“Get serious. There’s no wind. Take the shot.”
“Five feet,” Wing counted. “Four.”
Ford lifted his weapon and aimed, placed his finger on the trigger.
“Three feet.”
“Take the shot. Damn it, Ford, I’m not knitting,” Mad insisted. “Take the fucking shot!”
He raised his head, lowered his weapon, and looked at Mad. “I’ve got bad news for you. I’m not shooting the pregnant girl.”
“Woman,” Wing corrected, “and come on. It’s like a rubber band snap. A bee sting.” He shoved his fists into his hair and spun in a circle. “It’s practically nothing— Ouch! Ouch!” Wing turned away and protected his junk. “Cut it out, fucker.”
Ford fired off one final paintball at Wing’s ass, then lowered his weapon and watched Team XX win the bet. Lilah grabbed the flag, lifted it high, and waved it triumphantly. Her cheeks glowed. Her smile dazzled, even from a distance. He tried not to notice what the cutoffs did for her slender legs or the tank top did for her…
“Fuck me.” Beside him, Mad lowered his head and groaned into the ground.
“Not in a million years.”
“Are you kidding? You just did. Completely.”