Chapter 11
11
S adie couldn’t help the grin splitting her face in two anymore than she could stifle the laughter escaping her throat. The ecstatic crowd rose to its feet. Someone sprayed a shook-up can of beer in the air near enough to douse her hair with lager rain, but she didn’t care.
When Slinger tossed Grant to the ground as easily as if his body were made of paperclips, Sadie had nearly crumpled in her seat from guilt and fear. The plan had been to catch Grant in an angry meltdown, not get him hurt or even killed by a hulking maniac. But Grant had more tricks up his sleeve than she, or anyone else in the Down & Dirty Bar, had given him credit for, and David had slain his Goliath. Relief washed through her as Slinger limped, with the help of three men, out of the pit, and a mud-soaked Grant moved toward her.
He smiled and winked. “You sure know how to plan a date.” Only four or five feet away, his pink-flushed lips and deep blue eyes were pops of color against grey-washed skin. Those nicely muscled arms and legs weren’t painful to look at either. How could someone get more attractive covered in mud? She started to imagine what lay under his mud-soaked tee…
“I didn’t expect you to join in,” she said, “but you’re good at this.” He stood right in front of her now, his chest heaving from exertion and all of him giving off mingled scents of sweat, earth, and a cottony cologne.
The press of his nearness gave Sadie a heady feeling that surprised and alarmed her. She crossed her arms over her chest and made a conscious effort to swallow her smile. Despite his wrestling skills and how good he looked even coated in grime, he was still the man she was supposed to be putting in his place—and that place was not in her heart.
The crowd, apparently realizing that their hero had brought a date to the Down & Dirty, began chanting, “ Kiss her ! Kiss her ! Kiss her !”
Grant raised a questioning finger as he asked them all in a yell, “I’m a little muddy, don’t you think?”
“ Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her !”
Grant gave the crowd a nod and a double thumbs up before leaning toward her, apparently planning to do just that.
“A kiss,” he said sweetly, “for the cameras?” He held both hands towards her in a palms-up question.
She let out a small, annoyed breath, but leaned forward too. Ronny’s photographer had to be nearby, and she was, after all, still obligated to make the fake dates look real. “Okay, but only a peck, please. I’m wearing a white shirt.” He leaned ever closer, and her heart sped its rhythm. She momentarily rethought the kiss, then realized it was only adrenaline from the crowd’s attention. A quick peck wouldn’t hurt, and he had earned it, considering.
But as the crowd continued their demand for a kiss, Grant’s arms wrapped around her back. She screamed as she felt a distinct tug.
“Let’s find out just how much you mind a little dirt,” he rumbled into her ear as her feet said goodbye the floor and he pulled her toward the pit.
“Nooooo!” she yelled. She didn’t mind a little dirt, but a face full of Slinger-flavored goo was not her idea of a good time, let alone her idea of a “little dirt.” Just before gravity could gift her an unwanted mud facial, Grant let out a heaving grunt and flipped her whole body into his arms, wedding carry-style.
How strong was this guy?
As Sadie struggled to catch her breath, Grant turned them both in a slow circle for the crowd, which went obligingly bananas. But Sadie wasn’t in the mood to be his battle prize. Feeling like an upended crab, she flailed all her appendages at once. “Put me down!”
“What’s that you say?” he yelled, more to the crowd than to her. “You want me to put you down ?”
“ Put her down ! Put her down !” their audience chanted.
“Yes!” she said, but then she found herself being lowered toward the mud-filled floor. “Noooo!” she cried. “Outside the ring! Outside the ring!” Her small hands beating against his muscled shoulder felt like Fay Wray slapping at King Kong.
“Oh!” he yelled back, again for the benefit of the crowd, “you want me to put you down outside the ring?”
She nodded, hoping he was being serious, but wary of his showman’s tone. It struck her that Grant had been particularly fond of comedy improv in college, and especially physical comedy. He was creating this three-ring circus, and she was the center ring’s entertainment.
A chorus of “ Put her down ! Put her down ” still rang from the rafters as Grant yelled, “Outside it is, m’ lady!”
She smiled with relief, but it quickly turned to dread. She felt his upper body lean way back as he took an enormous, clownish forward stride with his right leg. The exaggerated step, combined with the lean and her weight, put him impossibly off balance. In the next millisecond, Sadie’s internal organs were floating as Grant’s remaining foot lost purchase and they both headed backward into the mud. Still gripped tightly in his arms, Sadie landed on his chest with a bounce.
Kersplat ! A wall of mud washed over her. It coated her T-shirt and mingled with the beer already saturating her hair. Grant’s grip loosened, and she scrambled up and off him.
He lay there pretending to be winded, or maybe his gasps were real. The fall had been significant, and her full weight had pancaked him too. Physical comedy indeed. And, sure enough, the crowd burst into hysterics.
