I Promise You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Score!” He tosses me back and I crash down on my bed. He turns and twirls the panties for a moment then stuffs them in the front pocket of his jeans.

  I shake my head. “I swear, if you don’t give those back…”

  “Nope. Mine. Get dressed, please. We have things to annihilate.” He whistles and heads out to the den.

  Five minutes later, I find myself bemused as I ride in his vehicle down a one-lane gravel lane outside of town. We’re in deep farm country with no houses in sight. I’ve asked him questions about what is going on, but the man is a devil…

  “Just so you know, I’m not killing anything. Not even a mouse.”

  “We won’t be killing anything today. Just tagging.”

  Oh, the black clothes… “Paintball.” Dread hits me like a brick wall. “Dillon, come on. I’ll embarrass you.”

  “Nah.” He takes his eyes off the road to give me a searching look. “Never.”

  “It’s about time,” Sawyer calls out a few minutes later as we park at a clearing where several players stand around. We get out of the Escalade.

  “Pool Shark!” Sawyer says when he sees me. “I have a killer idea. How about you participating in some skee-ball next week with the girls—”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Pool was a one-off.”

  He laughs.

  “You’re late and you have all the equipment,” Troy snips to Dillon as he jogs up. “We haven’t won in three years. This time, we almost lost by forfeit.” He flicks his eyes to me, surprised. “You brought a girl.”

  “Serena,” I reply, arching a brow. “Right here.”

  He blinks. “I know. You’re just the first girl to ever play with us.”

  Ah…

  “Cool your jets, Texas. Had to pick up our best player,” Dillon says.

  I snort. “I’m here for comedic relief.”

  Dillon hands out equipment to our team—helmets, guns, vests—and Troy hands out green glow sticks for our necks. I eye the other team, who are also dressed in camo and black. Their leader passes out red glow sticks. Okay, green versus red. There are two teams. I can do this.

  “Why do we need vests?” I ask.

  “Cause it’s gonna hurt like a bitch when you get hit,” Sawyer tells me. “Suit up.”

  “Huddle!” Dillon yells, and we group around him. My vest feels restrictive and I tug at it while he looks at us individually, his eyes steely. Authority and confidence color his words. This is the way he captains his team, I think.

  He claps his hands. “Alright, let’s beat these guys. Pair up, you know the drill…”

  No, wait, I don’t…

  He snaps out scenarios for our strategy with words like bunker, battle pack, hopper, basecamp… I get lost.

  They whoop and fist-bump, and, of course, I miss Sawyer’s high-five.

  We walk to the other team and shake hands with the defensive players; most are brawny and thick and look as if they weigh twice what I do.

  Trash-talking commences.

  “Quarterback thinks he can roll in late…bunch of scared pussies…”

  “Gonna aim for your face, Zane,” Dillon shoots out.

  “Trophy is ours!” calls Troy, adjusting his visor.

  “I’m taking down the girl,” someone cackles.

  My eyes widen. “Can’t I just watch, like from the sidelines?”

  Dillon pats my helmet. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m the only girl.”

  “Because I like you.”

  “I like you too, jersey chaser,” a burly player says before snapping his teeth at me. Linebacker. Jagger something. Big and mean.

  “He’s just messing with your head,” Dillon murmurs as he hands me my paintball gun. “Don’t hold it like it’s a bomb. Come here.” He stands next to me and positions the weapon in my hands, showing me the trigger and safety. “When you see a red glow stick, aim and shoot. You’re good at pool, this’ll be easy.”

  A bead of sweat drips down my back. “As long as I don’t see blood…”

  He grins. “Just breathe.”

  Fairy lights flicker on as if they were on a timer, illuminating paths deep into the woods.

  “What are the rules?” I ask anxiously. “It kind of ran together in the huddle.” In other words, I don’t understand your jargon.

