Rm W/a Vu (34 page)

“Good luck, sweetheart,” Greyston says confidently, giving me one more wink and a brief glimpse of that crooked smirk before lowering his mask completely and joining his teammates.

Maybe it’s that I’ve allied myself with two paintball virgins that’s boosted his confidence enough to think I
need
luck, or maybe he’s just trying to rattle me; whatever it is, this only awakens my instinct to play as hard as I can…and win. Thinking back to all the times my dad brought me here, I remember everything he ever taught me about strategy. Sometimes we’d play against each other, others it would be him and me against a few of his deputies. He and I were pretty evenly matched, but it was rare that we’d lose against his men.

I may not have had much time to hit the range with him in the last two years, but I’m still fairly confident in my abilities.

I lower my mask, Daphne and Callie following suit, and we march onto the field. The minute the game begins, the three of us duck behind one of the bigger obstacles, several paintballs firing in our direction and barely missing us. Behind me, I hear gunfire and realize that Daphne is firing on the guys as they split up and take cover; she’s a natural, proving I chose my teammates well.

Splitting up is a smart move, I’ll give them that, but I’m not going to abandon Callie and Daphne until I’ve had a chance to go over some kind of plan. We move along, crouched low behind the obstacle, and when I hear the turf being disrupted several yards away, I hold up a fist to stop them so I can listen. The footsteps stop for a minute but then pick up again before fading, so I signal for us to move again, pumping my arm up and down to indicate we speed up—well, the hand signal is clear to me, anyway.

“What does that mean?” Daphne asks.

“I don’t know,” is Callie’s reply. “Juliette, what does that mean?”

I can’t help but feel slightly exasperated—mainly because they’re talking loud enough to get us noticed—so I turn around and lift my mask. “It means talk really loud so that they find us,” I snap, immediately regretting it, because it’s not like they knew what I was trying to say; my competitive nature often tends to manifest less than desirable bursts of anger. “Sorry. Just, come on. We need to be quick.”

My words come a little too late, though, as Toby launches himself over the barricade we’re hiding behind like some kind of super ninja and starts shooting. We all return fire, but are too late to save Daphne—thankfully we each hit him with one or two rounds ourselves.

“Son of a BITCH!” she cries out, clutching her thigh where Toby hit her with three paintballs. “Okay, I knew it was going to hurt, but I didn’t think it was going to feel
that
bad!”

“Damn,” Toby exclaims, sounding surprisingly enthused. “I just got nailed by three chicks!”

Callie lifts her mask and tries to fight a smile, failing when she starts to laugh. “Oh, grow up.”

Toby’s smile widens. “What? That’s totally how I’m going to tell this story.”

We all laugh before I remember we’re still in the middle of a game. “Okay, you two, get out of here. This’ll be over soon.”

Toby slings his rifle over his shoulder and slaps his hands together. “Oh, man. I can’t wait to see this.”

The minute Toby and Daphne are off the field, I turn to Callie. “You okay if we split up? If we stay together, we’re sitting ducks.”

The look in her eyes is slightly unsure, but there’s also a glimmer of excitement in them—likely from the adrenaline of taking Toby out of the game. “You bet.”

“Okay,” I tell her with a nod. “I don’t know how good Greyston is, but I suspect Xander’s probably got target practice of some sort under his belt. Keep your eyes peeled and your hearing tuned. Stay low and stay hidden.”

We part ways, and as I move quickly, looking all over for any sign of Greyston or Xander, I hear Callie cry out; she’s been hit, and now I’m on my own. I turn in the direction I heard her, and I see Xander retreating about thirty yards away. He’s not quick enough to duck behind the huge column, and I fire three shots, hitting his lower leg once and his upper body twice.

I take a minute to listen to my surroundings. Hearing nothing, I move to peek around the corner. A paintball whips by, missing my shoulder by a fraction of an inch, and I throw myself back against the wall.
Where the hell is he hiding?
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, my heart beating faster and faster, and my breathing increasing.

I take a couple of deep breaths in an effort to calm down so I can hear more than just the blood pumping through my body, and also so I can move to a new location without my heavy breathing giving me away.

