9 Fairy tales

Date = 31 October

Place = San Francisco (paintball place)

POV - Melaena

A loud noise judders me to close my ears with my hands. It’s the siren signaling a win. Somebody grabbed a flag. I quickly look over, and then a big smile spreads across my face. Luke is jumping up and down, wildly waving the green flag through the air. I remove my hands slowly, letting them fall down my sides.

We won!

Jackson stops shooting his brother and Ilkay jumps up from his hiding place and slowly walks over to us with Enrique in tow.

“Congratulations.” He intentionally hits Damion on his back, knowing it must hurt like shit. Then he sees the paint marks covering my front and his eyes turn dark. A cameraman is standing close by, recording our win. It must be the one lucky dude Kiara was talking about.

“Who the bloody hell shot you like that?” Enrique seems angry and it’s ironic because just a few moments ago he was the one shooting at me.

“Chloe went all out killer crazy … emptied her gun on her,” Kiara explains, walking over to us with a smile. Then she looks at Damion and wrinkles her nose “… but Damion protected her viciously, taking a shitload of hits.” I look at the back of his overall, the black fully encased in green.

Shitload is stating it mildly.

I got hit 2 times, on my left boob, two on the ribs, and one on the arm, and I can honestly say it stings. I don’t even want to think how he feels.

Enrique’s brow lifts and he looks at the man standing next to me.

“Thanks, bro.” Damion looks uncomfortable but he doesn’t say a word. Luke comes in running and Damion grabs him and throws him into the air.

“We WON! We WON!” the little guy shouts while laughing.

“Yeah, you were great, dude,” he says. The warmth in his voice not going unnoticed by me. He’s a wonderful brother, that much I can confirm.

Enrique puts his arm around my shoulder and whispers “Bitch! Nobody can hurt my sister.” I just shake my head and smile at the contradiction of his words. Wasn’t he doing the same just a few minutes ago?

“Or?” I wait and when he only frowns I elaborate: “Those kinds of threads usually have an ‘or’ attached to them.” He blinks slowly.

“Ug, you’re useless.” I push him away and lift my gun. Before he can blink a third time, I shoot that sexy ass of his. He jumps around swearing, trying to dodge my fury. Three killer shots color the backside of his green slop.

Damion hoots: “Serves you right, asshole. You messed up my body for fun.”

Enrique glares at me, his multi-colored gaze cold as if he’s bent on revenge. But it dissipates and he puts his arm around my shoulder again, pulling me with him to the parking.

We join the other players, a mix of green and black overalls — most of them shattered with blobs of paint and already dispensed from their helmets — standing around in the parking area in front of the reception lodge. I drag my brother to where Kiara is leaning against Damion’s red Ford pickup. Damion join us.

Ren is having, what seems like, a serious conversation with Chloe at the side of the reception. Her green overall is now zipped down at the front, giving him a perfect view of her exposed cleavage, covered in what looks like a red lacy bra, his eyes taking full advantage of the show. The girl sure has some big boobs — at least double-Ds.

Funny, I don’t even feel a pint of jealousy, not in the slightest. Ren looks up to find me staring and smiles faintly.

Chloe suddenly rushes towards us with the velocity of a freight train, heading straight towards Damion. His six-foot-one, 185-pound body stiffens as she collides with him, digging her claws into his bruised back. He lets out a silent growl, his face contracting in pain. Enrique grabs her hips and pulls her back.

Almost immediately Damion shrugs loose and steps away from her.

“Let go!” he sneers and moves behind me as if I’m his cover. Coward. She opens her mouth, probably to complain, but a joyous voice interrupts her.

“Undefeated legends, not one shot,” Ilkay willows smugly as he and Axel walk proudly over to us while holding their guns like army rangers. Jackson appears silently behind them and, without hesitation, shoots both on their backs.

“Fuck.” Ilkay swears as they jump around simultaneously to see the bastard’s self-satisfied face. I have crackbrained brothers.

“And now you’re not!” Enrique smirks next to me, an egotistical expression displayed on his profile as if he’s lavishly enjoying their pain. Logan takes revenge and shoots Jackson from the side. Flip, I haven’t even seen him coming. Neither has Jackson.

“Asshole,” Jackson shouts.

Ilkay also fires at Jackson, hitting him solidly on his chest. Enrique busts a gut at his twin’s misfortune, so Jackson shoots Enrique. Axel shoots Logan who shoots Ilkay. Enrique shoots rapidly moving his gun from one to the other.

Sean, Damion’s teammate, walks over with Ren, and upon seeing his clean overall, the boys all gun him down. He turns his body, protecting his face and crotch, and takes most of the hits on his side. Ren dives behind a car. Damion pushes Luke inside his truck.