  “The game is like a horror movie—kidding. It’s awesome, and you’ll get high on the adrenaline. See the paths? We’ll run on those, hide in the woods, and take out the red team. Barricades make for great hiding places. Friendly fire counts, so if you shoot one of your own team, they’re out. Each team has a base.” He points at a small fort next to a fence and a green flag. “That’s us. Their camp is on the other side of those woods with a red flag.”

  “The dark woods?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I have to run with a helmet, a gun, and a vest?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  He grins.

  “Slowly. Maybe while you sleep. Or poison.”

  He looks delighted. “You like to win, right?”

  “Hell yeah.” Tension rolls off me.

  “Badass girl—I knew you’d get it. The defense killed us last year, so we need your spunk. Two ways to win: either wipe out the players on the other side, or steal their flag and move it all the way back to our basecamp.”

  He rubs black face paint on himself then on me.

  “Defense has gone to their base,” Sawyer says to the group around us. I stare at his goggles. Fancy. He flashes me a smirk. “Out here they call me Bullseye because I never miss.”

  Dillon smirks. “Bullseye was the last man standing last year and almost made it back with their flag before he was shot. This year he’s out for blood.”

  Sawyer raises his gun and makes a shout.

  “What’s up with the goggles?” I ask him.

  He pulls them down over his eyes.

  “Night vision. Army surplus.”

  “Where are my night vision goggles?” I ask Dillon.

  He throws an arm around me. “The rest of us just run around in the dark. More fun that way.”

  So. Much. Fun.

  I follow my team to our fort, counting nine of us as the guys touch the flag for luck. I dash for it, sending a prayer up. Lord, help me be decent at this.

  I hear a voice off in the woods scream, “Ten seconds!”

  Dillon rolls his neck and looks at me. “Hang with me.”

  “Okay.” I breathe out, easing closer. I’ll be on him like a fly on a pie.

  “Safeties off. All rounds are live!” Dillon calls as they tense, guns up.

  I heave mine up, trying to mimic them.

  My heart jumps in my chest. Five, four, three, two, one…

  HOOOOOONK! An airhorn explodes around us, drowning out the crickets and frogs in the woods. The players split apart, darting down paths, obviously with a plan in their head.

  Dillon, Sawyer, and I run down a trail between trees to a small barricade surrounded by bushes.

  “Now what?” I whisper as I look around. I don’t see any other players on either team.

  “Wait—” Dillon starts.

  A paintball smashes into the tree next to me, making me scream as it splatters glow-in-the-dark red paint. Three more hit the tree in rapid succession.

  I shut my eyes, duck down, squeeze the trigger, and fire a single shot—directly into Bullseye’s back.

  He jumps up and turns around to try to see the green splotch on his vest.

  “Seriously?” he says as he whips off his goggles.

  “I am so sorry.” I try to wipe the green paint away.

  “You weren’t supposed to kill me!” he wails.

  I wince. “I got nervous.”

  Dillon grimaces. “Oops. Rest in peace, Bullseye.” He flashes a mock salute.

  “Can I be out and not him?” I whisper.

  “Don’t cry for me, Serena,” Sawyer says as he hands me hi
s goggles. “War is hell. Stay alive. It’s up to you now. And I’ve got beer waiting for me back at the clearing.” Louder, he yells, “I’m out!” Then he places his gun in the air with his green glow stick hanging from it as he walks out of the barricade.

  More paint explodes on the tin roof on top of us.

  “They have someone in the trees. We need to get better cover. Follow me,” Dillon says. “Be quiet.”

  In the dark? Yeah, I’ll get right on that.

  I don’t have time to put the goggles on, so I tuck them in the pocket of my vest.

  He takes off running through the woods, and for half a second, I think of standing and making myself an easy shot to get out of this mess, but I crouch and take off after him. Not a quitter!

  We run through the trees, leaving the fairy lights behind, then slow down and circle back next to a large wooden crate. I make every step he does, trying to not crunch on leaves.

  Dillon puts a finger to his lips to signify being quiet—I am!—then points at me and then at our fort with the flag. I shake my head. What? Are we guarding it?

  I interpret that we’re going there next and he wants me to go first.

