Butterflies in Honey (Growing Pains #3)(53)

For the second time that day, Krista got the tingling in the base of her spine. That was uncalled for and way across the line. The guys standing behind him snickered, jumping on the “she’s an object” train like they’d been waiting for someone to mention it. The two regions next to them heard and were looking over, some with shock and some with leery grins.

It was here that Krista knew she would win or lose. She would go down as one of two things: a female singled out for her tits and ass, or a woman who could hold her own.

She embodied Jasmine’s sure, dry humor when she said, “You would rather see it on your floor? Or have me discard it so you can try it on? Oh hey, you know what? I have some heels that match! You want to add those to your list of cross-dressing items?”

She was smiling and laughing, making fun of him. She couldn’t let them see how badly she was withering on the inside. He had hit too close to her insecurity in this male dominated setting. He was aiming for her weakness, and she couldn’t let him know—any of them know—he hit the mark.

“Wouldn’t fit,” Blake said as he got ready to throw.

“Oh!” Krista talked to the men behind Blake, suddenly not looking so sure. “You guys, Blake already knows his size in women’s lingerie!”

A couple of the guys snickered. One looked uncomfortable and the last lost interest. That was good news.

Blake threw the ball, no longer smiling. It went wide and nicked off the bulls eye. Krista stayed up on her seat as the target shook. “Well, now—“ and then she was falling.

“Damn it!” she laughed when she came up. “Almost got you!”

She wiped water from her eyes, and then sensing Blake was gearing up for redemption—and judging by his serious face, it wasn’t something she wanted voiced—she asked the general crowd, “Is my makeup running?”

As expected, all guys in earshot looked at her like they would their wives. Any committed man couldn’t help himself—any woman that wore makeup would ask that question at one time or other. Hilariously, they got all weirded out and kind of shuffled around, trying not to look at each other. Except for the couple of guys who were brow beat, or plain helpful, and actually told her where to wipe. Those few guys were made fun of immediately. Blake was left out entirely, losing most of his followers. He was obviously single, and therefore different and left out at that time.

The last group that came up was Utah.

“Utah?!” Krista said to everyone but the group in front of her. “Holy cow. Who’s watching your farms with all your wives?”

Then she accidentally belched really loud. She got surprised looks.

“And that was just water. Wait until I have a couple beers! This ain’t my first rodeo!”

There was surprisingly a lot of laughter on that one. Which made sense. It was why football commercials celebrated the farting male—guys thought gross bodily issues were funny. Krista couldn’t explain it, but she’d just capitalized on it.

The first two guys got her in the water. They were the only ones that did it out of the gate.

“Utah!” she yelled in glee. “Your wives must have the same underwear. You’ve seen it all before!”

Everyone laughed as she took the hard plastic seat again.

The next guy who came up was a giant, obese man. Way overweight. All the guys at the conference were a little–to-a lot overweight; their ages and status in life made that pretty common. This guy had a genetic problem, though. Krista could tell he thought she was going to pick on him for it. And most small-minded or unoriginal people would have. She got the impression, however, after looking at his shuffling feet and deflated stance, that he figured he was about to feel about two-feet tall. In other words, that she would make him feel exactly as she had been feeling the whole weekend, and especially throughout the dunk tank competition. It wasn’t hard to realize that it was below the belt.

“What’s up, Moustache?” She called instead. “Don’t you know that only child molesters wear moustaches? And before you say anything, I am over eighteen!”

The guy was obviously surprised when she said moustache. He started laughing and paused in his wind-up. It gave Krista more time to attack.

“Look at those whiskers, boys! He’s trying to be Wyatt Earp over here!”

He wound up, threw and missed.

“It was because of the size of your moustache. It knocked you off-kilter!”

A couple guys pointed and laughed at him, and he shook his head with a smile and stood off to the side with his fellow crew. She was laying it on thick, but he didn’t mind it in the least. It was probably a first for him, judging by his relieved body language.

Krista kept going with the cat calls until everyone had gone. Finally, she was able to get down and out of the stupid tank. She felt sticky and awful. She was in desperate need of a shower and a change.

L.A. Region was there to greet her.

Georgie gave her a towel and she gratefully wrapped it around her chest.

“How did you do?” she asked.

Sean was still looking at her with hard eyes. He wanted to lay into her, it was clear. Thankfully, unlike the others, Donald didn’t notice.

“You have missed hits on each of us once, except for George and Sean who didn’t miss any,” Donald relayed as if he was reading it off of a list in his head. “Overall, you were dunked 30% less than the others.”