The Unhoneymooners(37)

“You look like a cartoon,” he said.

“I mean, it’s super flattering on you, too,” I shoot back. But as far as comebacks go, it’s pretty limp given that Ethan actually does look pretty great in the camo paintball get-up. He has this sexy-soldier thing happening that I did not expect to be into, but apparently I am.

“Elmer Fudd,” he adds. “Hunting wabbits.”

“Would you shut up?”

“You’re like a pathetic Private Benjamin.”

“Private Benjamin is already pretty pathetic.”

Ethan is gleeful. “I know!”

Blessed be: our instructor, Bob, approaches. He is short but solid and paces in front of our group like a general readying his troops. One immediately gets the sense that Bob wanted to be a cop but it didn’t work out.

He tells us we’ll be playing a version called death match. It sounds both great and terrible: our group of about twenty is split up into two teams, and we essentially just run around shooting each other until everyone on one team is eliminated.

“Each player has five lives,” he says, eyeing each of us shrewdly as he passes. “Once you’re hit you’ll lock your weapon, attach the barrel cover, and return to camp.” He points to a small building wrapped in protective fencing; a scribbled sign reading BASE CAMP hangs overhead. “You’ll stay there until your wait time is up, then return to the game.”

Ethan leans in, his words warm against my ear. “No hard feelings when I take you out immediately, right?”

I look up at him. His hair is damp from the humidity, and he’s biting back a grin. He’s literally biting his lip, and for a breathy moment I want to reach out and tug it free.

But I’m mostly glad he doesn’t assume that we’re going to be working together today.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I say.

“There are some hard and fast rules,” Bob continues. “Safety first. If you think it’s dumb, don’t do it. Goggles on, always. Anytime your gun is not in use, you are to keep it locked and the barrel covered. That includes if you’ve been hit and are exiting the field.”

Someone claps just behind me and I look over my shoulder. A tall, heavyset bald man is nodding along with the instructor and practically vibrating with energy. He’s also shirtless, which seems . . . odd, and wearing a utility belt with canisters of extra paint and supplies. I share a quizzical look with Ethan.

“You’ve played before?” Ethan surmises.

“As often as I can,” the man says. “Clancy.” He reaches out, shaking Ethan’s hand.

“Ethan.” He points to me, and I wave. “Her name’s Skittle.”

“Actually,” I say, glaring up at him, “it’s—”

“You must be pretty good then,” Ethan says to Clancy.

Clancy folds hairy arms across his chest. “I’ve hit prestige in Call of Duty about twelve times, so I’ll let you be the judge.”

I can’t resist. “If you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t you wearing a shirt? Won’t it hurt to be hit?”

“The pain is part of the experience,” Clancy explains. Ethan nods like this makes a hell of a lot of sense, but I know him well enough by now to see the amusement in his eyes.

“Any tips for newbies?” I ask.

Clancy is clearly delighted to have been asked. “Use the trees—they’re better than flat surfaces because you can move around them, real slinky. For lookout, always bend at the waist.” He illustrates for us, popping up and down a few times. “Keeps the rest of your body protected. Don’t, and you’ll know what it feels like to take a power ball to your biscuits at two hundred and seventy feet per second.” He blinks over to me. “No offense, Skittle.”

I wave him off. “No one likes being hit in the biscuits.”

He nods, continuing. “Most important, never, ever go prone. Hit the ground, and you’re a dead man.”

People around us clap as Bob finishes and begins to divide us up into two teams. Ethan and I deflate a little when we both end up on Team Thunder. This means, sadly, I will not be hunting him through the forest. His dismay deepens when he sees the opposing team: a small handful of adults and a group of seven fourteen-year-old boys here for a birthday party.

“Hold up,” Ethan says, motioning in their direction. “We can’t shoot at a bunch of kids.”

One with braces and a backward cap steps forward. “Who’re you calling a kid? You scared, Grandpa?”

Ethan grins easily. “If your mom drove you here, you’re a kid.”

His friends snicker in the background, egging him on. “Actually, your mom drove me here. Took my dick in the back seat.”

At this, Ethan lets out a bursting laugh. “Yeah, that sounds exactly like something Barb Thomas would do.” He turns away.

“Look at him hiding like a little bitch,” the kid says.

Bob steps in and levels a glare at the teen. “Watch your mouth.” He turns to Ethan. “Save it for the field.”

“I think Bob just gave me permission to take out that little asshole,” Ethan says in wonder, lowering his goggles.

“Ethan, he’s scrawny.”

“Means I won’t waste much ammo on him.”