Page 22 of Personal Foul
While I appreciate that she can admit when she’s wrong—and hopefully stop being extra difficult about this whole thing—I don’t like the sad, cowed expression on her face. So I let a mischievous grin stretch across mine. “We’ll just tell everyone the truth. That you were seduced by my charm and my Greek god looks and couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
She lets out a sharp bark of laughter, then covers her mouth as though to hold back more.
I place a hand on my chest. “Oof. Ouch, Charity. That hurts. You don’t think I’m attractive? I thought you called me pretty the other day.”
Laughing, she shakes her head. “You know you’re pretty. You don’t need me to tell you.”
“But I like it when you do.” That’s one hundred percent the truth, though I doubt she thinks so.
She eyes me. “Yeah, well, we need to keep your head small enough to fit through doorways,” she says dryly.
That makes me laugh. “Of course. My head’s big enough. It’s a wonder we both fit in the car.”
“I know. I wasn’t sure we would, especially since you’ve got this little sports car. I mean, if you drove a Range Rover like any self-respecting outdoorsy rich kid then I wouldn’t have worried so much.”
I’ve managed to get her to banter with me again, and I like it. I wish our relationship could be like this all the time.
I lean closer, like I’m imparting a secret. “Well, the fact that you have to fight down your gag reflex every time I’m around keeps my head a more manageable size. That’s probably why you didn’t have any trouble fitting in the car.”
She smothers a laugh, and I can’t help grinning, feeling satisfied that I got her to relax at last. At least enough that she doesn’t look like she’s trying to murder me with her eyes or swallow down the bile induced by my presence.
“I’m glad I can help,” she says at last, laughter still in her voice.
“Oh, you think that’s helpful?” I scoff. “I’ll have you know, my giant head is what makes my life possible. You think it’s easy to be me? The ego is as much shield as it is …” I trail off, screwing up my face to think of a way to end that sentence, but it doesn’t matter because Charity is cracking up.
She holds up a hand, palm out. “Stop. Oh my god, you have to stop. I can’t take it anymore.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s clutching the handle on the door like it’s her anchor to hold her down during her laughing fit. “Does this mean you won’t accidentally-on-purpose maim me with one of the throwing axes?”
Straightening, she runs a finger under each eye. “Oh man. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.” Her eyes are almost tender when she looks at me. “I promise not to take off any vital body parts.”
At first I nod, satisfied. But then I stop, a record scratch going in my brain. “Hold up—vitalbody parts? So does that mean body parts you deem less than vital are in danger?”
That makes her laugh again, but she’s shaking her head. She holds up a hand like she’s swearing an oath. “I promise I won’t maim you with one of the throwing axes. At least not on purpose.”
When I glance at her again, she’s pressing her lips together, doing her best to hold in her laughter. I’m not even trying to hold back my grin. “Are you saying you’re clumsy enough that you might maim me on accident?”
She gives me a one shoulder shrug. “I’ve never been axe throwing before. I have no idea how clumsy I might be there.”
“That’s not actually reassuring,” I mutter, and she just laughs again. Even though her laughter is at my expense, I’m glad she’s relaxing around me. As much as I get a twisted sense of enjoyment out of her trying to murder me with her glares, I actually prefer this side of her. Plus, the murder glares make it harder to be a convincing couple, and with sharp objects to throw, shooting daggers out of her eyes could easily turn into actual daggers flying from her hands …
When we get to the axe throwing place—Curly’s Throwing Axes—Andrew and Isabelle are already inside, signing in on a clipboard. A man in a backwards baseball cap with a long, dark brown beard streaked with gray greets us, looking like he’s dressed specifically to fulfill the stereotype of this type of place—broken in tan Carhartt pants and a flannel shirt cuffed at the elbows.
He greets us with a jovial, “Howdy, folks!” when Charity and I walk in.
Charity gives him a polite smile, immediately stepping closer to Isabelle. I sign us in while the girls talk. Apparently they have a lot of catching up to do after a ten minute drive.
“Have you guys ever thrown axes before?” booms the lumberjack. We all shake our heads. “Well, let me show you how it’s done. You’re in luck—we just cleared a lane.” He leads us behind the tall tables bearing a variety of hatchets and other blades set up in front of lanes with wooden targets at the other end. The intermittentthunk thunk thunkof axes hitting the wood is occasionally punctuated by a clang as one bounces off and hits the ground.
The lumberjack introduces himself as John and proceeds to give us an explanation of each of the options—two different weights of hatchets, a large knife, a smaller knife, and a throwing star. He gives us two different options for how to throw the hatchets—two handed overhead or one hand at shoulder height—and makes recommendations on where to stand in relation to the tape on the ground.
Then he stands off to the side, gesturing for one of us to go. We exchange looks until Andrew gestures and says, “Ladies first.”
Charity and Isabelle have a whole conversation with their eyes that apparently means Charity is taking the first turn.
She studies the selection and picks up the smaller hatchet, then steps up to the first tape line on the floor.
“Maybe step a little closer,” John suggests.