Then a shooting frenzy starts where anyone in sight is a target, and without thinking, I jump between Damion and his truck, not eager to receive another painful shot. Luckily it seems that it’s a dick fight, Kiara and I are not targeted, thank lord.

A whole maleficent war starts — without protective gear might I add — everyone shooting at anyone in sight. As soon as the fools run out of ammunition, they start laughing, matching up wounds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I swear males compare anything from dicks to toenails,” I hiss at Kiara next to me.

“I bet tomorrow they’re going to regret their stupidity,” she sneers. Yep, I’m sure they will.

I notice the reporter’s sly smile — he must have some excellent footage already and the night is still young. The boys may be foolish, but they’re never boring.

A pretty young worker comes around, handing out packs of antiseptic wipes, and immediately lights up at the sight of boys. She smacks on a lusty smile.

“Hey, hotness! You need me to doctor your boo-boos?” she asks Damion, eating him up with her eyes. I roll mine. Kiara snorts.

“Nah, I’ve got someone to do that.” He grabs a pack of wipes from the tray and stuffs it into my hand. “Since it’s your fault my back looks like a watercolor painting gone wrong.”

I guess I owe him.

He pulls down his overalls and ties the sleeves around his middle, exposing his bruised and battered back. It looks bad. Much worse than I thought.

He leans onto the bonnet of his truck. With sympathy, I start at the top of his left shoulder and work my way down from there. His eyes and mouth are tense and his muscles flexed — despite his attempt to look chilled. He winches when I dab on a bloody wound where his skin tore.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” Liar. Scared of denting that obstinate male ego. But I’m well used to how stupidly headstrong Alpha males can be. I figure it has something to do with carrying a penis about all the time.

I pat a little harder and he hisses out a pained breath. Clearly, he’s hurting big-time but too stubborn to acknowledge it.

My fingers softly sweep over his smooth skin and goosebumps appear everywhere I touch. Could he be a little confused too? Nah. I’m not his type.

I fumble the used wipes and stick them into my pocket. I’ll get rid of them later.

“I think you’re good.” I feel rather chuffed with my work. And I did it without wanting to kill him. Progress I would say.

“Did you give him a sticker for good behavior?” Logan asks suddenly next to me. Damion stands upright but ignores his friend.

“That’s nasty,” Jackson leans over my shoulder, peering closely at Damion’s back.

“Thanks, guys,” Damion says tightly. “Really.”

“Next time maybe don’t bring your PBS to the party. Big mistake.” Jackson has no pity.

“Thanks, I’ll remember that.” I’m still wondering what a PBS is. I’m about to ask when Chloe batters past both me and my brothers to get a hold of Damion.

“And here the Psycho Bitch Stalker is herself.” Okay, that clears up what PBS means.

Chloe ignores him or she’s just too dumb to realize he’s talking about her.

“Darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He pulls away and my inner bitch cheers joyfully. Jackson pushes her hardhandedly to one side.

“Yeah, you meant to hurt my sister, slut,” Jackson utters in a cool calm manner contradicting the look in his eyes. “And no one messes with my fucking family.” Chloe sucks in some wind and moves two steps back. I don’t blame her … Jackson can be seriously scary when he wants to be.

“Eh, it was an accident …” she whimpers, “The gun … eh … it got stuck …”

Yeah, right. And I’m the Easter Bunny with a crush on Anne Ramsey.

“Let’s go guys,” Dean Roile calls out right behind me and claps his hands. “Come, come, the party must go on. We’ll meet up at the Reaper Venue.”

He swipes a hand over his hairless head and plays with the thick gold chain around his neck. “You guys owe me big time.” He lowers his feminine voice. “The manager of this place was about to call the cops on you.” Dean is an agent. A very good agent. He handles all the boys in our group in need of his expertise. Damion was his first client, and then Enrique, Jackson, Logan, and Axel joined the club. He’s bold and muscled and extremely flamboyant in his choice of garments … from shoes to jewelry. And he’s the epitome of queer.

Damion whispers something in Kiara’s ear before he walks around to the other side of his truck. Luke is already sitting in the backseat.

“Hey, Mel,” Kiara calls me. She opens the passenger side door. Unexpectedly, she pushes me inside and slams the door. The vehicle speeds off before I can get my bearings straight.

“Put on your belt,” Luke says. Kiara is so going to die a painful death for pulling this stunt … or at the very least, she’s doing the dishes for a week.

Damion slides on a pair of Dior sunglasses, looking cool, collected, and slightly poised.

