Cold. Ruthless. Determined.
She fires.
I’m dead. Just dead. Game over.
I curse, but fair is fair.
“Good job, killer.” I drop my gun and offer her a hand, since that’s what you do when you win or when you lose.
“I humbly accept your courteous adoration,” she says in her most gracious voice as we shake.
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t really say it was adoration.”
“Now, now. We both know it was.”
“I’ll let you have your delusion,” I say as we pick up our pistols and return them to the check-in counter. I gesture to the bar adjacent to the arena. “Want to join the crew, King?”
“Let’s do it,” she says, and I sweep my hand out for her to go first.
Because I’m a gentleman—and a wise gentleman always seizes the chance to enjoy the rear view.
Teagan’s ass is just so damn yummy, and I’m an ass man.
Wait. Nope. That’s not entirely fair to her breasts, which I very much enjoy checking out too. But asses are easier to ogle. So I do that for a few seconds as she exits the game area. I do it knowing the ogling will go nowhere. Knowing, too, that she’s got so much more going on than a delicious form. I enjoy her company too, so I don’t feel guilty about enjoying the sights when I can.
Some of our friends are waiting for us outside the arena. With a victory dance, Teagan smacks palms with her laser-tag teammates—first with my good buddy Logan, then with Bryn, Teagan’s bestie and the reason we’re celebrating here today. Bryn recently opened her own consulting firm. She’s signed deals with a few marquee clients, so today’s laser-tag-plus-karaoke-plus-beer is on Logan as we toast to his woman’s career success.
“You brought it home for our team, girl. So proud of you,” Bryn tells Teagan.
“I’m all about teamwork. And beating Ransom,” she says.
Bryn smiles, sporting the happy look that Logan seems to put on her face constantly. Logan and Bryn met a year ago and are kind of ridiculously in love.
Which, come to think of it, is how I’d describe all my good buds these days. Logan, Oliver, and Fitz—all with hearts in their eyes, dopey grins on their mugs, life partners by their sides.
Logan pats Teagan on the shoulder. “I, for one, am glad you took down this competitive bastard.” He deals me a satisfied smirk. “Ransom has tried to destroy me in Ping-Pong far too many times, so I’m stoked someone can pummel him in laser tag.”
I snort-laugh. “You deserve to be pummeled in Ping-Pong, Logan.”
“Why? Why do I deserve it?” Logan fires back.
“Everyone who plays me deserves it,” I say as we head into the bar. “I don’t hold back in any game. Balls to the wall is the only way to play. If you can’t handle the heat I bring with a paddle, you need to get away from the Ping-Pong-table fire.”
Teagan cuts in, laughing. “You do know that sounds racy on ten million levels, Ransom? From the balls to the heat to the paddle.”
I wiggle my brow. “That’s what she said.”
She parks her hands on her hips. “Way to steal my punch line.”
“Guess I just beat you to it.” I set up the opening for her favorite zinger. Until very recently, the woman has dropped in that’s what she said with such gleeful abandon that it should be her nickname. Or it could, if it weren’t such a—ahem—mouthful.
That, and she’s made a resolution to stop saying her catchphrase, claiming it was going to get her in trouble at work. It’s been a blast trying to trip her up, but she’s a tough one to crack.
Like now, when she shoots me a saucy grin and resists with a shake of her head. “I’m not going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole.”
“Are you sure?” I say, egging her on. “A ten-foot pole might be fun—with the right person.”
“You two and your innuendos,” Bryn puts in. “Grab a table while we snag some beer, okay?”
“Will do,” I say as the lovebirds go place our orders.
Teagan and I snag a high top, while a familiar voice fills the bar with a mostly in-tune warble. On the low stage by the karaoke setup, my teammate Fitz belts out “The Time of My Life” in a duet with Summer, Logan’s twin sister.
Huh.
They’re not too shabby, but still deserve ribbing.
“Way to go, Kenny and Dolly,” I shout.
“Donny and Marie have nothing on you two,” Teagan seconds. Leaning toward me, she echoes my thoughts too, saying, “They’re not half bad.”
“Yeah, I know. Hidden talent, maybe?”
“I’m convinced everyone has one,” she says, and there’s some truth to that. I suppose we all have something we’re good at.
We watch them for a little longer. Fitz pretends he’s singing the love song to Summer, but he keeps making eyes at his fiancé, Dean, who moved here from London last year. Dean’s a few tables away with his friend Leo, laughing. It’s some kind of private joke, I’m guessing, since Dean and Fitz have plenty of those.
