Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(65)
The nerve-wracking part is we have no idea where the other two guys are.
“Nothing like a little wildly stressful paintball combat with a bunch of wannabe GI Joes to round out your week, huh?”
I’m nervous-blabbing, and I know it. Since his brief explanation before we walked out onto the field, Christopher hasn’t spoken to me, hasn’t acknowledged me but for that offering of warmth while we strategized. For my pride’s sake, I wish I could stop talking to him.
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t answer me, just creeps ahead, surveying the area as we sneak toward the high ground.
I don’t want to blab and beg for his attention. I know I shouldn’t be blabbing if we don’t want to give ourselves away. But it needles me that I’m once again in that old familiar territory of being ignored.
Would it be so hard to just say something to me already?
From behind, I flick his ear. Christopher glares over his shoulder at me and sets a finger to his mouth. I stick out my tongue.
His gaze flicks to my mouth and darkens.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Jamie’s first whistle, an owl hoot, sounds in the distance. I silently fist pump, because that means they found the catapult. Next, Toni and Sula start the diversion, making the bros in black glance their way. The first deluge of paintballs from the catapult rains through the air from the woods and catches them off guard, nailing three out of the four guys before they even know what hit them.
Christopher’s ahead of me as I reach for a paintball, nailing the last man standing square between the shoulder blades. All four of them whip around and give us death glares.
“Aw, guys. Did we hurt your feelings?” I say, throwing their ringleader’s words back in their faces. “You look so glum. It’s just a game. Cheer up.”
Their jaws twitch in anger. Christopher stands beside me, silent, glaring at them stonily. I let myself appreciate the view as they have some kind of unspoken stare-down.
The green coveralls are tight on Christopher, strained against his thick biceps, chest, and thighs. I haven’t let myself even glance at the backdoor view—I’d rather not trip and face-plant in the middle of paintball war because I’m too distracted with ogling his ass, and I would definitely ogle it. Ever since I noticed it at game night, it takes Wonder Woman–level strength not to let my gaze wander there.
“Run along,” he tells the guys finally, jerking his head toward the sidelines.
Grumbling under their breath, they stomp past us.
I’d bet my best camera that if big, glaring Christopher weren’t there, they’d have some real choice words for me. In spite of my pride, my fury that I have to deal with men like this at all, I’m grateful Christopher’s here so I don’t have to find out.
I grin as I watch them join the other guys from their team who already stand off the field, legs wide, arms folded, looking pissed. Even though it’s a small victory, it’s a victory, nonetheless.
And that victory is short-lived.
I hear them in quick succession, Toni’s and Margo’s yelps. Christopher and I scramble up to the high ground the douche canoes had and peer over the ledge. “Shit,” Christopher mutters.
Toni and Margo are splattered in paint, walking gingerly away from their boulder toward the sideline.
By some kind of silent agreement, the two of us stay in our spot for the moment, Christopher focused on the direction we came from for our ambush, me scanning the outlook for signs of the two remaining assholes.
Our brief surveillance screeches to a halt when we hear Bea’s scream. I move without thinking, pure reaction, leaping over the ledge of our hiding spot and landing with a bone-rattling thud before I sprint toward the woods.
I hear another set of footsteps close at my back and glance over my shoulder, relieved to see what I already knew—Christopher’s right behind me.
“What the fuck?” I hear Bea yell.
“Beatrice.” Jamie’s voice is calm, infused with patience.
Right before I run into the clearing, Christopher grabs me by the waist and pulls me flat against him behind a tree. I’m about to tell him off for stopping me, when his hand slaps over my mouth. The last two guys from the team stand ahead, right where I was about to run, two feet away from Jamie and Bea, who are stationed on either side of the catapult.
I drag Christopher’s hand off my mouth, but he only wrenches me tighter against him, his chest rising and falling quickly, his breath hot against my ear.
A shiver runs through me again. And this time it’s got nothing to do with being cold.
I feel every inch of him that’s touching me. The hard muscles of his thighs pressed against the backs of my legs, his groin wedged into my butt, the obvious thickness that’s . . . oh God, I can’t think about what I feel or this instinct to press back and rub myself on him. His heavy arms pin me close, his chest a broad, firm landing place that I let my head fall back on as I drag in a breath, needing oxygen, needing something to make my body behave itself.
My sister’s voice is a good distraction, redirecting my attention as she steps into my line of sight, hands on her hips, glaring up at the bros in black. “You fucking assholes.”
“Easy, sweetie,” the ringleader says. “It’s just a little fun.”
“A little fun?” she shrieks. “Listen, dickhead, I don’t pretend to be a big rule follower, but when it comes to safety, rules matter. You slingshotted a fucking paintball point-blank into his face.”