Me? I’m a hot mess, feeling so out of my league here. He’s still bare-chested … his face is turned to the front — concentration fixed on the road.

He has a beautiful profile and my fingers itch to trace that square jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and the sudden thought of running my tongue over his stubble tempts my mind. I’d like to feel how rough it is against my lips.

“So how long have you and that Ren douche been together?” I jolt as he suddenly interrupts my erotic rumination and a warm blush covers my cheeks. Did he notice the drool?

“Almost two months,” I manage breathlessly. “But we’re not together like in together-together.” Was I just thinking about licking his face? What am I … a dog?

What is it about this man that drives my hormones through the roof? Something only he seems to be able to do.

“I don’t like him,” Luke comments.

“Nobody likes him,” Damion agrees. I stare down at my hands, wondering why everyone dislikes the guy. Ren might not be the man for me, but he’s not a bad guy. Yeah, he has bad taste in friends, but so has Logan for instance.

“That guy is all wrong for you, you know.” He keeps his eyes on the road.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you’re an expert on how I should live my life … just let me get my notebook so I can take notes.” My voice is cold and I hope he can hear the hate laced in it. The arrogance of this man is astronomical.

“Well, he’s cheating on you for one … maybe put that in your notebook.” Unlike me, he appears unhindered, although, like all the other stupid males in my circle, he is a master at hiding his feelings, so it is hard to tell. Sitting there quiet and composed, expression impassive, he looks at the road with that laidback-in-control air he has.

Yearning flows through me, yearning for a man. This man. I feel silly for staring, but I’m trying to figure out why HIM.

Yeah, he’s good-looking, very very good-looking, but so are Axel and Ren for that matter … and that trainer, Alejandro … that man is smoking frickin hot. Yet, my brain gland is frozen around all of them, not even the tiniest of sparks ignite. Zilch. It’s like being stuck in a brain-freeze.

“There’s no sparks between you,” he adds as if he can scan my brain. Then he chuckles softly, all without taking his eyes off the road. “I can read you like a magazine, angel.”

I drastically think about how I can change the topic. I don’t want to talk about Ren. And I actually don’t care if he’s cheating on me. Yeah, it will dent my ego a little, but it won’t hurt me. I’m just building up the courage to dump him, and then he will be in the past.

I look back, maybe Luke can help me out, but the little guy fell asleep on the seat.

“Why did you protect me from Chloe?” I ask the first thing that jumps into my head.

“Instinct,” he says without looking at me. “Or I could be afraid of having Jackson on my case.” He takes a deep breath, “Maybe I didn’t want you to get hurt.” His voice dips to a husky simmer. “Make your pick.” It is a hell of a multiple-choice.

The raspy croak in his voice pulls me to look at him and for a brief moment, it’s as if his usual calm is shattered. I notice his hands clinging tightly to the steering wheel.

Not knowing what to say to that I go with …. “Doesn’t matter … it was sweet.”

And then I add “Thank you,” as an afterthought. I’m the one in the family who has some manners.

“You think I’m sweet?” He tilts his chin down to look at me over his glasses.

I meet his eyes and lose myself in there for a beat.

“I think you can be.” I’ve seen his sweet side over the years. “You’re just not sweet to me.” My brain-to-mouth filter fails, because my stupid brain is filling up on hormones again.

“Why is that you think?” His voice is now gruff. We’re heading onto a dangerous topic.

“I can’t say,” I try to keep my voice high and chirpy. “I don’t know you that well.”

“Oh,” he sounds glum.

“However, I picked up a few things over the years. I know you’re pretty good at sport and very active … you’re a risk taker, even when you race … and a serious adrenaline junkie. You’re part of the famous San Francisco Boys; your favorite color is black; your perfume is Homme Sport by Dior; you hate Brussels sprouts but love takeout from DQ; you’re way into martial arts and shit; your shoe size is 11; you’re the outdoorsy type and likes camping; you’re a dog person; you have an almost perfect GPA; you only date brunettes; you don’t do relationships; you’re terrible at bowling and even worse at croquet; you wear only CK underwear; and you sleep in the nude. But I don’t actually know you.”

“And here I thought I was a pretty decent bowler,” he sneers.

“Nope, you officially suck. Even more than Kiara.”

“Duly noted, angel.” It’s the first time in forever that we are actually talking to each other like normal people. And why does ‘angel’ sound so much better than ‘babe’?

I run my gaze over his very masculine features, then drop traitorously to linger over his very fine body wearing nothing but that low-riding pushed-down coverall, and my mouth dries up while other parts dampen.

“Are you seriously checking me out right now?” I jolt back.

“Yes. NO! Flip.” How did he see … his eyes never left the road.

