“You can do that?” I turn to him—and my gun goes pop!
Dillon drops to the ground and grabs his crotch.
“Dillon!” I drop to my knees. “Dammit! Why did you bring me? I’m terrible!”
He groans, his voice gasping. “You’ve got plenty of paint. Up to you…take them out…”
My hands are clammy as I clutch my gun. “No. No. No.”
“They’re down to the girl!” I hear one of the red team call to the other. There are two of them—against me.
“Please don’t let them win…” he groans and whips off his helmet. His face is pale.
“I’m really sorry for your pain.”
“Just kill them, Serena.”
I take a deep breath and peek through the slot. Fate is on my side when one of them trips over a root and stumbles, not enough to make him fall, but enough to slow him down. Pop! I hit his chest and whoop!
The other one crouches and runs.
“What’s going on?” Dillon wheezes.
I don’t take my eyes off the enemy. “I got one. There’s another one behind a barricade doohickey.”
He laughs then grimaces as if it hurt. “Alright, you’ll need to rush him. He won’t expect it from you. He thinks you’re weak.”
“I am!”
“No, you’re fierce.”
“Just run at the gun?”
“Last chance. You run out of here, dodge his paint, and pummel the hell out of his barricade, climb over the doohickey, and get to him.”
“Run, dodge, climb, kill…” My heart pounds.
“Zigzag pattern. Ready. One, two, three!”
I jump out and run as fast as I ever have, straight to the enemy. I stumble and fight to keep my balance. Somehow I manage. My finger stays on my trigger, paint splattering everywhere as I flail myself on the wood of his barricade and crawl up.
He’s waiting for me and fires a shot that goes wide.
“Say hello to my little friend!” I yell then paint him with green.
He stands and glowers at me. “Killed by a chick. Red. Out.” He marches off, and I run back to the fort.
“I got him!” I dance around, high on adrenaline. This is the most fun I’ve had in forever!
I make it to the fort, see Dillon, and stop celebrating. “Are you okay?”
He’s thrown a hand over his face, still lying on the ground. “Fresh as a daisy.”
The airhorn blasts and footsteps sound as our guys rush to the clearing.
“Green wins by annihilation!” a voice calls.
“Offense takes it!”
Our team storms the basecamp, slapping me on the back. Everyone is covered in paint except for…me.
Owen throws an arm around me. “You’re alright, even if you killed three of us.”
Troy gives me a back slap. “Nice kill, Serena.”
I beam.
Sawyer picks me up and swings me around, and I flail about. When I look up, Dillon has made it out of the fort and is watching us with an expression on his face I can’t decipher. Maybe part satisfaction, part amazement?
Someone’s handed him a cold beer and he’s pressed it to his crotch. His team surrounds him, smacking him on the back and giving him a hard time about me shooting him. I watch, biting my lip as I realize how close he is to them. He mentioned that he doesn’t see his parents often. His adopted father is on the West Coast and his mom is a socialite. What must that feel like, to rarely see them? After losing a sibling? I’m lucky to have a close-knit family, but not everyone does. Family isn’t always about DNA or the people who raised you. It’s about who’s there when things go to hell. For him, it’s his team. And he brought me here to be with them.
“Great date?” I ask as I walk over to him.
“Better than pulling weeds.”
“I promise to make it up to you.”
“What about my future children?”
“Fact: a serious groin injury makes you puke. I’ve read where some guys can’t even get up off the ground.”
“Sorry I’m not vomiting.”
I bite my lip. “This was your idea.”
“I need you to drive me home, cook dinner, and make ice packs. Do you have any frozen peas? Also, I might need a shoulder rub.” He hobbles closer. “Will you take care of me?”
Oh, Dillon. My breath hitches. He meant it in jest, but I wonder if anyone really ever takes care of him?
“He’s milking it!” Sawyer bellows. “Dude stuffs socks down there every day—today’s no different.”
“I did wear a cup to paintball, this is true, but it still hurts.”
Sawyer hands Dillon a plastic, golden trophy of a woman with a bowling ball. She’s scratched up and faded. “This should make you feel better,” he tells Dillon.
When I ask Sawyer where it came from, he tells me it belonged to his granny. She loved bowling and won several championships. “That’s why we had to get the trophy back this year.”
Dillon, the color coming back to his face, holds it high. “Offense today, boys! LSU this weekend!”
Whoops sound from the players.
I hook my arm through Dillon’s. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
The house is quiet when my eyes open. It’s two in the morning, and I lie here trying to figure out what woke me. Straightening my camisole and sleep shorts, I tiptoe into my den and take in the large man on my couch: currently sound asleep, one leg thrown down on the floor, an arm over his face. A deep breath comes from his chest. The quilt I gave him hours ago has slipped down, and my eyes track the contours of his pecs, the red roses there.
Last night, before we hit the city limits of Magnolia, Dillon changed his mind about going home and had me drive to my place instead of his. Sawyer and the guys were planning to have people over to celebrate the win, and Dillon didn’t want the company.
He moves in his sleep, settling into the couch. One of his ice packs, now water, plops to the floor, and I pick it up. I felt absolutely terrible about injuring him, but
