The crash of pins, a chorus of cheers. Aubrey squinted as the neon lights above the lanes buzzed, washing everything in cheap pink and blue. Cal was pumping his fist at the end of the lane, grinning like a kid while the squad heckled him from their table.
James slid a fresh basket of wings onto the table, nudging a stack of napkins closer without a word. When he finally looked her way, his smile carried the same careful ease he’d been wearing all night.
Slater grabbed a wing before the basket even settled. “Finally. Thought you were rationing these like we’re on deployment.”
James smirked. “Figured I’d keep the peace. You guys get mean when you’re hungry.”
Cal strolled back from the lane, shoes squeaking, arms stretched wide. “Nine pins,” he said, like it was a mic drop.
“Yeah, and zero chance you’re catching me in fantasy this week,” one of the guys shot back. “Burrow’s about to bury you.”
Cal looked back, half smiling. “Yeah, dumbass? Burrow went down. Apologize and I’ll think about trading you Danny Dimes.” He strutted back toward the table, already shaking his head like the deal was done.
Slater bit into a wing, talking around it. “Danny Dimes? More like Danny Debt Collector. Man’s out here drafting IOUs.”
The table burst out, a mix of groans and laughter, sauce flying off napkins as the noise built again.
Brian slapped the table, sauce on his sleeve. “Slater’s right, man. Danny Dimes can’t buy a win if he robbed his own paycheck.”
Dorian leaned back in his chair, raising his glass like he was officiating. “And yet, Cal drafted him third round. Third. Round.”
The table howled. Cal threw his hands up. “You idiots don’t understand strategy. You draft value, not names.”
Vince finally cracked a grin, leaning just enough to mutter, “Yeah? How’s that strategy working from last place?”
That earned another chorus of oooohs, and Cal lobbed a napkin across the table at him.
Cal sat back down, still shaking his head. “Whole department’s a bunch of comedians. None of you’d last a week managing a roster.”
Slater didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, and you’ve barely lasted managing yours.”
The table cracked up. Even Vince smirked into his beer.
Cal jabbed a finger across the table, grinning despite himself. “Careful. I manage the department’s roster, too.” He paused, leaning back with a mock sigh. “Guess that does make me a dumbass.”
The laughter rolled louder, napkins waving, Brian nearly spilling his drink.
The laughter hadn’t died down when the pins reset with a crash. Cal was still soaking in the noise at the table, nursing his beer like he had all night to take another shot.
“Uh, Cal?” James spoke up from the edge, not loud, just enough to cut through. “Pretty sure you’ve still got one more roll.”
Cal blinked, looked at the lane, then back at James with mock offense. “What are you, my secretary?”
Slater snorted. “Nah, he’s just the only one sober enough to notice.”
That got another round of chuckles as Cal stood, muttering, “Fine, fine…” and grabbed his ball again.
Brian leaned over the table, grinning at James. “Sober? Not for long. Somebody get this kid a couple shots so he can catch up.”
Cal lined up, gave the ball a dramatic little spin in his hand, and let it fly. It rolled straight, clipped the edge, and left a single pin wobbling before it settled stubbornly upright.
The table erupted in groans and laughter. Slater cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Captain Spare!”
The nickname stuck instantly — Dorian pounding the table with the heel of his hand, Brian wiping wing sauce off his fingers just so he could point and chant it. Vince even cracked a grin, shaking his head.
Cal turned, arms out like his own blood had just betrayed him. “You assholes act like spares don’t count! Spares keep a man alive!”
Vince leaned back, deadpan. “Honeybuns don’t.”
The table cracked up, Slater pounding his fist once against the wood while Brian nearly choked on a wing. Cal pointed across at Vince, half-smiling, half-scowling. “Keep talking, wiseass. You’re all jealous of consistency.”
The laughter rattled on, loud enough to draw a glance from the lane over. Aubrey cracked a smile despite herself, sipping at her drink. Nights like this always felt foreign—noise and banter bouncing off neon walls, everyone jabbing at each other like family.
She leaned back, letting her eyes skim the group. Cal was still defending his strategy with both hands like a coach in the middle of a timeout. Slater’s smirk didn’t budge, even with sauce on his cuff. Brian was already reaching for another wing, oblivious. And Vince—quiet Vince—looked more alive here than he ever did under fluorescent precinct lights.
Her gaze shifted to James at the edge of the table. He laughed along, polite, but there was a half-second delay in it—like he was still catching the rhythm of their inside jokes. He caught her glance and gave a slight shrug, like he knew it too. Aubrey almost smiled back before turning her focus to the lanes again.
The crash of another set of pins filled the air, Cal already halfway down the lane, determined to prove something only he cared about.
A waitress slid a tray of shots onto the table, glass clinks cutting through the noise.
Brian grinned widely, pulling the tray closer. “Alright, everybody gets one.” He passed them out, then stopped, leaving three lined up in front of James. “Huh. Guess I overdid it. You’re up, rookie.”
The table cracked up, Dorian raising his glass like he was officiating. “That’s the tax, man. New blood pays.”
James tried to protest, hands hovering over the glasses. “You guys are trying to kill me.”
