Page 18 of Erotic Temptations 2
We had a regular table. Fifth row from the front, near the industrial-sized air vent, which meant if you weren’t careful, the wind could take your bingo cards straight to Oz. I was still convinced that random numbers were drifting through the ductwork, haunting us in the afterlife.
Mabel claimed her seat with a grunt and started unloading supplies: lucky troll doll, four daubers—neon pink, highlighter yellow, radioactive green, blue glitter—a battered rabbit’s foot, and a brown lunch sack that was probably filled with hard candy or blessed bingo tokens. She was nothing if not prepared for spiritual warfare.
Estell produced a travel mug that proudly declared “Liquid Courage” in peeling gold letters. Judging by the way she giggled every time she took a sip, there was definitely more than coffee inside.
Sophia had her own method. She lined up her daubers with military precision and ritualistically wiped down her area withhospital-grade Lysol wipes. “Never can be too careful,” she said, sniffing. “People are filthy.”
I set out my phone, two bingo sheets, and my trusty black dauber. That was it. My entire arsenal. I never won, but I’d convinced myself that keeping things minimal was the mark of a sophisticated gambler, not a loser with poor luck and a worse attention span.
Noise swirled around us—the dry coughs, the crinkling of wrappers, chairs screeching, balls rattling in their little plastic cage up front. The air tingled with anticipation, though that might’ve just been the high-voltage hum of the ancient lighting.
People started settling, some in sweatpants, some in full makeup and sequined tops, all clutching their own weird superstitions. At precisely seven, the mic screeched, and Mrs. Della, part-time goddess, full-time opinion-haver, clambered up to the podium.
“Bingo fans,” she bellowed, adjusting her pearls, “I have an announcement. Fred…” She paused dramatically, letting the tension build like this was the Oscars and not a room full of retirees and me, the local disappointment. “Fred is home with the flu. So tonight, his grandson will be rolling the balls.”
A groan rolled through the room.
Mabel leaned over. “It’s gonna be some snot-nosed kid in aFortniteshirt, isn’t it?” She tapped the table, probably for emphasis, or in case some spirit was listening. “Kids today wouldn’t know a bingo from their own backside.”
Sophia cackled and propped her chin on her palm. “He’ll probably use emojis to call the numbers. I can’t wait.”
Estell slurped from her mug. “Hope the little bugger knows how to count past sixty-nine.”
I smirked. “Pretty sure most of the guys you flirt with can’t.”
Mabel smacked my hand. “Heard that.” But she was grinning, eyes alive and scheming. Out of all of them, she was themost dangerous. If someone ever figured out how to distill her sarcasm into a beverage, it would kill you in two gulps.
At the front of the room, the new guy walked out.
I nearly swallowed my tongue.
Not aFortniteshirt anywhere in sight. Instead, dark hair cut close at the sides, broad shoulders filling out a heather-gray V-neck, and biceps that had definitely seen the inside of a gym. He moved with that easy, athlete confidence you only see on dumb commercials for shaving cream. Hazel eyes, sharp but friendly. Dimples when he smiled, which should’ve been illegal.
A hush fell over the crowd. You could’ve heard a Werther’s Original drop.
“Hello, everyone. My name’s Kane. I’ll be your number caller tonight," he said, his voice smooth enough to carve a path through the rows of plastic chairs.
Three tables burst into applause.
I didn’t trust my vocal cords, so I just blinked. Hard.
Mabel faked an asthma attack. “Sweet holy Moses,” she whispered, too loud for comfort. “If that man called my number, I’d let him yell BINGO in my ear anytime.”
Estell leaned back and gave Kane a once-over so blatant I was embarrassed for both of them. “I’d like to climb that tree and see the view,” she breathed, fanning herself with her scorecard.
Sophia practically fluttered, her hand pressed to her chest. “Lord, have mercy. If I drop dead in here, sprinkle my ashes on that boy.”
“Sprinkle?” Estell cackled. “I’d grind you myself.”
All three of them turned to me, expecting… what, exactly? Approval? A signed permission slip? Heat crawled up my neck, which was impressive considering I hadn’t flirted with anyone in months. Those three old ladies had more game than me.
“I don’t think you remember what to do with a man like that,” I deadpanned. “But if you want, I can Google it for you.”
That got an undignified snort out of Estell. She reached over and squeezed my bicep, which, granted, wasn’t in the same league as Kane’s, but I tried not to take it personally.
Back at the front, Kane started loading the bingo machine, arm flexing as he spun the metal basket. Balls rattled. A couple of ladies in the front row stared so hard I thought their glasses might fog.
For a moment I got lost in the absurdity of the situation. Most Friday nights, I was trying to dodge my own pitiful reflection in the bathroom mirror, and now I was sitting steps away from a minor league heartthrob calling out numbers for a bunch of sassy seniors and one hopeless homosexual with abysmal dating prospects.