“I don’t have a pen.” Grace hadn’t heard that voice before. It must be Frank’s Rear Admiral voice, and it was very intimidating. It also made her a little tingly in her middle-aged lady garden. That’s right. Frank’s don’t-fuck-with-me voice made her want him to fuck-with-her all night long.
Wick laughed nervously. He handed over a sharpie, and Frank scrawled sharply on the ball. Wick took it back, loaded the weapon of his destruction, and handed it over.
Frank immediately settled back into an expert-looking stance. Grace noticed he kept the gun pointed at the floor, the muscles in his forearm flexed.
It was hard to pay attention to the rest of the illusion when that forearm was on the stage. She knew what the golden hair dusting his skin felt like under her fingertips, and what those muscles could do to her body.
The magician handed Frank something else. A paper target to shoot through. Grace missed why, but it didn’t matter. Wick was giving Frank a countdown now, and with impressive precision, Frank readied his weapon and on command, pulled the trigger without flinching.
The whole room gasped.
Wick wobbled.
Frank stood stock still, the gun pointed right at Wick’s head.
And then the illusionist turned, opened his mouth, and showed the crowd a bright blue paintball caught between his teeth.
He pulled a ziplock bag from a pocket, spit the ball into it, and jogged across the stage to Frank. “Trade you,” he said, his voice shaking.
Frank didn’t break a smile. “Sure thing.”
“Can you tell the ladies and gentlemen in the audience if those are your initials?”
Frank looked at the plastic bag, then raised it over his head. “They are.”
The audience erupted with applause, and Grace’s cheeks hurt from grinning.