  While I try to figure out the best rudimentary sign language to use to argue with him, he holds up three fingers and starts counting down to one.

  Crap! On three, I take off running, paint exploding around me with every step. I hear a voice up in the trees yell out, “Dammit!” and the barrage stops.

  I turn and see Zane climbing down the tree with Dillon under it. “Red out!” Zane grumbles to whoever is listening, gives Dillon a fist bump, and sprints through the woods.

  My mouth gapes as I walk back to Dillon. “I was a decoy?”

  “A great one. Once he started firing at you, I got a clean shot.”

  “I was bait! I could have been shot!”

  He chuckles.

  “Now what?”

  “If they had someone sprint all the way here, they’re probably swarming our fort at the basecamp. They did the same thing last year.” Sweat drips down his face as we take cover behind a tree and he gazes around. “This way.”

  He weaves through the trees for what feels like forever as he meanders, making his way to another dugout area near the edge of the tree line. How many hidey-holes are in these woods?

  “In here,” he calls as he ducks into the little structure.

  “I don’t think anyone’s following us,” I reply, my lungs tight from running. My walking and yoga haven’t prepared me for this kind of cardio.

  “They think their sniper can protect this flank, but we rushed him out of the gate. So while most of our group is on the east side, we’ll come up the west and grab the flag. Problem is, we also can’t protect our flag, so we can’t stay here long. Make sense?”

  I take off my helmet to breathe better. “How long does this go on?”

  “Couple hours. There’s a flurry of action at the beginning for spots, then both sides dig in for a bit and figure out where everyone is before moving into an attack formation.”

  “Like dating,” I muse.

  “Yeah.” He smiles. “Ready to move?”

  I nod and slide the goggles over my mask. The entire world turns green and I can see detail! Each point of light becomes a star.

  “Whoa, these things are great,” I say. “I can see everything.”

  “Maybe you won’t shoot our side now.”

  “Smartass,” I mutter.

  We leave and start toward a path, heading to the other side of the woods. Dillon motions for me to get behind some bushes then slides in next to me and whispers, “Can you see anyone watching their flag?”

  “Yes. Two big red things in the trees behind the really bright red thing.”

  “Okay. How high in the tree?”

  “About ten feet.”

  Someone rushes toward us from the way we came, and I lift my paint gun. I’m ready! Dillon knocks it up into the air before I fire off a round.

  “Flash!” announces a voice in the darkness.

  “Bang!” replies Dillon. “That’s one of ours,” he tells me.

  Troy kneels down below our cover with us.

  Dillon gives him an arm pat. “On three, let’s run a pinch play on the two guards. Serena, you stay here. Count to thirty Mississippi then start shooting at both of those trees. Keep your shots high to avoid us.”

  “Keep it high, right.” Goodbye, world. I’m about to die.

  “Just distract them. Once they’re down, we can grab the flag and then have an easy time going back to our side to win the game.” Dillon puts his mask against mine. “I’m counting on you.”

  “Roger.” I hope that sounds official.

  Dillon and Troy move off into the woods and everything gets quiet.

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

  When it’s time, I ease up and fire toward the first red light in the tree.

  “LEFT SIDE!” I hear a red tree person scream to his partner.

  I keep firing and switch to the other tree. Dang it. Most of my shots are too high.

  “I can’t see the shooter!” yells one of them.

  “Left bunker. Second is trying to sneak up behind us. Third below you. Alpha, Bravo, Gamma, engage! Engage! Engage! Hit the girl!”

  A barrage of balls shoot toward me, splattering the wood, and I duck below cover.

  I hear a rustling in the brush behind me and raise my gun.

  “Flash!” a deep voice calls out.

  “Boo!” I reply.

  “You’re supposed to say bang,” Dillon says then drops down next to me as the balls continue to hit our cover.

  “Is this the plan?”

  “Uh, no. Things are basically FUBAR.”

  “Oh, yeah, I agree. We need tequila.” I hear the guys from the trees rustle around. “Will they move in on us?”