He laughs, the sound washing over me makes something low in my belly quiver. I must be hungry.

“I’m starving. You?”

“Yes, but not for food.” And the quiver shudders. Holy hats, this man knows how to increase the heat.

He pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, disheveling his hair. Now he turns his head to look at me and I feel a most annoying heat rising from right between my legs, moving up to my brain, melting everything in its path until I feel as if I might combust. His state of undress doesn’t help.

But I’ve been burned by him before, badly. I’m not going back there. Granted, I was a silly teen then with a bad crush. A lonely kid looking to love and be loved. Mom died. Dad went AWOL. Kiara doesn’t do love. Uncle John, bless his soul, is not the affectionate type. And my brothers are tough. Not that they don’t love me, because I know they do … they just have a difficult time showing it, as if they were shattered from within.

Actually, the whole zoo thing might have been a godsend. After I’ve wiped away the last tear, I picked up my trampled heart, and taught myself to handle my own problems. I threw my soul into my art and sports and slowly found myself.

Now I’m a nineteen-year-old woman who knows not to play with fire. I’m tough. I’m strong. And I’m filled up with confidence. No one is going to control me. If I do something, it’s because I want to, not because I’m forced to.

“You said we needed to talk.” He turns his head back to the front and I’m sure he just went rigid, as if someone stuck a stick up his ass. But maybe that’s just my imagination

“Now is not the time.” Or not. His voice is stiff and strained too.

“Why?” I look down at my hands. A fleck of hope rooted itself in my heart. Should I rip it out?

“I don’t want to talk while I drive.” Sensible answer. Okay, not uprooting it right away.

“Not a great multitasker?” I tease, trying to get rid of the sudden tension in the cab. He immediately relaxes and laughs.

“Oh, I’m a great multitasker. Like right now my body is handling at least 5 things at once,” he says, tension gone, like intended.

“Five? Impossible. Men are only capable of 2 at most … with one being breathing.” His chuckle hums through my chest cavity and crawls into my heart. That’s not good.

“Well, I can safely say that I’m driving, while I’m talking …”

“That’s two,” I count.

“I’m breathing, feeling pain, and …” Four. His eyes turn to lock on mine, “I’m hammer hard.” My mouth drops open, my eyes pop and now I’ve stopped breathing.

Then I slowly and very discretely try to look there … at it.

And ‘it’ wiggles. And puffs up, pressing hard against the black fabric covering it.

Like a match on dry timber, I ignite.

“Fuck.” It slips out — my filter is broken again. He swears softly and groans.

“You know staring at it is not making things easier for me.” My head jolts to his face and then to the front.

“Sorry.” I’m blushing, flustered and hot. “It’s just … I’ve never … eh … seen …” Shit. I close my mouth. He lets out a low grunt.

“Sorry, I tend to fill awkwardness with blabbering.” I take a deep breath. I’m not going to explain. I push out my chin.

“You know what,” I hiss, “You and your dick can go to hell.” This heat I’m feeling must be anger. I’m glowing with rage. And I’m sure my one eye is twitching.

“Oh, baby, hell’s my second home.” He’s not even shaken, and here I am getting as mad as a leprechaun.

“I hate you!” There’s a deafening silence for a moment … or two.

“You realize that love and hate are deeply connected.” He gives a large proud grin as if he just figured out the undisclosed meaning of the universe.

“So maybe you’re actually in love with me.” He’s watching me from under those long, thick, inky lashes. I have no idea what the look in those green eyes means, but he’s looking at me as if he can see all the way inside, past everything, to where my real thoughts and feelings are.

It’s discommoding. Horrifying. Enticing.

“Gmf! Sorry to burst your bubble, but devils don’t love.” I realize I, in fact, just said that he doesn’t do love … not that I don’t love him.

“So you don’t like me then?” He asks softly as if he’s disappointed. Oh, for chrissake. I should get over myself, but instead, my heart rate hops into a slow simmer, which makes no sense. None at all.

“Well, I’ve been there, done that, remember, even got the butchered heart to prove it,” I stab. “You’re not the knight in shining armor I thought you were.” I know he’ll get the meaning behind my words. The knot in my tummy subsides. It feels good to let it out. To make him see what he did.

“Oh, love,” he says trying to hide the tension in his voice, “I’m no knight on a white horse.” He can say that again. “I’m more of a demon in jeans on a black bike. And instead of saving you, I’ll pin you down and have my evil ways with you.” I gulp, lock my legs, and lick my lips — nipples hard.

He smirks as if he knows what my body is trying to say, but my brain is still figuring out.

“So, you want a fairy tale, right?”

“Not so much, I just want something real.”