Chapter Thirty-One – Fawn
“Dylan! If you play Shakira one more time, I swear—” I shout over the music playing in the car.
“You swear what, princess?” Dylan chuckles. “Ooo, I like it when you get feisty. More, please.”
“Oh yeah? I bet you would love for me to get extra feisty. That way, you could use the excuse to tie me up. I bet that’s your thing.”
“Preferably with skate laces, yeah.”
That’s hot; like fucking hot. It shoots arousal straight to my core. Wild thoughts start playing in my mind as I squeeze my thighs together and shake my head.
Dylan notices my reaction. “You said it, not me.”
“Yeah, well,” I stutter. “As I said, enough Shakira.” I try to change the subject.
“But—” he protests, hand on his chest like he’s genuinely offended. “This isn’t just Shakira. It’s also Rihanna . . .” He can’t help but nod his head wildly in time with the music.
The car roars down the country road, its windows rolled down, a warm breeze rushing inside, sunlight catching fields with perfect aim, bathing everything in a burnished gold.
I shoot him a playful warning look. He throws one hand off the wheel in surrender but doesn’t look away from the road.
“Okay, okay . . . you win, princess.” He turns off the music and pokes at the radio until a cheesy love song starts playing. “Happy?”
He looks at me sideways. The grin arrives a second later. “So, what kind of music do you like then?”
“I enjoy a little of everything, really. I can go from old seventies classics to dubstep.”
“You? Miss Soft-Voice, Flower-Dress? You listen to dubstep?”
“Yes . . .”
“What are you, a secret raver?” he teases, quickly glancing at me.
“Excuse me, Mr. Shakira. You don’t peg me as the type of guy to like her music,” I fire back.
Dylan gasps, as if I’ve insulted his ancestors. “Excuse me. Shakira is an icon. Second of all . . .” He lets his voice drop into exaggerated seriousness. “Her hips don’t lie. That is a gift from God.”
I can’t help it — I burst out laughing. “Oh my God, stop.”
He nudges me with his arm. “But of course, her hips aren’t as good as yours, princess . . . especially when they’re grinding down on my cock. But you’re right.” He taps the steering wheel lightly. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.”
“That’s true.” I turn to him, noticing how the wind plays with his hair and how calm he looks in this lighting. “You interrogated me with a million questions the other night. I want to hear about you.”
His eyebrow arches slowly. “Oh? Fawn wants to interview me and not the captain of the ice rink?”
“Yes.” I point a finger at him. “I think it’s only fair, considering we’re dating.”
His face lights up when I mention that last part. “You’ve got yourself a deal, pretty lady. Right . . .” he says with a smile that’s a little too smug for a man who nearly had a heart attack when I mentioned dubstep. “So, music. I think we need a song.”
“A song?”
“Yeah. Our song. You know? A song that makes us think about each other whenever we hear it.”
I blink, trying to read his face.
When I first met him, he seemed like just another guy who would flirt with anything that moved, who would likely have no romantic bone in his body. But then he says something like this, it melts my heart.
“Hmmm,” I whisper, tapping my knee with my fingers, trying to look as if I am thinking. Turning the music up a little more as Maroon 5’s ‘She Will Be Loved’ plays through the speakers. The soft strumming of that guitar. The warm, woeful vocals.
Dylan snorts lightly. “Well, isn’t this just fitting?”
I laugh under my breath. “You think this could be our song?”
As if he had already made up his mind before I asked, he nods slowly, and, without any flourish, he reaches out and lays his hand on my thigh. I breathe a little harder.
“It’s a good song, Dylan,” I whisper, letting the lyrics wash over me as I watch the sunlight dance across his knuckles, his thumb grazing my skin.
A part of me wants to tell him to pull over so I can kiss him until everything outside this car stops.
But I know us. If we start . . . we won’t stop.
Not now. Not while we’re supposed to be going out on our date and meeting Torin. Not while my emotions are already cartwheeling out of control with a mere song and the touch of Dylan’s hand on my thigh. I fix my eyes on the window and make myself breathe.
At least I freshened up back in the locker room before leaving — thank God for the feminine wipes I keep stashed in the bottom of my bag. If they keep fucking me the way they do, I’m going to be a walking UTI.
The road gets bumpier as we turn a corner, and out the window, I glimpse a wooden sign flashing briefly through the trees. I can’t make out the words, but I recognize the accompanying picture of an axe.
“Well,” I say, “that’s not ominous or anything.”
All Dylan can do is smirk.
