Page 17 of Trick Shot
“I’m serious. This is the heaviest one and I’m not doubting your strength. I’m covering my own damn ass because if you strain a fucking muscle, it’s gonna be my fault. This is my job, not yours.”
“I’m just trying to help,” I say, barely registering the thunder that rumbles above our heads. “You know, like you helped me the other night when I had a sunburn. It’s tit for tat.”
“Tit for what?” he asks before shaking his head and thinking better of it. “You know what? Never mind. Thatwas not the same thing at all. Now let go so I can get this packed up before the fucking heavens open up and we get soaked.”
“Why?”
He closes his eyes as though the only way to deal with me is to silently count to ten. He wouldn’t be the first person to apply that strategy. “Why? Because I don’t feel like swimming back to my dorm. Do you have to argue with me about everything?”
“Yes. I’m shocked it took you this long to figure that out.” I glance down at our hands and then back up at his face. “On three.”
He sighs, but when I count us down, he lifts at the same time I do. We pop the final container in the trailer and when Pete grabs a tarp, I take hold of the far side and fasten it to the bottom of the truck bed with a bungee cord he tosses in my direction.
I swish my hands together to shake off the excess dirt. A quick look around tells me we’ve gathered everything up, but it also leaves me with a question. “Uh, where’s the truck?”
“Greg was supposed to be here by now to hitch up the trailer and get us back to campus,” he says, just as his phone buzzes with a text. The look on his face tells me that whatever he’s reading isn’t good news.
“Is Greg on his way?” I ask as a crack of thunder shakes the skyline.
“Nope,” Pete answers, reaching for his backpack. “There are two trees down, blocking access to the main road. “The only way we’re getting back to our dorms is on foot, so we need to hustle. You’ve got your camera in there?” he asks, pointing to my bag. When I nod, he opens his pack. “Toss it in and then let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I’m—”
“I swear to fuck if you tell me that you are fine, or that your camera is fine, I will lose my ever-loving shit.”
The temptation to tell him that my camera and I are both, in fact, fine is nearly too much to resist, but another surge of thunder roars overhead. I’ll happily push all of Pete’s buttons, but Mother Nature has spoken, and she’s a bitch I don’t cross, so I hand over my tote.
He tucks my medium-sized bag into his larger one before zipping it up and slinging it over his back. He grabs some rain parkas from one of the main bins he just loaded up and lobs one in my direction before donning one himself. “Come on,” he urges, tilting his head toward the path and leading the way.
A bolt of lightning illuminates the darkening sky, so I throw on my newly-acquired rain gear and hurry after him. As I haul ass, I thank my high school cross country coach for every grueling run he sent us on. I may have chosen journalism over sports once I got to college, but muscle memory is a beautiful thing. The rain starts to fall, but we don’t slow our strides. The main campus is about two miles away, so I’ll be a wet, soggy mess by the time I get back to my room, but it could be a lot worse.
As though the universe heard my internal thoughts, a clap of thunder rings out just as the sky lets loose. Two seconds ago, it was raining. Right now, there are sheets of water pouring down from on high. Either we’ve stepped under a magical, portable waterfall, or this storm is no damn joke.
Pete looks at me, his thick, curly brown hair plastered to his head and face. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking around. “Follow me.”
In any other circumstance, I would argue. Or at least ask him where the hell he’s taking me. Since I have a feeling that the sidewalk is about to turn into a riverbed, Ikeep my mouth shut and trail behind him. The downpour is relentless, though, and I can barely see two feet in front of me. Thank god the plastic rain gear we’re both wearing is a hideous shade of safety orange, or I might lose sight of him as we wend our way through the woods that separate the west side of campus from the beach.
Unless Pete is aware of some secret shortcut, I have a feeling we’re not heading back to the dorms. My sense of direction is decent at best, but nothing looks familiar. I’m about to question every decision that he’s ever made, but then he turns back toward me and gestures about twenty yards ahead to an outbuilding nestled among the trees.
I trudge closer, my sneakers squelching in the mud and muck as I try to get a closer look at the little hut Pete has led me to. My reporter’s curiosity has kicked in, though, to be honest, I don’t really give a shit if this place is a secret meeting spot for serial killers. If it’s dry, I can deal with just about anything.
Pete jimmies the lock and when the door swings open, I could kiss him. I don’t obviously, but if I would have, I’d blame the ecstasy I feel at the prospect of waiting out the rest of the storm under a roof instead of out in the elements.
“What is this place?” I ask as we step inside. It’s musty and dim, but it almost looks like a little cottage—emphasis on the word little.
“We’re on state park land right now,” he tells me. This is a ranger’s cabin. It’s mainly used for when they’re doing observations or checking on wildlife. It works as a storm shelter, too,” Pete says, dropping his bag on the small, empty desk in the corner of the room before crossing over to a little mudroom and shedding his rain poncho and hiking boots on the linoleum floor.
I do the same, discarding my sopping wet poncho ontop of his and toeing off my sneakers. The space is so small that we’re practically on top of each other, so I turn quickly to move out of the way. Unfortunately, my drenched socks have other ideas. I can feel my feet moving rapidly, trying to gain purchase on the slick floor and losing their battle. I probably look like a cartoon character gearing up to dash out of the room, but I don’t make it that far. Instead, I’m about to land ass-first in a spectacular display of clumsiness.
But I don’t fall.
Before I topple into a soggy heap on the yellowed floor, strong hands reach out and catch me.
Pete’s scooped me up and before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’ve wrapped my arms around his body. For a moment, we’re frozen. I’m not sure either of us even takes a breath. We just stand here, clinging to one another. His clothes are just as wet as mine are, but none of that even registers in my brain. All my receptors are focused on how good his strong, solid body feels. On how capable those giant paws of his are. On how well our bodies fit together.
Pete clears his throat, breaking the spell and releasing me from his grip.
My brain starts urging me to retreat, so I scramble off him, but we’re both waterlogged from the storm, so my body just slides down his until I regain my balance and take a step back.
