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“Question. Did you actually wear that Juicy Couture track suit with this in mind?”
Missy scowled. “If we’re going to talk fashion, shug, I think we need to start with those Payless specials you wear.”
“Ow, I wear cheap shoes, you got me,” I deadpanned. “Let’s just cut the banter and fight. I feel the need to warn you, I’m a hair puller.”
“I feel the need to warn you,” Missy said, before simply punching me right in the eye.
I responded by collapsing to the ground. That’d show her.
Can someone punch you in the head so hard that it actually decapitates you? Because Missy came close.
From my position on the ground, I could see the heel of Missy’s shoe on a collision course with my throat. I rolled, ramming into her shins and knocking her off balance. She fell on her butt with an outraged “uhff” and kicked up, launching me about twenty feet in the air. Giddy from the fall, I landed on my feet but didn’t have time to avoid the crushing kick to my solar plexus. I stumbled back, making a sound not found in human language, and struck out, punching her in the eye. She swung blind, dragging her frosted-pink nails down my chest. I swiped my fingers under my shirt and found blood streaked across them.
I grunted and stomped on her foot. She screamed and kicked me in the shin. I had no choice but to pull her hair, which was remotely shameful, even though I’d warned her. But it was surprisingly effective. Missy squealed and snaked her hands against my scalp, yanking hard. And soon we were just rolling around on the ground, cursing and screeching and ripping out handfuls of hair.
Without super hearing, I wouldn’t have heard Zeb whisper, “This is the coolest thing I have ever seen.”
“Maybe they’ll get muddy,” Dick said. “Please, Lord, let them get muddy.”
Gabriel turned on them. “You two do realize this is a battle to the death, yes?”
Neither seemed particularly embarrassed.
After several ringing blows to the head, Missy tossed me in a limp pile at the feet of Dick, Gabriel, and Zeb. Gabriel helped me to my feet and gave me an encouraging slap on the back. Dick, however, took a hint from Burgess Meredith’s performance in Rocky.
“Would you kick her ass already?” Dick said, shoving me back toward Missy. “Come on, Stretch, man up. You can do better than this! Get mad.”
I nodded, rolling a dislocated shoulder back into place with a grunt and staggering back toward my opponent.
Behind me, Zeb yelled, “She tried to hurt Fitz!” He turned to Gabriel and Dick. “That’ll get her mad.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “She’s been framed for murder twice over, shot in the back, her arms were set on fire, and her parents are being held hostage. You think tampered dog water is what’s going to make her angry?”
“You tried to hurt my dog!” I wheezed as I lurched toward a grinning Missy.
“Oh, big deal,” Missy huffed. “It’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen.”
“You tried to hurt my dog,” I said again.
“I would have been doing you a favor.” Missy sneered.
“Nobody. Screws. With. My. Dog.” I growled, punctuating each word with a punch to Missy’s face. I gave an upper cut to the chin that sent her flying back into a pile on the ground.
Zeb grinned at Dick and Gabriel. “Told you.”
I took a running start at Missy, hoping to drive my elbow into her chest. But she rolled out of the way, kicking me in the back of the head when I face-planted into the dirt. Ow.
I pushed up to my knees, but Missy tackled me, throwing me to the ground, cursing, and pulling my hair. I tried every move I’d ever seen on the rare evenings Zeb got me to watch wrestling: head butting, eye gouging, ear pulling. But nothing would get Missy off me.
Still rolling in our cartoon fight ball of flying fists and cat yowls, we knocked into the storage shed, popping the door open. A slew of Missy’s old Realtor signs spilled out, their pointy wooden stakes glinting like a dozen golden opportunities.
We glanced at the stakes, looked at each other, and dove. I landed first, with Missy grabbing my ankles to pull me away. I managed to snag one as she dragged me facedown over the grass. Spitting dirt and grass and a couple of foul words, I sprang to my feet. Missy was still on her back, hate and surprise radiating from her eyes as I lunged and drove the sign through her chest.
Missy howled, wriggling to free herself from the spike pinning her to the ground.
“The heart, you moron!” she screeched, clutching at the stake. “It has to be the heart!”
“Oh, right, thanks,” I said, grabbing another sign. I screamed as I drove it home, aiming more carefully this time.