Standing there knee deep and fully splattered in mud, Sadie didn’t care if he was hurt or not. He could lie there in the ooze for eternity. He was the one who was supposed to get his clothes muddy, not her! Maybe Slinger’s ankle had healed itself, and he was ready for round three…
She turned toward the edge of the ring, intending to climb out, but when she lifted her foot, the shoe she’d been wearing didn’t travel with it. Apparently, white fabric flats are not the ideal footwear for mud pits. Seeing her lose her shoe elicited a whole new round of laughter from the crowd. Increasingly annoyed now, she reached into the hole in the mud left behind, found her shoe, and yanked it out. It was filled with the stuff, and that gave her an idea. Removing the second flat too, she used them like scoops to gather up generous blobs of thick, sticky muck.
“ Down & Dirty! Down & Dirty !” the crowd yelled.
Grant had barely gotten to his feet when she let the first mudball fly. It hit him square in the chest, and he staggered backward as if it had been a shotgun round. The crowd whooped, so she took a quick bow before lifting her second shoe in the air, ready for war. This time, Grant fell to his knees, his hands in a prayer pose. Plaintive eyes blinked up at her, begging for mercy.
She turned to the crowd with a questioning look. “Should I spare him?” she asked. They booed and yelled for her to show no pity, which suited her fine. The second mud missile splatted the side of his head, whereupon he toppled over, execution style.
Her work done, she headed again toward the edge of the pit, this time barefoot and stomping mad. But as she grabbed its sides and got ready to lift a leg over, an avalanche of mud cascaded down her back. Turning, she saw that Grant had removed his shirt, filled it with the lumpy stuff, and dumped it over her from behind. Her bouncy blonde ringlets hung limp and straight under a heavy grey coating, and she was pretty sure the gap at the back of her jeans meant she’d be throwing her panties away later.
A shirtless Grant looked back at her with challenge in his eyes. Her cheeks burned, and something inside Sadie snapped. The grin she sent him this time wasn't about relief—it was pure animus.
It…was…on .
The next several minutes were a blur of flying mud, dancing lights, and the roar of the crowd. Grant kept up the physical comedy by pretending to take a leisurely bath in the mud, or by running in place toward her, Road Runner style, as Sadie held him at arm’s length, her hands flat against his chest—all while Sadie legitimately tried to wrestle him into submission.
If Grant could take down Slinger, surely Sadie could outwit Grant, right? But with his shirt off, his skin was so slippery. There was no way she would risk grabbing a handful of his shorts! For his part, he mostly let her push and pull him around the ring, but if she ever truly started getting the upper hand, he pushed her away with as much difficulty as flicking a beetle off his arm. It didn’t help that his silly antics kept making her giggle despite herself.
Just as her energy flagged, he winked at her and told her in a whisper to blow air on him. She waited until he charged toward her like an enraged rhino, then jutted out her chin, pursed her lips, and blew the tiniest puff of air in his direction. Instantly, he went stiff as a board, elbows bent and hands facing front. She circled him once leisurely—a hunter toying with her prey—then blew on him a second time from behind, whereupon he fell face forward, like a toppled tree, into the gunk.
Ruse or no, Sadie took advantage. She pounced on him, straddling his back while the excited crowd counted, “ Three! Two! One!”
The air horn symphony sounded again, and she led the crowd in the required “Down & Dirty” winner’s chant. Her breath came out hard and his chest heaved under her.
Waving at her adoring fans, she said just loud enough for Grant to hear, “I might keep you down there forever, Mister Grant Mason.”
“And I might let you,” he said back, with a finality and simplicity that momentarily stilled her ragged gasps. She whipped her head round to look at him, and their eyes locked. Neither of them smiled, and neither of them looked away or even blinked. The noise and swirling lights seemed to dim, and she couldn’t tell whether her rapid heartbeat stemmed from exhaustion or something else. She commanded herself to look away, but the tractor beam of his gaze held her in place. What was this sorcery?
Fortunately for her, the man who’d marched Grant away at the beginning of the evening climbed into the ring with them, breaking the spell. He offered a hand to Sadie to help her up, lifted Grant to his feet, and stood between them, raising an arm of each high in the air to signify the end of the match. The crowd cheered and demanded more in equal measure as Sadie and Grant straddled the low wall and were led toward the showers and lockers.
Sadie’s skin pinked again under a welcome, hot shower. She rinsed her clothes out too and was grateful that the bar had an extra set for her to wear home.
A wary euphoria overcame her as rivulets of mud circled down the drain. Had that just happened? Had she mud wrestled Grant Mason at a grungy bar?
When she closed her eyes, why could she still see him wearing nothing at all but shorts and mud? Why did her fingers still have the feel of his damp skin under her touch? Why did the chant, “Kiss her! Kiss her!” linger in her ears? Probably it was the crowd—she never could resist an audience—or the exhaustion and adrenaline of the wrestling itself. Whatever the reason, it felt like some part of her had been left behind in that mud pit, or some new part had been added.
Silence once again reigned on the drive home, but Sadie’s recalcitrance wasn’t to blame. As the velvety scent of night-blooming flowers swirled round them through rolled down windows, the quiet between them felt like an unspoken agreement. The evening they’d just shared sat like a bright, shiny coin that talking could only tarnish.