Slater smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Consider it training.”
Laughter rolled around the table as James finally grabbed the first glass. He made a face, coughed, then reached for the second with everyone booing his hesitation. By the time he downed the third, he nearly winced it back up, but he kept it down.
The table erupted in cheers. Aubrey couldn’t help the short giggle that slipped out, her shoulders shaking as James dropped his head into his hands.
Dorian clapped the table once. “That’s it. Kid’s officially a detective now.”
Slater pushed back his chair and grabbed his ball. “Alright, alright, watch and learn,” he muttered, striding toward the lane.
All eyes followed him, the squad quick to throw out side bets. Brian leaned toward Dorian, loud enough for half the alley to hear. “Ten bucks says he gutters on the first throw.”
Dorian shot back, grinning. “Nah—guy’s been practicing in his basement. I heard the neighbors complain.”
The laughter swelled, attention fixed down the lane.
Aubrey reached for her glass, and when she set it back down, James was watching her, voice pitched low so it stayed between them. “They always this bad?”
She smirked, keeping her eyes on the lane. “Worse, usually. You’re catching them on their best behavior.”
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
James chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough. “Good to know. Guess I’ll pace myself, then.”
Slater’s ball thundered into the pins, sending half of them clattering, the squad erupting again. Aubrey shook her head, the corner of her mouth lifting.
Aubrey didn’t answer right away, but a small smile slipped through, quick and quiet, before she turned back toward the group. The smile stretched the stitches slightly on her cheek from the wound. She winced a little.
At the table, Dorian was already mid-swing with his beer. “Not if you’re Onyx,” he cracked, loud enough to earn a groan from Cal and a chorus of laughs from the others.
Slater shook his head, smirking despite himself. “Jesus, Dorian. Too soon.”
The laughter thinned after a moment, the weight of the name hanging there. Brian wiped his hands on a napkin, his tone dropping a notch. “Still can’t believe how close that one was. Three blocks from my sister’s place. Shit like that sticks.”
Cal leaned back, folding his arms. “Yeah, well, he’s off the board now. We did the job.”
The table quieted, the noise of the bowling alley filling the gap. Aubrey’s gaze drifted down into her glass, the case still humming in her head no matter how much she wanted to shake it.
Dorian’s joke about Onyx still lingered when Brian leaned forward, wiping sauce off his hands with a napkin. His voice dropped just enough to cut under the noise of the lanes.
“Still can’t believe Fuller clammed up like that. Eleven bodies tied to him, and the bastard only gets pinned on three so far. Guy’s sitting on the rest like it’s some kind of game.”
The laughter at the table dimmed. Even Cal, still holding his ball, slowed his step and turned back.
Slater shook his head. “He’s not gonna hold it forever. You could see it cracks already showing. He’ll give it up. Question’s just when.”
Vince leaned in, brow furrowed. “And how many more we haven’t touched yet. That’s the part that gets me.”
The table noise dipped as Dorian leaned back, voice dropping low enough to cut through the laughter.
“You know what still fucks me up? That girl, Mia. Hiding in the closet while it all went down. Heard every second of it.”
The shift in tone was instant. Brian’s smirk fell, Vince stared down at his glass, and even Cal’s shoulders slumped a little.
Aubrey set her drink down, jaw tight. For a second, the crash of pins in the next lane was the only sound holding the moment together.
Slater exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “And the dad… reading her that wolves-eat-wolves shit before bed? That’s not parenting, that’s fucked. Guy was a weirdo.”
A couple of them muttered agreement, the heaviness hanging between them.
The table sank into a short silence, Slater’s words hanging heavier than the smoke above the lanes.
Brian finally broke it, leaning back with a crooked grin. “Yeah, but thanks to killer-catcher Brooke over here, the only contracts Fuller’s competing for now are prison laundry shifts.”
The jab drew a few smirks. Vince leaned forward, pointing his glass. “Jokes aside—credit where it’s due. You trusted your gut, Brooke. Showed the rest of us up.”
Slater didn’t argue. He just gave a small nod, like he couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. “And she's got stitches like a real boxer.” He slightly withholds some laughter.
Dorian raised his glass, grin wide. “To Brooke.”
Glasses clinked around the table, the noise folding into the crash of pins and the buzz of neon.
Aubrey masked it with a small smile, lifting her glass. “Well… he was selling nice houses.”
That broke the tension—the table cracked up, a few chuckles bouncing into louder laughs.
Dorian slapped the edge of the table, nearly spilling his drink. “Christ, that reminds me—when you played undercover at that open house? The wire picked him up, talking about square footage like he was auctioning off his soul. Weirdest son of a bitch I’ve ever heard through an earpiece.”
Brian shook his head, grinning. “Man sounded like he was flirting with the drywall.”
The table cracked up, Dorian nearly choking on his beer.
James, grinning but clearly out of his depth, leaned in just enough: “Hey, drywall’s a solid listener. Better than half the guests I check in.”
A couple of the guys chuckled at the left-field comment, the laughter tapering into a different rhythm. Aubrey caught the glance James shot her way — a little self-aware, like he knew he’d lobbed the oddball joke just to keep up.
