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“I’ve been hit!” a woman groans in pain.
“We’re going to die!” another woman shouts.
“I’m not ready to die!”
“It’s not a real gun. Jesus, give me that thing.”
Bexley barrels past me, shooting the gun like a wild banshee. Shrieks and curses invade the quiet space. Tables flip over. Metal collides. The rustling of tent walls becomes desperate clutching.
“Every man for himself!” That old man’s voice is one I would recognize, drunk or sober. I don’t get a chance to tell Bexley. She ducks under the tent, chasing after the supposed thieves.
“Shit. Shit!” I’m only wearing my damn briefs, but I chase after them anyway.
Chapter Nine
BEXLEY
––––––––
“THE HOOLIGANS ARE onthe loose!” I repeat the cry as I run down the row. It’s the agreed-upon code the vendors decided on at our top-secret meeting. The one Billie was in charge of. Now she’s nowhere to be seen, and her hunky brother is pinning me to the damn floor wearing nothing more than a pair of briefs.
I shake my head to rid the electric memories and focus on my task.
Tent doors rip open, and vendors join me in the hunt. They’re also armed with paintball guns and glowing vests to assist us in identifying each other.
“There are five of them!” I shout.
“They’re splitting up!” Delilah, the owner of Antique Alley, hollers.
“They’re on foot!” Chace, her husband, adds.
“Remember your places!” I yell.
The vendors begin calling out their go-to locations.
“We will scope the parking lot.”
