Page 40 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

TEX

The bowling alley buzzes with energy.

Bright lights. Neon signs. Laughter echoing off the lanes. It’s a full sensory experience, and the Bitches are all in.

We’ve taken over three lanes at the back of the alley.

The tables are sagging under the weight of nachos, soft pretzels, mozzarella sticks, chicken tenders, and pitchers of soda.

McCormick and Stiles are already throwing strikes like they do this every Friday night.

McCormick’s wearing his Camp BALLS shirt like it’s high fashion instead of a uniform.

It’s weeks until summer camp even starts, but he’s strutting around like the poster child for summertime salvation.

“Nice shirt,” I call.

He spins dramatically. “Uniform? No, no. It’s called style.”

I roll my eyes. “You look like a rejected YMCA lifeguard.”

He winks. “Who says I’m not?”

Mandy chuckles beside me. I love that sound. I love the way it rumbles in his chest like he’s not even trying to hold it in. Like he’s letting himself feel joy, just because he can.

It’s impossible to be surrounded by this many balls—brightly colored bowling balls—and this many Bitches, without cracking ball jokes. They flow like water from an open tap.

It starts with Rhett commenting on how shiny West’s ball is. Then Nash chimes in with, “You polish that thing nightly or just for special occasions?”

West deadpans, “Only for the boys.”

Usually, I love a crowd. Love the high energy, the vibe.

But I tend to get antsy when I’m surrounded by a large group of guys, especially military men, even former military.

But these guys, they may look badass, but they’re harmless.

I trust them, and it takes a lot for me to say that.

I also trust that Mandy would never put me in harm's way.

Trust isn’t something that comes easily to me, and I don’t hand it out lightly, but these men show up for each other constantly. They show up for me . They show up for Mandy. And Mandy always, always , shows up for me. So yeah, they’ve all earned my trust.

Nash pulls a leather bowling bag out from beneath his chair, unzips it, peeks inside, and tucks it back under his chair again.

But he doesn’t pull out a custom ball. I’ve never seen the bag before, and I’ve been all up inside my former roommate's closet, desperately trying to convince him to replace all of that camouflage and khaki with some bright colors. I drop down into the seat beside him.

“What’s in the bag?” I whisper, leaning in. “You turning pro on us?”

He grins and slides the bag back out, unzipping it just a fraction. Nash parts the leather halves, and a soft black head pops up, followed by a pair of green, glowing eyes.

“Valor!” I whisper-shriek, leaning in to scratch between the kitten’s ears. “So the bag is just a cover?” I ask.

Nash laughs. “You didn’t really think I was turning pro, did you?”

“Not even for a second.” I should have known he’d try to sneak his emotional support cat in with him. He brings Valor everywhere.

Mandy steps up to bowl, lines up his shot, and goes to release, executing some fancy footwork like he knows what the fuck he’s doing, except his fingers don’t come out. The ball yanks him forward a step.

He grunts. “Ah, fuck,” he grumbles, turning red-faced.

I lean in close, real close, and whisper, “Need help sliding your big, thick fingers out of those tight holes, handsome?”

Even his ears go red. “You’re the worst.”

I know I am, but it was too easy to pass up. Too good.

Rhett tosses me a small foil packet, and I catch it mid-air when he yells, “Heads up!” It’s lube.

Travel lube. I’m not even going to ask, and all Rhett does is wink instead of offering up an obvious explanation.

I can practically feel Mandy’s humiliation radiating off of him in hot waves as I tear open the packet with my teeth and drizzle the slippery liquid over his fingers, letting it slip into the holes so he can unstick his hand.

“Just work that in there real good,” I whisper in a breathy voice, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

When he finally slides them free, he gives me a grateful but chagrined look as he rubs them. I’m never going to hear the end of this, but neither is he.

Jax steps up to the line and drops his ball on his foot. The sound is comical and horrifying all at once. He lets out a yelp that echoes halfway down the alley. Pharo doubles over laughing, clutching the scorer’s table for balance.

McCormick looks pissed off because the snack bar's hotdog grill is out of commission. He’s forced to eat other food groups besides grilled meat, and it shows in his attitude.

“These nachos taste stale,” he gripes, grabbing another handful and shoving them into his mouth.

“You wouldn’t know good food if it crawled down your throat and choked you,” West jokes in all seriousness.

“You’d be surprised what I know about good food,” McCormick returns with a bite.

West can barely talk through his laughter. He’s wheezing, real tears forming in his eyes. “You’re right. I would be surprised.”

I hear Rhett and Mandy discussing the possibility of making a pattern for a bowling ball cozy, and I’m not even sure I know what that is, but my lips tuck into a smile because they’re so fucking cute.

My boyfriend looks like he could dismember a grown man with his bare hands and a sharp look, but he knits bowling ball cozies, and cacti, and purple socks, and he’s wary of large crowds and children. Yeah, he’s a keeper.

Armando Cahill is the stuff dreams are made of. At least, my dreams. Nobody else better be dreaming of my big guy.

Toward the end of the night, sodas in hand, we all crowd together near the ball return. West raises his cup first.

“Damn,” he says, voice rough as he glances around the group.

“Look how far we’ve come. Just a bunch of Bitches with stitches.

Most of us couldn’t knit for shit when we got here.

We hated ourselves, hated the world. But we learned to lean on each other.

Showed up on the bad days. Celebrated the good days.

” His eyes become glassy and tries to blink away his tears as Brandt wraps his arm around West's shoulders. “Fuck. Look at us, dammit. We’re happy. Still kicking.”

McCormick bumps him with his elbow. “We’re like, inspirational and shit.”

Everyone laughs. Paper cups clink. There’s hugging. Kissing. Shoulder squeezes and playful jabs. I pull Mandy close and press a kiss to his cheek. He squeezes my waist.

“Brothers for life,” Rhett says.

“Bitches for life,” Nash echoes.

I run a finger under my eye—not because I’m crying!

—Just checking my eyeliner. Okay, I’m not wearing any.

The point is, Mandy didn’t just give me a safe place to land.

He’s not just my best friend or my lover who gives me the most incredible ass-gasms. He’s more than just the guy teaching me how to knit, or the only person in the world, at least that’s what it feels like, who understands the dark places my thoughts run and hide sometimes when I’m feeling my lowest.

Mandy isn’t just my family. Mandy gave me a family.

He gave me all these stupid, overgrown, testosterone-driven idiots who look at me like I’m their kid brother in need of protection.

They show me respect. They look out for me.

They sit in my booth at Hooters and keep an eye on me during happy hour, making sure no one gets too handsy.

They show up at my NA meetings when I celebrate an anniversary.

They sit on my bed late at night and listen as I dump all my drama in their lap.

They drive me to meetings and the clinic and even work when my car doesn’t behave.

And even though I’m not part of their trauma support group, I’m a fucking Bitch to my core. The sparkliest, prettiest, best-dressed Bitch of them all.

I’m family.

“We should form a team. Compete in a league,” McCormick suggests enthusiastically. “The Bowling Bitches.”

Everyone immediately groans with disapproval as Stiles adds, “Bitches with Balls!”

“That’s a great idea,” McCormick agrees, pointing a French fry at him loaded with ketchup.

“It’s a terrible fucking idea,” Jax says. And everyone agrees with him. Including me. Although I could rock a bowling shirt. The shoes, too.