Dark Sexy Knight (A Modern Fairytale)(21)
She turned to look at him. “I’m not looking for anything.”
“Fair enough.” Artie’s eyes darted meaningfully to her hand, then back to her face. “But you two obviously aren’t . . . together.”
Verity raised her chin, cocking her head to the side. “So what?”
“So I like a challenge,” said Artie, running the tip of his index finger down her bare arm with a cocky grin. “Game on.”
CHAPTER 6
Titanium clashed against titanium, Colt’s sword creating sparks every time it collided with Artie’s. Artie had already defeated him in jousting—Colt had fallen to the sand on the second joust—and Jerry Rodgers, who played the King, had ordered the French Knight (Artie, in chain mail and traditional knight helmet) to best the Viking Knight (Colt, in a faux fur stole and horned helmet) on foot.
At first Artie picked up a mace, slamming it against Colt’s sword until Colt managed to wield it away (which really consisted of Artie throwing it behind him at an opportune time), but his squire had quickly stepped forward with the titanium sword, and the battle scene was now at its peak, with Artie and Colt doing their choreographed moves on the sand:
Artie lunges.
Colt jumps back.
Artie does a tuck and roll.
Colt spins, kicking up sand.
On and on, like a dance. Moves that the two men had perfected in rehearsals and performances for years. At eight out of eleven performances, Artie won. At the Thursday and Friday matinees, the Gaelic Knight, Shawn, won. And once a week—at the Sunday matinee—Colt won.
He had caught a glimpse of Verity and Ryan in the half-full stands. They sat in the top row, away from the patrons who sat in the first two rows, and he couldn’t help turning his eyes to her at every free moment. She clapped and shouted, smiled and laughed, stared with wonder when Ginger made her flight around the arena, and cheered when it looked like Colt had a chance of winning.
Alas, tonight was Monday.
“Quit hitting me so hard,” griped Artie when they were in a sword lock, face-to-face.
“Stop being a *,” said Colt, pushing the other man away with a touch too much force.
It was silly, he knew, but he wished he could win tonight. He wished he could pretend to throw the red rose crown to a woman in the second row, but have it somehow end up high in the fourth, where Verity could grab it and place it on her blonde head, and bring it home tonight as a trophy from his victory.
Clash.
Clang.
Sparks!
“I said f*cking quit it, Colt!”
“How’s your vagina?” he asked, putting Artie into an improvised headlock before shoving him down hard on the sand.
“Asshole!”
Artie leaped up, his eyes narrowed, coming at Colt with strike after strike that wasn’t in the choreography, but Colt felt his blood alight with excitement as he struck back.
Spark! Spark! Spark!
The crowd was wilder than usual—sensing the intensity between the knights, perhaps—on their feet as Artie kept coming.
Colt knew what was supposed to happen next. He was supposed to let Artie knock the sword out of his hand, fall back on the sand, and let Artie pretend to stab him in the heart. For just a moment, he considered fighting back, rolling on the sand and grabbing his sword so they could keep fighting. He looked up at Verity, at her bright eyes and wide smile, her small fists in the air as she cheered him on, and damn it, he wished that he could do it, but another woman’s face slipped into his mind at the last minute, and Colt let Artie smack the sword out of his hand.
He fell to his knees as planned because, no matter how much Verity needed him, the other woman needed him more.
The crowd hushed as Artie drew back his sword, then the blue section cheered wildly as he lunged forward and “stabbed” Colt in the heart.
Colt fell back, dead on the sand as the arena erupted in chants of “French Knight! French Knight!”
Artie stood in the center with his sword held high in victory and a spotlight on his chest while the rest of the arena went pitch-dark. Colt sprang up in the blackness and trudged through the sand to the side door, slipping into a back hallway as the King offered the French Knight the protection and keeping of the Princess.
But the words “And now our Knight must honor a lady of the court!” made Colt turn and speed through the hallways to the equestrian entrance to the arena, where he stood against the wall in the tunnel where they staged the horses, and peeked around the corner just as the Princess placed the red rose crown on Artie’s lance.
With narrowed eyes, Colt watched as Artie kicked éclair into a canter. He circled the arena once, then twice, passing by the blue area, where he was supposed to choose a lady, and stopping in Colt’s area: yellow. Scowling mightily, Colt held his breath as Artie waved to a woman in the second row, then threw the crown to Verity in the rafters. Crossing his arms over his chest, Colt sneered as she caught the crown and did a small curtsy, placing it on her head and beaming down at Artie.
Fuck.
Artie stole his move.
Fuck Artie Kingston anyway.
Without waiting to see the tail end of the show, when the five remaining knights paraded around the arena behind Artie, Colt turned and headed back down the hallway to the Knights’ dressing room, where he slammed the door behind him. Stripping off his cape and costume, he hung it up in his locker and placed the helmet in the overhead cubby. He unzipped his boots and placed them on the floor. Someone would be by tomorrow morning to shine the boots and dust off the costume.