“That seems like it would suit you.”
On the next throw, our two axes sail through the air like synchronized swimmers, both diving into their marks with perfect form and timing.
“Holy shit,” says Kenna.
“Two more throws,” Jackson calls out. Georgia takes a deep breath and stretches. I can imagine what she’s thinking. She can’t make another mistake. She has to be perfect or it’s all over.
Her entire body tenses when she throws. She grunts, releasing a passionate sound from deep within that guts me. I know with absolute certainty that this is a sound she’d make in other intense situations.
With a primal groan, I release my ax and it lands at an angle—half in the center, half out.
“Last throw,” Jackson announces, slipping into a professional announcer’s voice. “This could go either way, folks. The pressure is on. It’s a draw …”
“You got this, G!” says Xander.
Georgia turns to face me. We look at one another for a hot, sweaty second, eyes locked, foreheads perspiring, and we throw, both of us shouting at the moment of release.
Her ax lands in the center of the marker. Mine comes close, but misses. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do until the moment it left my grip.
Kenna and Xander let out a whoop and a cheer, high-fiving each other, and hug Georgia. She is grinning now and the smile changes her, opening up her whole face. It’s like light is suddenly pouring out of her. I can’t get over the transformation … or the thought that I want to give her more opportunities to turn that light on. I want to feel that light shining on me.
Georgia pulls her ax out of the wall and holds it up like a trophy, basking in the cheers and applause before taking a bow.
“Hold on, hold on. It’s customary to shake after a duel,” Jackson announces.
“What are you doing, dude?” I ask under my breath.
“I could ask you the same thing, you lousy ax hustler,” he mutters back. “But if you must know, I believe I’m playing Cupid.”
I reply, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
“Shake! Shake! Shake!” Jackson starts the chant and the crowd follows, demanding we end the duel with a handshake.
“Fine,” I say, “let’s shake then. I’ll honor my side of the deal. Just don’t make me wear anything that’ll lead to an arrest.”
“I’m gonna need your measurements, big guy.” Georgia’s eyes dance a diabolical tango over me as she peels off her biker gloves and sticks out her hand to shake mine. I notice it’s still bandaged.
But that’s not the hand I’m looking at. Now that the gloves are off, I can’t take my eyes off her other hand. My eyes are glued to the pawprint tattoo on her wrist. It’s surrounded by some very familiar-looking, tiny shooting stars.
Quickly and firmly, Georgia grips my hand and pumps it. Then she spins on her heel to leave, taking the winning ax with her.
I’d know those stars anywhere.
georgia
On Tuesday morning,I finally fill in the cease and desist letter, attaching copies of the printouts from over the weekend.
The lights are still out in the back. Not that I really expected Hudson Holm to do anything about it. But it had been fun imagining him showing up in a toolbelt to “personally oversee” the maintenance. I might also have imagined him shocking the shit out of himself.
It felt so good to beat him the other night. Almost as good as it’d felt to punch Bryce.
Kenna and I spend the rest of the weekend trading costume ideas for him. She’s thinking Smurfette. I’m pulling for the Poop emoji.
Of course, there’s still that one other idea. It’s not as mean, but I can’t get it out of my head. I keep imagining it—mentally dressing and undressing him in a Viking costume. Tight leggings. A fur vest. Maybe some lace-up, fur leg bits over his boots.
What a tragic waste of a gorgeous body. For a second, when he’d peeled off his sweater at The Grumpy Stump, I’d thought he was taking off his tee too. I’d caught a glimpse of that hard belly, and it had been almost impossible for me to focus afterward.
But I’d rallied.