Vince leaned back, smirking at James. “C’mon, hotel boy. You must see some real characters working nights.”
James chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, plenty. You get the drunks, the couples screaming at each other, the guys who pay cash for two hours and vanish.” He hesitated, then added, “Had one the other night, though — kind of stuck with me. Came in looking like hell. Hoodie, beard, eyes sunk. But when I saw him again the next day? Clean-shaven, hair slicked back, paying for a week up front. Even had this gaucho hat on, just standing there at the counter like he walked out of a western.”
Dorian barked a laugh. “Sounds like a cowboy on the run.”
James smirked. “Yeah, or someone just figured out how to clean up fast.”
The table cracked up, the moment rolling easily into the noise of the night. Aubrey found herself smiling too, letting it pass with the rest.
Cal pushed his chair back, stretching his arms overhead. “Alright, bowling champs—who’s up for the bar next door? Tables are open, I can already smell the cheap beer, and I say we throw some money on pool.”
The table lit up. Brian slapped the edge of his glass. “Hell yeah, I’m in. Easy money.”
Dorian leaned over toward James with a grin. “What about you, hotel boy? You in, or you turning into a pumpkin after ten?”
Brian chimed in, elbowing him. “Yeah, come on. Don’t let us clean you out without at least trying to hold a cue.”
James laughed, holding up his hands. “I’ll come watch, but I’m not betting—I know when I’m out of my league.”
“Watching’s just step one,” Dorian said, wagging a finger. “Next thing you know, you’re running the table.”
The group laughed, the momentum already pushing them toward the door. Aubrey found herself caught in the tide, James falling into step just behind her as they grabbed their coats.
The group spilled out through the doors, voices carrying down the hall toward the bar. Aubrey slowed, then stopped just short of the exit. She turned to James, slipping her arms around him in a quick hug.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” she said. “It’s always like this after a case closes. They’re good people—just… don’t take the ribbing too seriously.”
James shook his head with a small smile. “It’s nothing. My dad and brother were the same way—darts and poker in the kitchen, trash talk louder than the game half the time.”
That pulled a faint smile from her. “Figures.”
James adjusted his jacket and gave her a nod. “Drive safe, alright?”
Aubrey squeezed his arm once before stepping back. “I will.”
She pushed through the door and out into the chill night, her footsteps carrying her toward the car while the laughter of the others faded into the background.
The engine turned over, the dash lights flickering to life. The radio kicked in mid-chord—Run for Your Life by the Beatles, the jangly guitar sharp in the quiet. Aubrey almost reached to switch it off, but left it, the song filling the silence as she pulled out of the lot.
Her phone buzzed against the console. James.
She tapped it on, speaker flooding the cabin with the muddied roar of rock music and laughter behind him.
“Brooke!” James practically shouted over the noise. “The guys are saying you’re coming to the Giants game Sunday—and you’re bringing me. Non-negotiable.”
From the background came Brian’s voice, loud and teasing: “Yeah, Archer!” followed by another burst of laughter.
Aubrey shook her head, smiling despite herself. “That so?”
“Yeah,” James laughed, the sound half-lost in the bar’s racket. “You don’t have a choice.”
She giggled softly, eyes on the road. “We’ll see. Maybe.”
“Taking that as a yes,” he shot back, before someone hollered in the background and the line clicked off.
She shook her head with a slight smile after James’s call, then pulled into a gas station. The car idled, headlights washing over the empty lot. She killed the engine, stepped out, and the radio cut off—only for the same Beatles track to float out of the pump speakers, tinny and warped.
Aubrey swiped her card, slid the nozzle free, and set it into the tank. The lyrics drifted across the night air:
“You better run for your life if you can, little girl…”
She leaned back against the pump, arms folded, the chill night cutting through her coat. That’s when she noticed him—across the lot, at another pump. A man with his back turned, rifling through his trunk. The brim of a gaucho hat caught the fluorescent light.
“Hide your head in the sand, little girl…”
For a second, the image tugged at her—something familiar she couldn’t place. The nozzle clicked, startling her. She pulled it free, the handle clattering back into place.
Across the lot, Gabriel shut his trunk. He glanced sideways—saw a woman by the opposite pump, hair catching silver under the lights. She wasn’t watching him; her focus was on the pump, posture loose but tired, like she’d been carrying too much weight for too long. His gaze lingered on that weariness, something he recognized, before he turned back, sliding the nozzle home.
“Catch you with another man… that’s the end, little girl…”
Aubrey looked up again, only to find him already facing away. The moment dissolved.
The door to the convenience store chimed. A woman stepped out, tugging her daughter along, both of them laughing as they crossed toward their car. Aubrey froze, the child’s voice carrying across the pavement. For just a moment, the mother’s face tilted in the light like her own mother’s, enough to hollow her chest.
She blinked, trying to shake it, and looked back across the lot—just in time to see the man in the gaucho hat pulling away, taillights vanishing into the dark.
The song wound down, the last line bleeding into static before an ad cut in, flat and cheery against the stillness.
Aubrey gets back into her car before turning the vehicle over. It roars to life against the cold, and she drives off.