I take another glance around the corner, not finding any sign of him anywhere, and I bolt out into the open, throwing myself behind another obstacle and scanning the area. I see movement several yards away, and I open fire, splattering five orange paintballs against the far wall.

“He’s fast,” I mutter under my breath.

As soon as he’s found cover, I see a flash of dark hair above his mask, and then hear the rapid firing of several paintballs in my direction. I feel the sting of the first one as it grazes my arm, but it doesn’t explode until it connects with the obstacle behind me. It’s a close call; one that fuels my desire to win.

The game goes on for a while longer, each of us escaping the other’s attack by a fraction of an inch time and time again, and I’m beginning to wonder if Greyston hasn’t been faking his nervousness over the last couple of days. I wouldn’t put it past him. Strategic bastard.

Out of breath from my latest sprint, I hide behind a pillar and duck down before moving along out of sight. He’s over by the entrance to the arena, and I make my way toward him silently in hopes of a sneak attack.

And that’s when I feel it: something inside me stirs and I know he’s close. I only wonder if he can sense me the way I can sense him. It would be wise to assume he can, so I keep moving, listening carefully for his following movements. I hear the shuffle of his feet on the other side of the obstacle, and I spring up like a jack-in-the-box, firing two rounds into his chest before he can react.

I’m feeling pretty good about winning the first round, and I can hear everyone making their way over, congratulating me on my victory. There’s something in Greyston’s eyes as he raises his mask that tells me this isn’t over. He never really struck me as the type to be a sore loser. Competitive, yes; sore loser, definitely not.

I decide that I’m probably reading too much into it and try to put it behind me. “You were good,” I tell him, taking my own mask off. “Really made me work for it.”

Greyston smirks, and my fear of him being upset dissolves completely. “Won’t be the first time today,” he assures me, and I feel like there’s a double meaning to his words. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Let’s go again.”

“Wanna be on my team?” I ask, stepping forward, gripping the waist of his pants and pulling him to me. Locking eyes with him, I pop up onto my toes and let my nose brush his, our mouths so close, yet so far from each other. “I’ll protect you.” My voice is barely a whisper, and I feel Greyston’s lips curl up when mine finally graze them.

“It’s a tempting offer, sweetheart, but I’d like a rematch.” His hands rest on my hips, his fingers curling and holding me firmly in place, and my heart flutters. He’s doing this on purpose—dazzling me the way he does in order to throw me off my game.

I hum, licking my lips and pulling back. “It’s your funeral, Masters.”

After being congratulated, we reset the teams. This time, Callie and Toby are with me, and Xander and Daphne have sided with Greyston. Four minutes in, Xander has taken out Callie, and Toby gets Daphne. It’s two on two, but Toby is proving to be a good ally.

“Greyston is mine,” I tell him with a smirk as we duck behind a barricade to avoid being hit.

“Careful there, Juliette, Greyston’s mighty competitive. He’s been known to not take too kindly to losing sometimes,” he warns me.

I smile and arch an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not just going to roll over and play dead. I think I’ll take my chances.”

We split up shortly after our conversation, and I’m just making my way across the field when I feel the sharp sting in my upper arm first and then my ass where Greyston’s red paint has marked me. “Ow! Damn it!” I shout, skidding to a stop and turning to see my assailant.

He’s just standing there, holding his gun and looking pretty damn smug.

Making himself known isn’t his best move, because Toby avenges me, shooting Greyston. We leave the field, and Greyston seems pleased at having shown me up. And also a little disgruntled at having his victory so short-lived.

“Good game,” I say, sidling up to him as we walk to where Daphne and Callie are watching the game. “We even now?”

Smirking, he looks down at me, mischief shining bright in his eyes. “Not even close.”

It’s interesting to watch Toby and Xander play against each other. Xander is stealthy and very tactical, while Toby has clearly been influenced  by one too many TV shows and movies—not that it isn’t hilarious.

Xander is the winner of the second round, and after he and Toby make their way back over to us, we split up into different teams. Greyston and I remain on opposite teams, his own competitive spirit fuelling mine further.

We play three more games over the next couple hours, and I am the last person standing for two of them, having taken Greyston out to reign champion. While I should feel pretty good about it, I can’t help but sense
something
is off about him as we make our way to the front counter to drop off all of our equipment.

