Chapter 8 #2
I swear my body forgets how to function. My damn heart skips. My breath stalls.
She sees me—and she smiles. Not the dagger smile. Not the one she gave Travis Bell right before she bagged him. This one’s real. Soft. Almost shy.
I’m doomed.
I scramble out of my seat and round the car, opening the passenger door.
She smirks at my gesture and simply says, “Hey,” as she slips into the seat.
I’m genuinely worried she’ll be able to hear my heartbeat as I round back into the driver’s seat and close the door behind me.
And I’m not mad about it when I catch her eyes scraping over the length of me.
She’s looking at me like I’m both the best and worst mistake she’s about to make.
“You don’t look like a magician tonight.”
“Good,” I say. “Saint Shade is exhausting. Kade Arden’s much more relaxed.”
She literally rolls her eyes. “Kade Arden.” She scoffs at the name. “You know that I know that isn’t your name, right?”
I chuckle, shifting into gear. “What makes you think so?”
“Um, everything. Just look at you. You’re the most un-Kade there’s ever been. I mean, Kade’s aren’t blond.”
“I guarantee there are at least a hundred other blond Kades out there,” I say as I give her a smirk and side eye.
“Plus, the cards told me,” she says, ignoring my point. “Three times. They actually got annoyed that I kept asking. So, yeah. I know it’s not your real name. But keep pretending otherwise, pretty boy.”
“You think I’m pretty?” I tease her as I turn onto the next street.
I can feel her glare burning into my skull, and confirm it once I’ve made the turn. “Let’s not pretend that I haven’t made myself look like an absolutely feral lunatic with my comments.”
“Well, the evidence is still there, I’m no better,” I say as I arch an eyebrow at her.
“And here we are,” she says, her tone turning… sultry? Teasing? I can’t really tell the difference when it comes to her. “On a date. Post-murder witnessing, if I might add. The fates are funny little bitches.”
“I think I like their brand of humor,” I say simply, smiling at the road ahead.
“So where are we going?” she asks, finally taking her eyes off me, searching the landscape before us.
“It’s a surprise.”
She groans. “That better not mean clown strip club. I swear—”
“Clown strip club?” I bark out a laugh. “You think that’s on my list of date spots?”
“In Vegas? Anything’s possible.”
She’s not wrong. Such a thing does in fact exist. “Relax, Dagger Kitten. No clowns, no strip clubs. Just… trust me.”
Her lip quirks. “That’s twice you’ve said ‘trust me.’ Kinda unhinged for a guy I met while elbow-deep in blood.”
“Worked out well though, didn’t it?”
She smirks, but her cheeks pink. “Jury’s still out.”
When I finally pull into the parking lot, she squints up at the neon sign glowing above us: VIVA VEGA SMASH & THROW.
“Is this… is this one of those axe-throwing places?” she asks with an incredulous snort.
“And daggers. And a smash room,” I add, hoping and praying this wasn’t the world’s stupidest idea. “After last night’s stake out, I figured you might want to… let out some aggression.”
For a second, she just stares. Then, the laugh bursts out of her—sharp, surprised, perfect. “You’re taking me to go legally destroy shit?”
“Exactly.”
She shakes her head, still laughing as she unbuckles. “You’re insane.”
“Perfectly unhinged,” I say in agreement.
“Yeah, perfect might be the right word,” she says as she climbs out.
Hell yes.
Inside, the smell of cedar, beer, and disinfectant hits. Music pounds from speakers, the kind of aggressive rock that begs you to break things.
The kid at the counter gives us the rules. Don’t throw if someone’s in the lane. No trick shots without supervision. Safety glasses and jumpsuits on in the smash room. Willow nods along politely, but I see it in her eyes: she just might ignore half of it.
We start with daggers. She grips hers like she was born for it. Arm back, snap forward—thunk. Dead center on the target.
“Holy shit,” the attendant barks from behind us. “You been here before?”
Willow smirks. “Nope,” she answers. “Your turn, pretty boy.”
Damn. No pressure. I step up, grab hold of the dagger, adjust my grip, throw, and watch it land… six inches off-center.
“Aw, nice try. Need me to give you tips?”
I scowl. “Beginner’s luck.”
She hits the bullseye again. And again. She’s grinning, loose, lit up in a way I haven’t seen before. Like this is exactly what her body was craving—something violent, something freed.
“Okay, we all know daggers are your specialty,” I say after she’s schooled me. “But what about axes?”
The attendant brings over a set of throwing axes, eying Willow like she’s dangerous and tempting in the same breath. Because she absolutely fucking is.
