“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 sickeningchop, 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.Somuch 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?”
“Never mind,” she says, grabbing my hand. “No more axes. Let’s go break something that’s supposed to break before someone else loses a limb. Or before an attorney shows up and shuts this place down. I’m not done getting everything out of my system.”
I grin as we head toward the smash room, ignoring the traumatized worker. “You know,” I say, “our dates always end in blood.”
She smirks over her shoulder. “Hey, technically this is our first date. Did I expect there to be any blood? No. Am I surprised? Somehow, also no.”
