Runaway

Chapter 22

"Anyone have eyes on Blondie?", I called out to my team.

We had managed to tag the rest of the opposing team with our paint, all except for Dylan, who seemed to have disappeared as soon as our snap shooting in the woods had begun.

"Nope!"

"Nah!"

"That's a negative." Well that was very helpful. Where could he have gone?

I crouched low to the ground and quickly ducked from one tree to the next. A splatter of red paint hit the tree right by my hip and I rolled out of the way, coming up on one knee with my gun aimed in the direction of where the shot had been fired. But there was no one there now.

I slowly came back up, gun still aimed at that one spot between an oak and pine tree, as I took a look around. When I had seen him today, Dylan had done the smart thing and worn an army green hoodie with brown cargo pants, so he'd blend in. His pale blond hair was tucked into a matching green beanie. So if he was quiet and careful, he was virtually invisible to anyone in our forest surroundings. Anyone, that is, but me.

This may sound weird, but I suddenly sensed something approaching me from behind. It might have been the slightest crunching of leaves, or change of temperature in the atmosphere, or heck, even a new smell that hadn't been there before, but I knew he was there, and waiting for me to turn around.

I kept walking forward slowly, not giving off any indication that I knew of his presence. Then, at the last second, I whipped around, fired three shots, and dove behind a tree.

"Ow! Shit, that hurt." I got to my feet, held my gun at the ready, and quickly approached the pine tree behind which the person had been taking cover. Sprawled out on the ground, groaning in agony, was Dylan. My three shots had hit him in the arm, gut, and ooh... His neck. I could unfortunately relate to that.

"Sorry, Blondie. But you really shouldn't try to pull that stuff on me." I kneeled next to Dylan to help him sit up.

"Yeah. I got that when you shot me in the freaking neck. F*ck that hurts." Dylan winced as he lightly touched the blue-painted wound on the side of his neck. "Ow, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck..."

"Stop touching it, you moron." I smacked his hand away from his neck. "I know it hurts, I've been shot there too a couple of times. It'll leave a nasty blister on your neck for next for a couple of weeks, but you'll live. Now come on, let's get you cleaned up."

I stood up and extended my hand to him. Dylan looked at my hand doubtingly, then to my gun, then to my hand again. I rolled my eyes.

"I'm not going to shoot you for Christ's sake. I already had my fill on that. God, what kind of a monster do you think I am?"

Dylan grinned, and gripped my hand. I pulled him to his feet, and he was suddenly very close to me. So close I could count the different shades of green and brown in his eyes if I really wanted to, and that I could smell his breath, a mix of mint tootpaste and coffee. So that's what he smelled like..., I thought absentmindedly.

Dylan leaned closer to my ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin, and I could only hope he didn't hear me gulp. What was he doing...?

"The worst kind", he answered before pulling back with a giant goofy grin on his face. As per usual whenever he said or did something stupid, I moved to smack his arm. He seemed to have learned his lesson though, and caught my wrist before it reached him.

"Can you please stop hitting me? It's getting kind of annoying." But he said it with a barely concealed smile, so I knew he didn't mean it.

"Can you please let me go? That's getting kind of annoying", I retorted with.