Un-Valentine's Day

Scene 7: The Great Escape

Noah jerked his head up. The assholes who’d shot him were back. They must have pretended to leave so they could circle back and catch their assailant off-guard. Great strategy. Bad fucking timing.

“Take it off the field, lovebirds,” the men called out, raising their markers again. Noah’s breath snagged in his throat. On a surge of power, he rose up behind Cassie, shielding her. “Go! Get behind the boulder,” he shouted. She grabbed her marker and scrambled in front of him. He clenched his teeth as ball after ball pelted his back.

Slowing down, she shot him a glance over her shoulder. “Let me shoot back.”

“Not yet.” Just a few more feet and she’d be safe. He pushed her butt with his hand, prodding her forward. When she disappeared around the boulder, the tension in his shoulders began to ease. He could turn around and start shooting, but Cassie had already eliminated the men. Shooting at them again wouldn’t make them go away; these guys were out for revenge.

 As he neared the shelter of the boulder, a ball smacked him in the back of the head. He closed his eyes against the pain radiating through his skull. Fuck, that hurt. Served him right for taking off his helmet. He stumbled and lurched around the rock, slamming into Cassie as she prepared to cover him. They fell to the ground in a heap.

With his face buried in her neck, he lay on top of her motionless. His heart pounded, and he was certain she had to feel it despite her layers of protective clothing. After a moment she stirred and gently pushed on his shoulders. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, rising up on his forearms. “Those jerks tagged me in the back of the head.”

Her eyes clouded with concern and with tentative strokes, her fingers probed the back of his head. “You’ve already got a bump.”

And the beginnings of a massive headache. Why had he brought her here again? Oh right. To show her what a man’s man he was. Yep. He’d shown her all right. Big baby.

Her eyes twinkled and she laughed as paint dripped off his head and splashed her cheeks. She wiped her mouth, leaving smears of color on her face, then reached up and tugged on a strand of his hair. “I kind of like this.”

His eyes narrowed. What was she talking about? Maybe the hit to the head had rattled his brain. “Like what?” he asked, his tone more gruff than he’d intended.

“The blue hair. It’s rather Adam Lambert. Looks good on you.”

Had she really just compared him to Adam Lambert? Damn it, she did think he was gay. We’ll he’d have to change that, wouldn’t he?