Chapter 4 #4
“I said I played baseball, past tense.”
A tiny wrinkle appears between her eyes. “How past?”
“High school.”
“What position?”
“Pitcher.”
“But you didn’t play in college?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted to focus on my studies.” I don’t offer the real reason—that my parents tried to make baseball my entire identity.
They hired pitching coaches and talked nonstop about college scholarships.
Once that happened, the joy was gone. I played my first year in college out of guilt and then feigned an injury so I could make a graceful exit.
To this day, my parents mention my dislocated shoulder on occasion in the same tone people use to discuss a cancer diagnosis.
“Your studies? Ha! Maybe you belong here after all.”
I don’t belong here. I belong in a cushy office with a view of the city. I belong somewhere with air conditioning and no insects.
“Why did you ask about my arm?”
“Come and see.” She links her arm through mine and guides me to a barn across the property.
“I didn’t realize you had animals.”
“Not that kind of barn.” She opens the door and ushers me inside.
I stop short at the entrance. There are enclosures set up for a variety of activities, each one involving a target. Courtney picks up an axe from a nearby bucket. “Stall Five.”
I grab another axe and saunter to the fifth stall. I look at the target and do a double take. “Hey, that’s my picture.”
“Huh. How did that get there?” She hefts an axe and throws it with vigor. The blade lodges sideways across my neck.
“You must get a lot of practice.”
“You’d be surprised what I can do under pressure.”
“Same.” I fling my axe at the target and hit myself directly in the middle of my face. “A little on the nose, but I’ll take it.”
“Hardy har. You’re here for one day and already you’re cracking puns. What’s next, a Chewbacca suit?”
“I draw the line at masks.”
“What do you mean? You wear one every day.”
I hear the shuffling of feet and notice the older woman, Angela, enter the barn. She’s tall and thin with the kind of sinewy arms that suggest regular workouts. Impressive at her age.
“Hi Angela,” Courtney says.
She takes in the sight of us, a gleam forming in her narrow eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not at all,” Courtney says quickly. “Join us.”
“I brought my own blindfold. I hope you don’t mind.” She dangles a pale pink eye mask.
“Is she drunk?” I whisper.
Courtney ignores me. “Those are for pin the tail on the donkey.”
Angela’s delicately drawn eyebrows pinch together. “Oh no, dear. I’ve sworn off Democrats.”
“You’ve changed parties?”
“Only when they switch to a cash bar, like this one.” She waves an airy hand around the barn.
“We don’t have a cash bar, Angela.”
“Oh, delightful because I didn’t bring any with me.”
“Because this is a barn, not a bar, and we don’t serve alcohol,” Courtney continues.
Angela points at my photo. “Who would choose to malign such a gorgeous face? At least besmirch someone who’s already unattractive.”
“Because ugly people deserve an axe to the face?” Courtney asks.
Angela doesn’t seem to hear her. “I’m surprised you didn’t put up a picture of what’s-his-name.”
Courtney doesn’t shoot daggers with her eyes, she hurls axes. “You know the rules, Angela.”
The older woman dawdles toward a bucket. Courtney sighs as Angela reaches for an axe.
“Should I intervene?” I ask in a low voice.
“I’ll handle it.” Courtney leaves the stall to deal with Angela. “I take it things didn’t go as planned with Herb.”
“He says he’s in the market for a younger woman. For the love of Yul Brynner, has he seen his reflection in the mirror? I’ve seen moons with fewer craters.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s for the best. Camp should be romance free.”
“Romance has nothing to do with it, darling.”
Courtney gently removes the axe from the older woman’s grip. “Why don’t you go back to your room and put on a nice charcoal mask before bed?”
“Yes,” Angela murmurs, more to herself. “My skin does feel a little on the dry side. Thank you, Cricket.” She staggers out of the barn and my axe-throwing companion returns to the stall.
“You’re good at that,” I say.
She casts me a sidelong glance. “Is this flattery or a genuine compliment?”
“Does it matter?”
“Always. I’ll take authenticity any day of the week.”
“You should tell that to your buddy in the retro sci-fi warlord suit.”
“That is authentic.”
I laugh. “How is walking around in the costume of a fictional character authentic?”
“Because it’s a character that truly resonates with him.”
“So Adam’s an evil overlord at heart?”
“He’s telling us he’s complex and morally gray. It’s a form of self-expression.”
I’m still smiling. “Like those people who dress up in animal costumes to have sex with each other?”
“They’re called furries and, yes, that’s also a form of self-expression. You’re welcome to take the chipmunk suit this week. Our regular Simon couldn’t make it.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking. “And what do you wear?”
“Can’t tell you or it ruins the mystery. Half the fun is not knowing who’s behind the mask.”
“So much for authenticity,” I say.
She narrows her eyes and hurls the axe at the target. The blade hits my picture right between the eyes. I’m glad she’s not shooting an apple off my head.
“Nice game,” I say. “Do I get to put your picture up next time?”
“Good luck finding one.”
“Everybody has at least one public photo online. You’d have to be either a spy or a ghost to avoid it.”
She collects the axes. “I fall more into the ghost category.”
I’m unclear how to interpret that. I walk to the target and rip down my picture. “You’ll need to try harder if you think a stunt like this will be enough to make me leave.”
She bares her teeth. “Consider the gauntlet thrown.”
My gaze drifts to the shredded picture. Pretty sure it already was.
We part ways and I bypass the firepit to get an early night. Garbled singing drifts to my ears as I slip inside my cabin. I have no idea what song it’s meant to be, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. I wonder whether Courtney joined them after the barn.
Her commitment to the camp is admirable. I didn’t know people could even have such strong emotions about their livelihoods. Jobs were the means to an end. An income. A status symbol. Her passion for this camp is next level. It makes me feel … envious.
I fold down the sheet and climb into bed in my boxer briefs. It’s much too hot for a sheet or anything else. I have to hunt down a smoking gun before I sweat to death.
An image of her knowing eyes flashes in my mind. She’s made it clear she’s suspicious of me and who can blame her? She’s right. I’m the enemy to every single camper here.
Who cares if they have to find a new gathering place next year? It isn’t the worst outcome in the world. It might even be good for some of them to break out of their protective shells. They probably don’t interact with other humans the other fifty weeks of the year. Time to mix things up.
I clasp my hands behind my head and exhale.
Fuck me. I do care. I wish I was more like Matt, who would’ve dug up whatever intel he needed to seal the deal and screeched away in his Cybertruck by now.
I stare at the wood-beamed ceiling, thinking.
Maybe there’s no intel to be found. Maybe even if someone as ruthless as Matt were here, he’d be unable to unearth a single item to be used as leverage.
I could spend the rest of camp holed up in her office reviewing documents and not find a shred of evidence to help my client.
In that case, I might as well enjoy myself a little while I keep my eyes and ears open, right? It’s such a rare opportunity to shed my suit and soak up the sun while the mosquitoes soak up my blood. I’ll have to ask to borrow bug spray. I didn’t show up as prepared as I thought.
Not for any of this, and definitely not for Courtney Abernathy.