foray into alcohol had left him with a revulsion to it.
“Alright, you know how to play?” Tom laughed, as if the question itself were silly. Perhaps it was. The idea generally seemed to hurl a heavy ball down a long lane and try to hit little white pins at the end of it. It was a proto-hunting activity turned into a game, a little window into the many thousands of years of evolution and existence before the modern world.
“You need to swap your shoes out for bowling shoes,” Tristan explained as they walked up to the main counter. “Saves the floor, but they’re slippery as hell. And don’t go over the line or you’ll end up on your ass.”
Mort wondered if perhaps accepting this invitation had not been a mistake. He did not want to be hurt. He was not used to worrying about that, but the unpleasantness of being hungover was enough warning.
“We can go,” Tristan said, catching Mort’s look of trepidation.
“No. I want to stay.” Mort said. “I want to play.”
The words felt odd and inaccurate coming out of his mouth, but he knew he had to begin to integrate into the mortal world.
So they played. Mort was not good at bowling. On his first attempt, the ball skittered almost directly into the gutter.
“Next time, bud!” Tom said cheerfully.
Tristan shot Tom a jealous look. He did not like the attempt at camaraderie. Mort noticed that Tris wasn’t drinking as he usually did. Maybe he wanted to stay sharp and aware.
Tris was changing. Evolving. When they first met, Tris would never have come here, and if he did, he’d have been drunk as hell.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “Tonight’s a practice night. Everyone’s testing their teams. The league doesn’t start until next Wednesday at 7pm, so you’ve got time to get your eye in.”
Mort was not worried. Mort did not care about bowling one bit. Now it was Tristan’s turn. He stood at the machine where the balls popped out, taking a little time to select his ball.
“You seem to be doing better, dude,” Tom said. “You look healthier. More tanned or something.”
“Thank you,” Mort said, barely listening to Tom. He was far too busy watching Tristan bowl. Unlike Mort, Tristan had a natural talent for physical activity, and watching him was a pleasure, especially the way his pants pulled tight over his ass when he crouched mid-movement to let the ball go.
“Tristan is a handsome guy,” Tom said. There was a half-note of jealousy in his voice. He wanted Mort’s attention. But Mort didn’t have eyes for anyone other than Tris. Maybe nobody here realized it, but Tristan was special. A mortal like the rest of them, but no normal mortal.
“Yes,” Mort agreed, a single word.
Tristan’s ball glided smoothly down the center of the lane, heading toward the front pin with almost supernatural accuracy.
“Yeah,” Tom said. “His mom was hot too. Pity she was a slut.”
Mort’s fist was in motion before he could stop it, his hips pivoting, his arm straight. He clocked Tom square in the jaw, dropping him like a proverbial sack of potatoes.