Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 133180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Fuck.
His hand would have to do. Edison was off limits, for his own sanity.
~
Bishop jolted into a defensive position at the sound of the hard knocks against the flimsy wood of his bedroom door. It only took him a second to realize he was no longer in jail and that sound wasn’t a guard about to force his way inside. Bishop clutched the side of his head. Dammit. “What Mi-Dad?” Bishop barked. Great, now it sounded like he was saying my-dad all the time. He flopped back onto the thin mattress wondering what the hell time it was.
“Why are you still in bed? You sick?” Mike asked, tapping on the door again.
Bishop frowned. Seriously? “No. I’m sleeping, or I was. What are you doing home?”
Mike walked into his room already dressed in a pair of jeans and a sleeveless black shirt. “Erin got called in to work so we had to cancel going to the beach. Wanted to see what you were up to today, though I already do.”
“I’m getting up,” Bishop said rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You need me to do something around here?”
“No. I thought we could grab some lunch at the Metro Diner then try that bowling you said you were so good at.” Mike stood in his doorway waiting.
The thin sheets had wrapped around Bishop’s legs in the middle of the night and he fought to untangle and work himself free. “I said I used to be pretty good. I doubt I am anymore.”
“Oh.” Mike didn’t try to hide his disappointment.
“What time is it?” Bishop asked.
“Almost one.”
“Damn.”
“Late night?”
“You could say that. I finished another sketch,” Bishop said, sitting on the side of the bed. He leaned over and pulled up his jogging pants then slid his feet into his Nike flip-flops.
“Can’t wait to see it.” Mike started to close his door when Bishop headed to his bathroom.
“So, lunch and bowling with my old man today.” Bishop didn’t roll his eyes or make it sound patronizing.
“Sounds good, B.”
Bishop cleaned up quickly and almost put on a pair of jeans and his black T-shirt but changed his mind and went with a worn green button-up. Him and his dad looked enough alike without them freaking dressing like twins.
The bowling alley wasn’t as busy as he thought it would be for a Saturday afternoon, so they’d come at the perfect time to fit in a couple of quiet games. Mike sat at the computer terminal and figured out how to enter their initials and start a game. After picking balls that worked for them, Bishop stepped up to the lane first, trying to remember how he used to add a little spin on his throw. He pulled his arm back and drove it forward, releasing the ball. It hit the smooth wood with a hard clunk, thundered down the lane and slammed into the backing after knocking over three pins. Shit. That was a lot of noise for three measly pins.
“Are you supposed to have that much heat on the ball? You look like you’re pitching for the A’s.” Mike laughed.
Bishop walked back to their side and waited for his ball to circulate through. “Not that much.” He smirked. “Don’t realize my own strength sometime.”
“Whatever.” Mike nodded towards the fresh pins. “Just show me some techniques or pointers, please, but this time without you showing off your brute strength. I’m not impressed.”
Bishop cocked his lip and spun the ball around a couple of times in his hands, enjoying the ridiculous back-and-forth he was having… with his dad. “Get us a couple pitchers of beer when the waitress comes around and some nachos or something.”
“You got paid this week, you get the beer and nachos,” Mike retorted, but flagged down one of the bar servers.
“Yeah, but my boss is cheap.” Bishop stepped up to the lane, feeling his dad’s piercing eyes on him. Suddenly, he wanted to impress him. Even if this was only a game, he wanted to show Mike he had been talented at other things back then besides leading a gang.
Bishop brought the ball up to his chest, staring down the lane. He’d never figured out the technical aspects of this particular sport, but he had gotten good at keeping the ball out of the gutter. Which was the point, if he recalled correctly. Bishop drew his arm back and released the ball with less power, but it still barreled down the lane and knocked over the rest of the pins, giving him the spare. He threw his hands up in victory. His dad’s wide smile shouldn’t have made him feel as good as it did, not when he was thirty-two damn years old.
“Nice,” Mike commented. “Okay, now show me.”
Bishop went about giving his dad the best advice he could on where to stand, when to let go of the ball and how to keep it straight. Mike had mostly gutters in the first game, but by the end of the second they were well into it and getting competitive.