Page 65 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake could see that Monroe was surveying the contraption, which, from the outside, looked like a very normal dunk tank. A large, cylindrical barrel held the water, and there was a seat about two feet above, where Noah was perched, grinning out at the crowd.

To the right, there was the small mechanical trigger, which needed to be hit in order for the chair to drop.

Blake fantasized about that happening, watching as Noah was plunged into the water below.

“It’s not technically rigged, I guess, but the bullseye is extremely sensitive.” Thinking about it now, Blake was in awe of the lengths the Duvall family went to in order to keep up pretenses.

She pointed to the middle of the bullseye. “Do you see how the middle is two different colors of red?”

Monroe leaned closer. “Yeah, I do.”

Blake tried to figure out how to explain it. “So the darker red is actually some kind of mesh. The only thing that can fit through it is a golf ball. Basically, they put another layer in front of the trigger so that even if you throw a softball and hit it dead-on, nothing will happen.”

Monroe’s eyes narrowed. “You realize that your ex-husband and his family are certifiably insane, right?”

Blake pressed her lips together. “More and more every single day.”

She didn’t understand why Monroe was grinning, her eyes bright when she said, “Do you know that I have excellent fine motor skills?”

“Like, from painting?” Blake asked, not exactly sure how that could help them.

Still, she couldn’t stop the rush that ran through her at the idea of Noah being taken down a peg.

“My brother, for all of his faults, was exceptionally creative during our childhood. And, well, we didn’t have a lot of money, so we had to make our own games. He’d build them for me, and I’d try again and again until I won at whatever he’d built for us.”

“So you’re saying that you can do this? Hit it, I mean?” Blake asked, skepticism mingling with anticipation.

It would be a small, shallow win in the grand scheme of her life, but she knew that nothing would annoy Noah more than having to pretend to be graceful after being plunged into a vat of water in the setting sun.

Actually—Blake looked up. The sun was almost below the horizon, and night was coming on quickly.

Monroe nodded, mischief in her eyes that Blake liked seeing. A lot.

She got that fluttery, out-of-control feeling again when Monroe said decisively, “Yes, I can hit it.”

“Final call,” Noah boomed out into the crowd, intent on having his voice heard. He did love to be the center of attention.

“There should be golf balls at the bottom of the container. At least, there used to be,” Blake said as Monroe started walking forward.

Monroe stopped and turned around, giving Blake a wink. “Don’t worry. He’s not going to know what hit him.”

The first boom exploded over the sky about thirty minutes after one of the single most gratifying experiences of Blake’s life, which was watching Noah look like a drowned rat as he scrambled to right himself in the giant barrel of water.

Maisie sat tucked in on Blake’s right, with Monroe on the little girl’s other side. Her truck bed fit the three of them perfectly, even with all of the blankets and pillows that she’d stuffed inside to make a giant bed.

She snuck a glance at Monroe, who had her far leg bent; her arm was extended along the top of the side panel. She was toying with a strand of her hair that had broken free, twirling it around in her fingers like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Talk about willingly putting a target on her back.

For Blake, no less.

Monroe had stepped up to the throwing line, selected a worn, dirty golf ball, and with a quick, precise throw, Noah had been in the water before he’d even known what was happening.

Laughing like a maniac, Monroe had pulled Blake along with her, hurrying away from the ensuing melee.

She didn’t know if she’d ever heard Noah scream like that before.

Maisie hadn’t understood why they were laughing so wildly, but she’d joined in, too, and the giggling hadn’t stopped until long after they’d made it back to the truck.