He Shoots, She scores

Chapter Nineteen: Gracie | Surprise Attack

If you had told me a year ago that I'd be playing nerf gun wars with three boys, and that these very same people would be my roommates, I would've laughed in my own face. But that ridiculous imagery has transformed into reality. Despite how absurd today has been, I'm having fun. Genuine fun. So long as I don't think about how much stakes are placed on this nerf gun bet.

By some miracle I'm the last one standing on my team. It's come down to just Weston and me. Me and Weston. And I'll have to say, my confidence right now isn't so hot.

You know how in scary movies, the main character is running away from the murderer and yet they keep looking behind their shoulders? And the entire time you're thinking, "Run, stupid, run!" Well, I guess I'm a hypocrite because as I'm trying to slide these stupid darts into my gun, I keep glancing towards the door, just waiting for Weston to enter, even though I know I should be using every minute to my advantage. But I can't help it. My fingers keep fumbling the entire time I'm re-loading my weapon.

The imaginary audience would definitely be groaning as I'm gradually creeping back into the living room, where Weston (the murderer) is obviously still lurking. I'm dead center of the room, gun poised upwards, ready to unleash an unhealthy number of darts right into Weston's stupid, sexy body. My feet are a ticking clock, spinning in a slow circle. The adrenaline is causing tremors in almost every area of my body. I'm surprised I can still hold the gun up at this point.

Something crashes behind me. I whirl around and on instinct, I begin firing shot after shot of darts at Weston, whose athletic grace is a massive disadvantage for me right now. Weston, the jerk, moves like the speed of light, cutting corners and bounding over tables and chairs like Jackie Chan. Somehow, he's already in front of me. Two feet away. One foot now. Shoot him already, you idiot! I hike my gun up but before my finger can touch the trigger, he's crashing into me. Weston's arms are encircled around my waist as he throws us onto the sofa. He pivots us mid-air so that his back hits the cushions first.

I'm breathing hard. Half because of the exertion that just happened (man, I have the sudden urge to audition for an action movie now) but mainly because I'm lying on top of Avery Weston. I repeat- On. Top. Of. Avery. Weston. So close to him. Our chests are touching. The friction is too much. I'm immediately scrambling on my knees.

Only he seems to find this is funny. I, however, am not one bit amused. I want to wipe that stupid little smirk off him. It's only when I glimpse down that I realize with a startling revelation how wrong this looks. I'm quite literally straddling Avery Weston. My inner thighs are making direct contact with Weston's hips. No wonder he's enjoying himself. Despite my mind screaming at me to get off and shoot him already, my body is betraying me. I feel heat transcending towards my cheeks which only escalates when his hands wrap around my hips with one yank, which causes me to drop my gun. I repeat: Drop. My. Gun. Frick. If I had any common sense, I would lean down and bite Weston's arm so he'd let go of me. But as I stated earlier, my body seems to have double-crossed me. You are not enjoying this, Gracie. He is the devil's reincarnated. You do not like how his hands feel on you. You don't take pleasure in how his thumbs are swirling your skin, or how he keeps glancing at your lips, or how he's holding you like you're his-

"I apologize in advance" Weston says.

I'm frowning. "For what?"

"For how much I enjoy this." He sends me a devilish smirk that I catch for a split second before he's flipping us over. And somehow, in the process of free-falling from the couch to the floor, Weston has grabbed the gun that I've dropped. God. Who blessed him with this physicality and cursed me with a lack of?

Our positions have shifted. Weston is now pinning me to the ground. He's got one palm splayed flat on the ground next to my head. The other hand has a gun teasing my right temple. "You know, I've always imagined us in this position. But under much different circumstances." Weston wears a smile that indicates he's already won. He hasn't pulled the trigger yet, but he's so certain in his victory that he's taking his sweet time. And it's that exact smugness that I'll use to win.

Little does Weston know that my mother forced me to take self-defense classes every year from when I was 15 to 20. As much as I dreaded those classes back then, they've given me a few tricks up my sleeve. "Hey, I just wanna say I'm sorry too." I put my theatre skills to use and give him an inauthentic face of remorse.

Weston knows I'm up to something. His eyes are scanning my face. "What are you gonna do to me, Lavergne?"

"This." I hook my foot behind his ankle while throwing my upper body against his shoulder. In a split second, I'm pinned on top of him once more. Weston is too stunned by my sudden power splurge to fight back. He remains immobile. He doesn't do anything. Not even when I grab the gun, re-load it, and shoot him in the forehead. "SURPRISE ATTACK" I shout in his face. (Something my self-defense teacher always re-iterated during lessons).

RJ pulls me to standing as we shout in victory. He holds my hand high in the air, treating me like a boxing champion. "WOO!! WINNER, WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER, BABY!" RJ shouts.

Eli looks gloom. "I want Gracie on my team next time" he mumbles. And poor Weston is still on the floor, his face the epitome of stupefaction. My face, however, is the definition of triumph.