When We Kiss

“That was intense,” I whisper.

Chad doesn’t respond. Sure enough, Glimmer is behind a stack of stumps scowling at me. I bet every one of those near misses was her trying to hit me as I ran.

Chad turns to the side, pressing his back into the bag. “If you get hit, you’re out.”

“Anywhere? Or somewhere where it would be a real kill?”

“Anywhere. I’m going to run to the next bunker. Stay here and shoot anyone who tries to hit me. I turned your safety off.”

“No!” I whisper-shriek, my heart flying in my chest.

I’m really panicked.

It’s ridiculous!

He’s takes off, running low to the closest stack of stumps. I see Glimmer lifting her gun to shoot at him, and I scream as I pull the trigger, holding the tip of my gun slightly higher than her head and unleashing a flurry of little round pellets.

To my surprise, it leaves a line of yellow paint in an arc on the stump where she’s hiding. She pulls back fast, and Chad is safely at the next bunker. I’m guessing bunkers are these barriers placed around the field for us to hide behind.

I have no idea why, but I’m breathing so hard, you’d think we were in a real war with real bullets. My entire body is vibrating, and I peek out to see Chad give me a thumbs up and a grin.

I’m so proud, I want to do a dance. I did it—I covered him! Instead, I lower my brow, very serious, and give him a sharp nod in response. Like I do this all the time.

I have no idea what to do now, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving this spot. Looking around the edge, my eye is on Glimmer. I want to take her out more than anything, and I can hear myself panting.

A guy from the other team darts out from behind a tree, and Chad pelts him at least fifteen times with blue paint. The guy drops to one knee and puts his hands above his head. I figure it’s the signal he’s out because everyone ignores him as he leaves the field.

Blue paint is concentrated in a palm-sized circle in the center of his chest, and I realize Chad is a great shot. I only have a second to think it because Glimmer is on the move—headed straight at me with a determined look on her face. She raises her gun, and I’m looking right down the barrel.

With a scream, I drop to my knees, lifting my gun and holding the trigger. My eyes are closed, but I can feel the multiple shots as the pellets fire from my gun. It smells like smoke and chemicals and oil, and slippery goo on my hands.

Then I hear her growl, “Dammit! You can stop now.”

I lower my rifle, and when I look again, I see red paint all around me, but only splashes on my arms and legs. No direct hits. Glimmer, by contrast is covered in a line of yellow from her crotch up her chest almost to her face.

Biting my lip, I fight back my laughter. It doesn’t stop my snort, though. She looks like a wild person got after her with a paint gun, which I suppose is what happens when you shoot with your eyes closed.

She stomps past me, hitting me with her shoulder, leaving a smear of yellow on my sleeve. I shake my head as I watch her go. These people are nuts, and very serious about this game.

“Cover!” Chad’s low shout snaps me out of my wonder, and I look up in time to see another big guy running toward where I’m standing. I do a quick dive, sliding around the bag with my back still pressed against it.

Another flurry of paint, and the guy is coated in blue. Chad got him, but I hear him mutter, “Shit.”

Looking down, I see my leg has a purple dot on the thigh. Damn. I didn’t even feel it, but I’m out. He got me. I do the motion with my hands over my head and walk slowly off the field, squishing in paint and feeling like a failure.

It takes almost an hour for Chad to ultimately win the game. I’m not surprised since he’s a cop and all, but the last guy he’s trying to get looks like Rambo. It’s quiet for long stretches, then they duck and dash from bunker to bunker almost hitting each other.

I let out a little yip when Chad is nearly hit with orange paint, but he manages to dodge it. He’s really amazing to watch. He’s so big and muscular, yet sleek and stealthy as he moves around the field. I’m surprised by how much I love watching him work.

When I returned my gear, the guy gave me a plastic bag for Chad’s enormous sweatshirt, which was covered in paint. I’m in my purple-stained capris and sleeveless black top, and paint is spattered all over me. I wish I had my red lipstick, especially when I see Glimmer a few cars down watching the guys with as much interest as me.

Finally, Rambo takes a turn and his foot goes out from under him. He slipped on paint, and Chad shoots him in the shoulder. He goes over and helps the guy up, and they’re laughing and talking like old friends as they leave the field.

“Good game.” Chad claps his shoulder, stopping at the booth to return the paint gun.

“You have to come back for a rematch,” the guy says, and Chad shrugs.

“I’ll have to see what the schedule looks like.”