Chapter 12 Okay, Peter Pan #2
We run and duck and fire and adjust to the layout of the space.
For someone as tall and broad as Penn is, he’s pretty stealthy.
With good aim. I’ve taken cover in the darkest corner of the room, backed against a wall with my light-up gun clutched to my chest, listening as the poom-whoosh-zap of Penn’s shots gets closer.
He shoots at the mirror in front of me, trying to blast at my light-up vest in the reflection. When he misses, he shouts, “You’re cheating!”
“Am not!” I cover the target on my chest with both hands. “Hiding isn’t cheating. It’s strategy.”
“It’s weak!”
“It’s smart!”
“Whatever, coward.”
He’s teasing. That’s all it is. But the jab strikes at the softest part of me.
Carefully, I slide up the wall. From certain spots, Penn can see my vest glowing in the mirror, and he’s grown suspiciously quiet. For the first time, I don’t know where he is.
I peek around. The coast looks clear, so I tiptoe to another floating wall. I wait there for at least a minute. Still, nothing. I inch sideways. More silence. My jittery nerves morph into animosity, the way they always do with Penn.
“Wow,” I shout. “Already giving up, huh?”
Bingo. Lights flash from about ten feet away as Penn steps out, laser gun raised. He shakes his head at me, smirking. “Damn, Wynne. That’s quite the shit-talking for someone who’s losing. Badly.” He shoots at me and scores. My vest vibrates.
I shoot back but miss—again. The whoosh of my shot doesn’t land with a satisfying zap. I blame the clear view of his abs.
Exasperated, I roll back against a nearby wall, hiding again. “Congrats on the win,” I call out. “But joke’s on you. Loser cooks dinner, and guess what? I can’t cook.”
Another zap to my chest. Shot, again. I jerk sideways, to where Penn crouches on top of a small staircase. I don’t know how the hell he got up there so fast. Maybe, in addition to his many gigs, he also moonlights as a ninja warrior.
Before I can shoot him, he’s gone.
Seconds later, from somewhere behind me, that taunting voice: “So, that’s why you were so eager for me to bunk up with you, huh? You needed my kitchen prowess.”
With my heart pounding, I scan the room, but there are no signs of Penn. It’s unsettling, feeling like he can see me and I can’t see him. “I wasn’t eager about anything,” I call back. “And let’s take it easy on the self-congratulatory comments. You don’t have any prowess.”
This time, a laugh, and his voice comes from somewhere closer. “You sure about that?”
I feel it instantly: Penn’s phantom touch, his fingers trailing down my arm. I feel his hands where I’ve only imagined them. I raise my gun as heat stirs inside me, spiraling into a boiling fury.
“Quite sure,” I say, mostly to myself. Then I sprint to a nearby wall, lunging to look for him. I rush toward another one. “I don’t need you for anything.”
A lie. I do need Penn for one very specific thing.
He slinks out from behind the wall right in front of me and leans against it, a cocky smirk playing on his perfect lips. Stepping forward, I jab my laser gun into his vest. Right against the target. But before I can pull the trigger, he grabs the barrel.
“You don’t need me,” he whispers. “But you want me. Don’t you?”
I swallow hard. Penn’s stare is a trap, and I hate how much I want to fall in.
Because he’s right. It’s unnerving how much I want him.
I want to grip his vest and pull him toward me. I want to slide my fingers up his torso and into the curls at the nape of his neck. I want to escape into him, into the kiss—into reality.
He holds my gaze, waiting for my answer. But I don’t know how he would react if I reached for him. If he’d kiss me back. If he’d feel enough to get me out of here.
Penn must make the first move. That’s the only way I’ll feel safe, and the only way I can blame the kiss on him, no matter what.
My heart skips. I pull the trigger.
As Penn’s vest lights up, he looks down, surprised. Glancing up at me again, he laughs and says, “I’ll take that as a maybe.”
Playfully, I shove into him, but my laser gun slips against the plastic target on Penn’s chest and jolts upward, slamming him in the face. Right beside his eye. He winces, clutching at his head. A thin stripe of blood trails down his cheekbone.
“Shit. Penn, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Fingers pressed to his temple, he peers at me with one eye open. “Physically or emotionally? Because no, and no.”
That makes two of us. Not only have I hurt Penn—I’ve fully spoiled the moment. We were right there, on the precipice of something, and I had to go and shoot the guy.
Very smooth of me. Very productive.
It’s too dark to see what we’re dealing with, so I grab Penn’s other wrist and pull him toward the hallway.
We stand beneath a bright overhead light, and I take his face in my hands, angling it for a better look.
The cut is small but deep, the skin around it already pink.
The square edge of the laser gun must’ve hit him just so.
Gently, I press a finger to the skin around it, applying some pressure. Penn’s breath catches, and only when he glances down at me do I realize how close we’re standing, and how intimate the position feels, even under an LED spotlight.
I feel bad that he’s hurt. But perhaps this minor injury isn’t such a mood killer, after all.
“We should clean this up,” I say quietly, watching Penn’s throat bob.
“I—I can handle it,” he rasps.
“I once watched you duct-tape a paper towel to your knee.”
His lips curve. “My first-aid skills have improved since middle school.”
“Well, I have an official first-aid certification and I know CPR.”
Penn lifts a hand, setting his fingers over mine, still pressed to his cheek. His teeth dig into his lower lip as he says, “You really think I need mouth-to-mouth, Wynne?”
A heady rush. A twist in my stomach.
I can’t even think of a proper comeback, distracted by Penn’s heavy-lidded stare and his bare arms, which are suddenly hogging the offensively strong spotlight. But then he winces, reminding me I need to address the injury before I can hope for anything else.
“The lair,” I blurt out, finally sliding my hand out from beneath his. “You go lie down, and I’ll meet you there with supplies.”
Penn squints down at me. “The lair?”
“The beanbag lair. That’s what I call the turret room,” I explain. “It’s nice and cozy in there. So, you go relax, and we’ll get you all fixed up.”
He stares, processing my outlandish request. Maybe I have the head injury to thank for him not fighting back.
“Okay,” he says, wrestling with a grin. “Lair it is.”