“Let’s find out,” she says as she takes hold of the first one. I try to not take note how her hand looks, fitted around the length of the handle. Her hands are small, but strong. She has a confidence in them— Fuck. Get your mind out of the gutter, you horny prick.
Willow cranes it back, both hands gripping, and flings it forward. It flips, end over end. And buries itself in the wooden target at the very bottom, barely hanging on.
“Okay, maybe we can even the playing field,” I say as I step up and grab the first axe. I just pray I don’t embarrass myself. I step up to the line, eyeing the target. I coil back. And throw.
It buries itself just to the left of the bullseye.
Willow slow claps. Fucking claps.
“Well done,” she teases. “So, the magician has a few other talents hidden up his sleeve.”
My head rips to the side, checking that no one is within earshot. For a second, my adrenaline spikes.
“Relax, Saint Shade,” Willow says as she steps forward. She trails her fingers along my arm, her eyes dark and heavy. And oh shit, I am in so much trouble. “No one is going to overhear us. Your secret is safe with me.”
This woman is going to be my ruin. And I just keep walking straight into it.
She steps up to the line, positions, and flings away. The axe lands three inches from center. “Do I scare you?” she asks as she looks back at me over her shoulder.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. A laugh bubbles up, because I’m not even embarrassed to admit it. “You fucking terrify me, Willow. Don’t stop.”
Her laugh cracks through me, wild and bright. “I kind of hate that you’re better at these weapons than I am.”
I grin, pleased as a cat. “You just need more murderous intent.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m full of it.”
She throws again—better—but still not center. I’m about to tease her when there’s a sharp clang, a sickening chop, followed by a yelp, and then immediately a scream that sounds like it’s coming from a dying opera singer on helium.
We both freeze.
“What the hell was that?”
Before I can answer, Willow’s already moving, hair flying, boots pounding across the rubber mats. I’m right behind her, half expecting someone to have just dropped an axe on their toe.
We round the divider—and immediately wish we hadn’t.
There’s blood. So much blood. One of the guys from the next lane—mid-twenties, crop top, glitter in his beard—is sitting on the floor, screaming, while an axe is sticking out of his thigh like a very morbid fashion accessory.
His boyfriend is flapping his hands, shouting, “Oh my hell, oh my hell! I told you to wear pants! Who wears shorts here?!”
I blink. “Well,” I say, “that’s not how you score points.”
Willow shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut rope. “Go get towels!”
I jog to the counter, yell for the employee who is nowhere to be seen on this side of the building. “Somebody call 9-1-1!”
I literally jump over the counter, acrobat skills coming in handy, and scan for towels. Towels. Fuck. Why are there no towels?
A teenage girl with her boyfriend sticks her head out of their lane. I point at her. “You, call 9-1-1. Someone’s hurt.”
She blanches white, but scrambles to pull her phone out of her pocket.
By the time I’m back, the guy has—oh shit—pulled the axe out of his leg. Blood spurts like a fountain. His boyfriend’s eyes go huge, his skin instantly white as a sheet, and he promptly faints, collapsing into the wall of axes with a metallic clang.
“What the hell, dude!” Willow yells as she searches for something to press into the wound.
“Here,” I say as I yank the passed-out boyfriend’s flannel shirt off and press it to the wound while the guy screams and bellows.
Behind us, the employee finally makes an appearance. He curses, and races for the phone.
Willow’s talking in that calm, terrifying tone people use before a storm. “Hey, hey, look at me. You’re fine. You’re okay. We’re gonna keep that leg attached. Kade, more pressure. He’s… leaking.”
“I’m practically giving him a massage at this point,” I say, pressing harder. “You think he’s enjoying this?”
The guy wails louder. “No, he is not!” He’s getting paler by the second.
“Don’t pass out on me,” I growl. “Just hold on a few more minutes.”
Sirens wail outside just ten seconds later—thank you, Vegas’ proximity to everything dangerous—and paramedics rush in. They take one look at us, at the fainted boyfriend, at the blood-slick floor, and I swear one of them mutters, “Dammit, not again. How are these places still legally open?”
Valid question.
They load the guy up, tell him they’ll do their best to save his leg, and roll him out. The boyfriend comes to halfway through, moaning dramatically. The second he realizes the love of his life is being loaded into an ambulance, he shrieks and runs after them.
The employee’s standing nearby, looking like he just watched a live decapitation. “I… I’ve never seen that happen before.”
Willow straightens, cocking her head. “Yeah, well, you have now. Maybe start a punch card.”
He blinks. “What?”