He seems incredibly tense, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe Toby was right; maybe I should have just let him think he was better than me—even if it goes against everything I know.

We say goodbye to everyone, and even then, Greyston barely cracks a smile, asking Toby if he would mind taking Xander back to his hotel. Tentatively, Greyston presses his hand into my lower back to lead me to the car, and as we go, I notice Daphne and Xander exchange phone numbers.

Even though he’s acting a bit odd, Greyston still opens my door for me and waits for me and Daphne to get in before closing it and running around to the driver’s side. I’m unsure how to broach the subject of his behavior, especially in front of someone else. I mean, clearly calling him a spoilsport will result in a fight—and this isn’t something I want our first fight to be about.

“You okay?” I ask, hesitant.

“Fine.”

Ah, a one-word answer that all women are familiar with. Something is definitely bothering him, and I’m not sure I’m ready to unearth it, so I leave it alone.

He remains silent, his hands on the wheel at ten and two—except when he has to shift. The fact that he doesn’t reach out and place a hand on my thigh is a little disheartening, but I’m not going to plead for his affection if he’s upset. I know we need to talk about this, but I don’t want to do it in the car, because if he is upset, and we do indeed fight about this, it’s probably not safe. No, I’ll wait until we’re home.

The air in the car seems thick and suffocating with our unspoken issues—even Daphne is quiet—and I silently beg for us to arrive home soon so we can begin to wade through it. I glance over at him several times, taking in the paint speckled on his face and neck, and the streaks of blue and orange in his dark hair, and notice that his eyes remain glued to the road. His hands clench the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles are white, and his breathing is deep, making his chest heave.

We arrive home, and I throw the door open. I say goodbye to Daphne, putting on a smile and telling her I was glad she could make it. We hug before she heads to her car, saying goodbye to Greyston, and then I head to the house before Greyston even shuts his car door. Once I’m in the house, I remove my shoes and head for the stairs; I need a minute to myself before I talk to Greyston, so I’ll have a shower and try to figure out how to bring it up.

I think what upsets me most is that this afternoon was supposed to be fun, and while I had a good time initially, now I’m pissed off that Greyston’s acting like a big baby. Was I just supposed to let him win? That’s not how I’m wired.

 “Juliette,” Greyston says from behind me, closing and locking the door. I turn from the middle step and look down at him. He looks confused. “Where are you going?”

“To have a shower,” I reply sharply. “I’m covered in paint—it’s all in my hair, and you don’t seem too keen on talking to me right now, anyway. When you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.” With that, I turn and head up to my room.

After undressing, I stand before the bathroom mirror in my bra and panties and inspect my soon-to-be war wounds. In total, I took seven shots today: the ones to my upper arm and ass that I received first, I got two on the back of my left thigh, two on my stomach, and one just above my left breast. The welts are dark red, and the bruises have already begun to form in the center; by morning, they should be huge and painful—but totally worth it.

Well, up until Greyston started acting like a crab.

My hair is streaked with red, yellow, and blue paint, there are splatters on my face and neck where my mask didn’t cover, and my hands are painted with a rainbow of colors from every hit and the backsplash of paintballs that hit the wall next to me.

With a sigh, I reach behind me and begin to unclasp my bra when my bathroom door opens suddenly. It startles me at first, but when my eyes lock on Greyston’s for the briefest of seconds, I don’t see anger or hurt in them; I see desire.

He’s across the room in a flash, pulling me into his arms and kissing me hard. I moan when his tongue runs along my bottom lip, and my toes curl as he lifts me until our faces are level.

I pull back slightly, and my eyes dance between his, confused. “What are you doing?”

He smirks. “Kissing you,” is his quick reply.

“But…why?”

His eyebrows pull together. “Do I need a reason?”

The minute his lips brush the bare skin of my neck, I temporarily forget about what had been upsetting me. His lips kiss, spreading warmth through my entire body. His teeth nip, and goosebumps arise. His hand moves down and grips my ass, lifting me onto the bathroom vanity, and he pushes his way between my legs, hitching them up high around his hips and making me whimper. Even though he’s still got his jeans on, I can feel his erection pressing against me, and I pull him closer by digging my heels into his ass.