Page 45 of Windlass

“Sabotage.” Angie turned to pout.

“Gosh.” Stevie plucked another arrow from the quiver at her belt. “Looks like you’ll need private lessons.”

“Shut up.” Angie shot, and the arrow did not hit the center of the target, but came damn near close.

“Your elbow dropped at the last second. It helps to breathe in, and then shoot with the exhale. Reduces the recoil.”

“Does it?” Angie accepted the next arrow, feigning fascination. “Like this?”

The arrow sank deep into the bale, an inch away from the circle of blue at the center.

“Clearly. Try again?”

“I don’t know.” Angie took the arrow anyway. “I was expecting a hands-on lesson, and all I’m getting are words.”

“Girl,” Stevie began, then looked over at the rest of the group. No one was paying them particularly close attention. “Fine.”

She stepped closer to Angie, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body and to smell the heady floral scent of her skin. That smell, one part soap and three parts Angie, lingered in her mind like smoke.

“Elbow up.” She lifted Angie’s elbow again with her left hand. “And hold this arm steady.”

Putting her hand on Angie’s biceps was a mistake. She tightened her grip involuntarily, unable to help the jolt of longing that curled her fingernails into that smooth skin.

“Now breathe in.” She demonstrated shakily. Angie leaned into her, their bodies flush, utterly wrecking Stevie’s dignity. “And keep your hips square.”

“Show me?”

“Do you—” Stevie broke off, unsure what she had been about to say, but knowing it was inappropriate. Instead, she placed her hands on Angie’s hips. The arc of bone fit seamlessly into her palm, and the taut skin taunted her fingertips.

“Do I what?” asked Angie.

“Really think you can make a shot right now?”

“Watch me.”

As if there was an alternative. Stevie felt Angie’s exhale through her entire body. The arrow whirred away, landing in the hay bale with a solid thunk. Cheers rose from behind them.

“Well, fuck me.” Stevie stared at the arrow still vibrating in the center of the target.

“You do know that I would, don’t you?” Angie said the words so softly no one else could have heard, for which Stevie was grateful. Those were her words, too precious to share, a confession that verbalized, at last, the thing that had always bound them. The thing she’d hoped wasn’t just tangled around her own heart. Her grip on Angie’s waist tightened as if it were the only thing holding Stevie up. Maybe it was; the orchard, their friends, the evening—everything faded.

There was only Angie, asking, “Another arrow?”

Stevie couldn’t think. Couldn’t let go of Angie’s hips where her hands had grown roots.

“Stevie, give me an arrow.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears. She pulled one from the quiver and set it into Angie’s hand. Angie’s fingers closed around hers, drawing them with her as she drew the bow. Astheydrew the bow together, Angie sweetly pressed between her arms.

The shot went wide.

“Should have left room for Jesus,” said Stormy, eliciting a laugh from the rest of their friends.

Stevie stepped away, shoving her hands into her front pockets to stop them from shaking and tried for nonchalance. “Jesus took the wheel and crashed.”

“I’ll help you pick up the arrows,” Angie offered, lowering the bow.

Stevie was thankful for any opportunity to walk away from the group before they could see the emotions drawn in permanent marker across her forehead. She tracked down her arrows in a haze, grateful for the orange fletching. Her brain seemed to have malfunctioned on multiple levels.

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