  “If they’re smart and have the cover. We should go,” he says.

  “What about Troy?” I ask.

  “Scouting.”

  “Flash,” comes a voice from the bushes.

  “Boo,” I say back.

  “It’s bang.” Troy leans down to our hiding place.

  “I know. Just trying out a new word.”

  He smirks at me and looks at his leader. “There are three guys dug in outside our base. Let’s get back, pronto.”

  “Take the dark path, the one with the lights out,” replies Dillon. “Run on three.”

  I close my eyes.

  “One, two…”

  The guys run with me between them. We dash through thickets and I think I step on something squishy and smelly and big, like maybe a dead possum. Yells sound behind us as the other team closes in.

  “Dude! I’m out of paint!” Troy gasps out.

  We duck behind a barricade and I look down at my gun. “How do you check?”

  Pop!

  I glance up, mortified. Why do I suck at this? Troy glares at me then at the green paint on his foot.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “Dammit. At least I’m at the graveyard.” He lets out an exhalation, fist-bumps Dillon, and runs to a bench in the field where all the ‘deceased’ players must be.

  Dillon counts the players, contemplating. “Troy makes six of ours out to three of Red Team. We’ve got Sinclair, and they have six players.”

  “It’s the Alamo all over again,” I say.

  “Sinclair is hiding, so it’s just him and you and me, but we aren’t giving up. Let’s take some red guys out.”

  How can he be so confident?

  We dart in between trees and end up in a trench. He pops up and scans the horizon. “Incoming!” He ducks as the pop of paintballs detonates around us. He fires back, his shoulders rippling. “I got two. Yeah!”

  Me? I killed a spider crawling up my arm. Normally, I’d be doing the spider dance, but I’ve screwed up twice already, so I contained my urge to jump up and run and scream. “So, is this, like, a date?”

  He fires more paint. “Total
ly. Our second. Maybe third if you count the tryouts. Hate it?”

  Surprise visits for Romy, now paintball. Is this his version of romance? The thought makes me smirk. He’s different, and I don’t hate it at all.

  “I would have asked you to the movies, but wasn’t, um, sure you’d agree. Usually, uh, I meet a girl at the bar and we like each other, and we see each other, ugh…” He looks away. Blows out a breath. “Here I go, spewing crap out of my mouth.” He grimaces. “I’m just…kind of…spontaneous. It’s been known to backfire.”

  “No pun intended.”

  He looks over the edge of the trench. “Dammit. Sinclair’s in our fort with the flag. He’s surrounded. We’re going right up the middle to assist our man. Ready?”

  “As I ever will be. What about the guys shooting at us?”

  “Imagine Bigfoot behind you and run. I’ll take care of them.”

  I swallow and nod.

  “Go!” he yells, and we break into the clearing, dashing toward our basecamp.

  “Behind us!” screams one of the red team.

  Dillon fires at them and bellows, “Sinclair, help! Now!”

  Owen rises out of his bunker and fires on the enemy to cover us. Looking over my shoulder, I watch as green paint splashes around but misses the targets.

  “You got their flag?” Owen asks as we hunker down inside the fort.

  Dillon growls. “If I did, you’d see it, rookie.”

  Owen wipes his face just as a red player slides in from the side and aims his gun at me. I freeze, a deer in the headlights as green paint hits the enemy on the side of his helmet. I wilt in relief.

  “Red out,” the player calls out before running off.

  “Got ’em.” Dillon grins. “They have three players left.”

  “You saved my life,” I say.

  “It’s war. Do I get a kiss before I go back into action?” Dillon asks with a grin.

  “No making out!” Owen grouses. “This is a man’s game.”

  The fort has slots in the walls, and they utilize one to fire into the trees behind us.

  “Serena, you see anything?” Dillon asks.

  I peek over the edge for a second. “Three near the edge of the woods, moving fast.”

  “We’re trapped,” Owen mutters.

  “Your attitude needs adjusting, rookie,” Dillon asserts as he fires on the enemy and hits one. “They’ve got two men left!” he shouts.