Page 34 of Set on You

Everything in here is either wood, plaid, or stuffed (there are two taxidermied deer heads mounted on each far wall). This is so not my scene. Nor is it Grandma Flo’s.

Why would she go to the effort of pre-planning this, pretending it was an impromptu decision?

And that’s when I hear it. Two boisterous voices. Two men emerge from what appears to be a hallway leading to the restrooms.

Scott and Martin.

•••

I’VE BEEN AMBUSHED.No wonder I have trust issues.

Martin plows forward to fold me into a hearty embrace. He smells like a library, old paper and smoky mahogany. Through my shock, I return his hug. It’s everything a typical grandpa hug should be, wholehearted and reassuring.

Or it would be, if Scott wasn’t serving me menacing looks from behind Martin’s shoulder. Based on the fact that he’s grimacing at me as if I’m a vile presence, suffice to say that he’s not over our last encounter.

“Hi,” I squeak, breaking my hug with Martin.

There’s a pause as Scott and I size each other up. My tenacity lasts all of ten seconds before I look away like a weakling. I’m not up for the challenge. In fact, I’m about to blurt out an apology for the PTSD he may or may not be suffering from my wrath, until I zero in on his hand.

He’s wielding an axe. When his gaze narrows to my face, I’m convinced he’s about to launch it smack-dab into the center of my forehead. He’s certainly calculating how much force he’ll require for a clean shot, or plotting something equally sinister. He’s practically Jack Nicholson inThe Shining.

Without so much as a greeting, he turns his shoulder and stomps into the cage. Grandma Flo and Martin don’t acknowledge the obvious tension between us. They’re too busy observing with bated breath as Saint Scott saunters onto the platform. He wastes no time before expertly overhand-pitching the axe toward the target with one hand. It pierces the center of the bull’s-eye so smoothly, it almost looks effortless.

As the grandparents clap and holler, fervently praising Scott’ssuperhuman athletic ability, I gulp. I must keep watch. From all angles. He’s liable to murder me in cold blood. This seems like the perfect place to do it. It would be easy enough to fake a slip of hand and pretend it was nothing but a tragic, bloody accident.

“Spend a lot of time practicing?” It’s my half-assed attempt to emit a neutral vibe as he waltzes past me, tossing another axe in the air.

He catches it like it’s a baseball and not a bladed weapon. He’s seemingly pleased with himself for demonstrating his precise assassin skills. When he comes face-to-face with me, the smirk drops, replaced by pure animosity. “Yup. In between being a womanizer and a Neanderthal.” His tone is casual enough so as not to alarm our grandparents. It just comes off like an oddly placed joke. He turns his gaze to Grandma, gently handing her the axe.

Surprisingly, she’s better at this than I would have expected for a woman wearing extra-wide, orthopedic loafers. On her third try, she manages to sink the axe into the wood, despite not hitting the target.

After congratulating his bride-to-be, Martin claps me on the back, giving me a gentle push forward. “Crystal, you need to give this a whirl. It’s a good stress reliever.”I bet it is. For crazed lunatics.

Scott snorts. “Yeah,Crystal.Why don’t you come relieve all that pent-up anger? It might even help with those aggressive mood swings.” He holds me captive with his stare as he dislodges Grandma Flo’s axe from the target.

“Uh, it’s fine. I’m fine right here. Martin, you go first,” I stammer, sweat pooling at the base of my back.

“I insist. Ladies first.” Martin kindly steps aside, ushering me toward Scott.

Scott holds out the axe, handle first.

I swallow a golf ball–size lump in my throat, eyeing him withtrepidation. I take it hesitantly. It’s lighter than it looks. “Do the staff not give any safety demos?” I ask, delaying.

Grandma Flo nods. “They did. Before you arrived. But it’s okay. Scotty will show you the proper form.”

Scott flashes her a painfully fake smile, clearly disturbed by the prospect of being within a three-foot radius of me.

“I’m good.” I nervous-cough, wobbling as I hop onto the platform. I’m naturally competitive. I can’t fail and show weakness, especially after Scott’s show-off performance and covert jabs. Here goes nothing. I close my left eye, swinging the axe over my head.

“Holy shit!” Scott’s strong grip catches my hands a millisecond before the axe is released, rudely prying the handle from my fingers without an ounce of delicacy. His eyes are wide, like those of an antisocial loner living off-grid in a one-bedroom cabin with no electricity.

I whip around. “Dude, what’s your deal?”

He holds the axe out of reach. “Your form was all wrong. Are you trying to kill someone?”

I roll my eyes in offense, making a dramatic show of suffering. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m automatically an uncontrollable liability with a weapon. I can handle myself, you know. I played tennis in high school,” I add, knowing damn well tennis and axe throwing are not remotely similar.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he gruffly clasps my shoulders, physically spinning me around to face the target. I have to admit, being manhandled is kind of hot. “What hand do you use?” he demands. His tone is glacial, contrasting the warmth of his chest as it grazes the width of my back.

---