Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Guilt darkens her eyes, but before I’m tempted to ask her how much she unearthed about me when she googled me last night, I enter the paintball field to scope the premises. I need a good hiding spot because I have three measly paintball pellets. McKayla has dozens.
I crank my neck back when McKayla’s robotic voice trickles through the holes drilled into my spacesuit helmet, “You can run, probie, but you can’t hide.”
Probie? Who the fuck is probie?
I duck behind a hollowed-out wine barrel when I spot specks of McKayla’s hair sticking out the bottom of her helmet, then commence lining up my shot.
My head has barely peeked above the top of the barrel when my vision is blurred by a bright orange splatter. I’ve taken a direct hit to the head, and McKayla immediately claims the victory. “Game over in under thirty seconds. Maybe I should let the rumors be upheld? That’s an embarrassing effort, probie.”
Incapable of standing by and letting someone cheat, I stand from my crouch position and say, “Because you cheated—”
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Paint splatters on my chest, my heart, and a section of my thigh a mere inch from my groin.
“Jesus Christ, McKayla, you almost took out my dick!”
My eyes bulge when she murmurs, “Only almost? I was aiming for castration.”
After gulping like a bitch, I bolt for the fort on my left, dodging a hundred and one paintballs on my way. McKayla shoots me in the ass, back, and thighs before forcing me behind the rickety material by splattering the back of my helmet with a rainbow configuration.
“You are so going down,” I snarl out, my competitive side finally merging from the dark pit.
Like a Terminator who respawns when hit, McKayla accepts the shot I fire at her shoulder with only the slightest backward nudge before she continues her military stalk of the paint-soaked grounds.
“Don’t make me do it, Einstein.” I’m panting so hard, the mask of my helmet is fogged, and my armpits are wet, but I’m still grinning like a fucking loon. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. “Don’t make me take you out with a kill shot.”
“I’d like to see you try.” McKayla’s visor is just as clouded with condensation, her smile just as large. “You’re shit with angles and moving targets, so you’ll never make it.”
It dawns on me that’s the reason she shoots so well.
She brings mathematics into everyday tasks.
My brain should be fried after the workout she gave it in the makeshift reception area of the paintball arena, but miraculously, it sets to work on where I should aim to make contact with a moving target.
Once I’m confident I have McKayla’s teachings down right, I caution, “This is your last warning, Einstein. If you surrender now, I’ll spare you the embarrassment of taking you down with only one pellet.”
I have to recalculate my prediction when she stops in the middle of the field to prop out her hip. “You got shot between the eyes, probie. You’re already dead.”
“Not necessarily,” I argue. “I read a book where the main character’s brother survived a gunshot wound to the head.”
Even from a distance and with her face covered by a thick pane of plastic, I can see her furrowed brows. “That’s not possible.”
“According to you. But not all of us use one hundred percent of our brain capacity. Some of us are more than capable of getting around with half a brain.”
Bang.
Another direct hit to my head.
“You’re a fucking psycho.” I’m dissing her, but in reality, I’m loving her gall. She knew she needed to bring her game face today, and she brought it out with all the bells and whistles.
“Says the guy who has yet to take a shot.”
“I hit your shoulder.”
Her sass almost bowls me over when she replies, “You did? When?”
Through the biggest smile I’ve ever worn, I warn, “That’s it, Einstein. Time to teach you a lesson.”
I fire another shot, then feel instantly guilty.
It smacks McKayla right in the tit and has her bending in two with a howl.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t aiming for your boob. I was—”
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I’m shot on repeat by a snickering McKayla who lured me out of hiding by feigning an injury.
Like a drama geek with too much time on his hand, I overemphasize my death, jerking back with every paint pellet that dots my overalls until I land on a soft bedding of straw.
My ‘dead’ vantage point comes with perks. It has my eyes landing on water balloons filled with paint to replicate grenades.
After stuffing a handful behind my back, I lay as still as possible, playing dead.
McKayla buys my act.
She doesn’t have a choice, considering she is out of bullets.
“You can’t win them all,” she murmurs before offering me a hand.
After unsteadying her military stance by accepting her hand, I pull a water balloon out from behind my back and direct it at her face. It pops without fault, splattering half her face with bright yellow paint.