Page 85 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
It is chaos, but predictable chaos.
I walk past the bar, ignoring the bartender’s nod. I’m not here to talk.
I head to the back row. The pristine collection of 1990s Williams tables. Medieval Madness. Monster Bash. The Twilight Zone.
They are machines of pure physics. Angles. Velocity. Momentum. There is no algorithm here, only gravity and reflex.
I head for my usual table: The Addams Family. It is the best-selling pinball machine of all time. It has complex rule sets and magnets that disrupt the ball’s trajectory. It is a perfect puzzle.
But someone is already playing it.
I stop, annoyed. I usually have this row to myself on Wednesdays.
I watch the player at the machine.
A woman. Trench coat over office clothes. Hair pulled back in a messy bun, with strands falling loose, curling around her neck.
She is playing aggressively. She slams the flipper buttons, nudging the machine with her hip—just enough to save the ball, not enough to trigger the tilt sensor.
Thwack. Clack. Ding.
She traps the ball on the right flipper. She holds it there, taking a breath. Then she aims and fires.
The ball shoots up the ramp, hitting the “Thing” scoop perfectly.
Multiball initiated.
Three balls shoot out onto the playfield. The machine screams, lights flashing like a strobe.
The woman laughs.
It is a bright, genuine sound that cuts right through the arcade noise.
“Focus,” she mutters to herself, her hands flying over the buttons. “Don’t drop it. Don’t you dare drop it.”
My lungs lock.
I know that voice.
I step closer, my pulse jagged in my throat. It’s impossible. I left her at the office forty-five minutes ago. She must’ve left immediately after me and headed straight here.
I closed the telemetry app on my phone an hour ago. I wanted silence. I wanted to be blind to her location for one night.
The statistical probability of her being here, in my specific sanctuary, at this specific time, is less than 0.04%.
“You need to aim for the electric chair,” I say, my voice rough with shock. “It yields the highest jackpot multiplier during multiball.”
She screams.
It’s a short, startled yelp. Her hands jerk, and all three balls drain down the center.
Game Over.
She spins around, clutching her chest. Her eyes are wide, hazel, and furious.
“Asher!” she gasps. “What is wrong with you? Do you have a teleportation device? Are you stalking me?”
“No,” I say, staring at her. “I… I come here every Wednesday.”