The tires crunch as we pull into the parking lot, and I notice Torin immediately.
He’s standing against his truck, cigarette dangling from his fingers as a ring of smoke curls into the air.
The effect is wildly attractive: black shirt molded to his chest, sun dancing off the corner of his jaw, and that dark intensity he exudes with such effortlessness.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering how two men as opposite as Dylan and Torin balance each other. Chaos and calm. Day and night. Yin and yang.
My yin and yang.
Before Dylan turns off the engine, Torin is in motion — flicking his cigarette, he opens the passenger door like a gentleman. It’s the little things that mean a thousand times more to me than anything showy ever could.
The moment I plant my feet on the ground, he pulls me into a kiss. “Hey, beautiful,” he whispers against my lips.
“Hey, handsome.”
The air shifts in an instant when Torin looks over my shoulder and then back at me.
“Whoa!” Torin exclaims, shock and a hint of amusement in his widened eyes. “You two fucked before coming here.”
How does he know that?
Do I have a glowing aura? A neon sign above my head? Am I sweating guilt? Do he and Delilah have the same senses?
I turn my attention away from Torin and turn my face to Dylan, who’s sporting the biggest, smuggest grin. Torin gestures to him. “As soon as that dipshit got out of the car with that smirk, I fucking knew it.”
My mouth gapes open in shock, but no words emerge.
Dylan shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Yup, and the best part? In the locker room.”
Torin’s eyebrows shoot up so quickly, they’re practically taking off. He looks clearly impressed, perhaps a little proud. “Well damn,” he remarks, whistling low. “That’s fucking hot. I want you in the locker room next time . . .”
My face finds my hands and stays there while they bask in what I can only assume is absolute triumph.
Dylan slides up to me and puts a hand against my lower back. “Come on,” he coaxes, nudging me forward with his shoulder. “Let’s get this date started.”
“So what are we doing?” I ask, looking at both of them in turn.
“Axe throwing,” Dylan continues proudly, opening the large wooden door. “Ever tried it, princess?”
My eyes go wide. Hmm . . . that actually fires me up a little. “Oh wow. Nope. I’ve never done anything like that.”
“It’s better than a boring movie night.” Torin takes my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Besides, it’s a great place to work off some anger,” he concludes with a mischievous glint in his eye.
I snort. “You? Angry? Never.”
He bites back a grin.
The smell or cedar greets me at the door, evergreen whispering underneath.
The exterior carries inside — the wood slats and log walls, the soft lighting draped across the ceiling.
Country music emanates from speakers tucked out of the way but high enough to be heard clearly, loud enough to be charmingly energetic.
Targets run along the edges of the room: large wooden discs marked with paint circles, some of which already bear the marks of target throwers before us.
There is a long table where people are signing waivers, and against it stands a shelving unit full of axes, ranging from tiny and well-balanced to huge, as if designed for a Norseman.
Taking it all in, I say, “This place is amazing.”
“Yup,” Dylan says. “Thought it’d be fun. Something different. And maybe . . . a little badass?”
“It is,” I admit, still in awe.
Torin’s hand tightens in mine. “You’re gonna look super cute tossing an axe.”
The warmth reaches my cheeks before his grip has even loosened. Slapping his hands, Dylan says, “Okay, let’s sign the waiver so we can’t sue them if one of you gets dramatic and drops an axe on your own foot.”
“Likely you . . .” Torin scoffs.
We complete our waivers. Dylan scribbles a crown next to my name because he’s committed to the ‘princess’ theme and then heads out to one of the available throwing lanes.
The area is relatively basic: chain-link perimeter fencing on either side, a large circular target with thick red, blue, and black rings at the end of the alley. There is a box with a selection of axes in it, their handles well-worn from frequent use.
Dylan clenches a knuckle and proceeds to grab a hatchet, hanging on to it as if he’s been hired for a heroic lumberjack role in a film. “Okay, princess,” he says and hands me the smallest hatchet ever. “Ladies first.”
Torin puts his arms across his chest and leans against the wall, obviously ready to witness. “Try not to throw it backward,” he jokes.
I stick my tongue out at him. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”
Dylan gestures dramatically to the target. “Whenever you’re ready. Don’t hurt yourself now.”
Narrowing my eyes, I take a deep breath and enter the lane. The hatchet feels substantial — heavier than I expected, but not a problem to work with. I plant my feet like I’ve seen in videos, raise my arm, and strike back. My heart beats.
I let it fly.
The thunk echoes.
Dead center.
A perfect bullseye.