Still, we had to work together. In fact, we had an appointment with a client on Thursday, so we'd have to work together in public. I planned to stop by her office before the appointment to try to break the ice.

She'd saved me the trouble, though. That morning, I found a note taped to my office door:

We have that 3:00 with the paintball people. There. I'm driving.

P.S.: I still hate you.

Great. She was finally coming around.

The first thing we saw was that there wasn't a customer in the place. True, it was the middle of a weekday afternoon, but a few years ago, you couldn't get in even then for love or money. Fads came late to Meridian and died there early. No wonder the owner wanted an ad agency.

"Smoke machines," I ventured, pushing open the double doors to peer into the dark playing field. "Smoke machines, follow spots, and models in Mazola and floss. We'll do it like a coed Heart of Darkness. What do you think?"

Cassie, who'd said nothing since we'd left the office, continued to say nothing. Pointedly, she turned away to study the price board.

Just then, a sallow young man with a ponytail emerged through the door behind the ticket desk. "You the ones from the ad agency? Boss'll be right out."

Cassie didn't even glance at the clerk when she spoke to him; she was still absorbed in the price board. "Is that the price for an hour?"

"Yeah. But you get your uniforms and your guns and stuff for that. You gotta give us a deposit, but it ain't bad. We give it back."

"Suppose that my colleague and I want to play. For, say, two hours. How much?"

"I dunno. It's usually just an hour."

"What if we want extra cartridges? How much for those?"

The conversation no longer sounded like research. I let the doors to the playing field swing shut and rushed over to set things straight. "We're not here to play," I told the clerk. "We're just here to look the place over. To get some ideas for the ad cam..."

"Two hours," Cassie told the clerk. She started rummaging through her attaché. "A hundred rounds apiece to start. Do you take platinum AmEx?"

"She's kidding," I assured him. Then, to her: "You're kidding. Paintball? Us?"

"Us. Right now." She slapped a card down on the counter and resumed her directions to the clerk. "I won't make you do the math; ring it up as two separate hours, if you have to. We'll take the same size in uniforms, except mine will need much more room in the chest. What about shoes?"

I covered the card with my hand. "We're not playing."

"We're playing," she told the clerk. "Do you take platinum Visa?"

The manager appeared in time to see Cassie marching off to the locker room with her armful of gear. I explained the situation to him while the clerk piled my equipment on the counter.

"But you don't have to pay," the manager protested. "Jeff, don't charge them. This is business."

"Let her pay," I said grimly. "And give me the very best gun you've got."

Macho.

Scowling at my reflection in the battered mirror, I flipped the visor down and then went upstairs to find my opponent.

She was already on the playing field, checking her weapon. She didn't look silly, much less macho. She looked terrific and extremely female--not to mention dangerous as hell.

"Didn't I see you in The Quick and the Dead?" I asked her.

Cassie ignored that entirely. "The rules are that there are no rules. We can kill each other as many times as we want. Then we can go back and get more cartridges. Start the timer."

"Not so fast. Let's agree on one thing first: We don't have to do this for two whole hours. OK? If it's no fun, we..."

"It'll be fun. I'm going to enjoy this. Start the timer."

I found the timer button on the wall and poised a finger over it; she stepped to the start line, gun drawn, and put her visor down. We eyed each other suspiciously.

"Do paintballs hurt?" I wondered.

"I hope so. Start the timer."

Just before I actually pushed the button, though, Cassie aimed, fired--and hit.

I jumped, stung. "Hey!"

She fired again, with equal success. Then she sprinted off into the dark.

Rubbing my shoulder--paintballs did hurt, as it turned out--I punched the timer button and vowed to make the cheater taste paint. Two could play this stupid chiphead game.

We showered and changed, thanked the manager, and went off to the Pig & Whistle to observe truce. I bought.

"To peace," I proposed. "Such as you ever give me."

"To the worst friend I ever had."

"Or the best enemy."

"Same difference."

We drank to that.

"What did you do with the mushrooms?" she asked.

I searched the table, shifting baskets: mozzarella sticks, onion chips, chicken fingers, eggrolls, nachos, baby ribs. Our plan was to have a light snack here and order a couple of pizzas at her place later, after we stopped by the video store. Eventually, I found the mushrooms backed up against the wall of the booth behind the salsa and the Chinese mustard.

"Trade you the potato skins," Cassie said.

We rearranged baskets. As we were hunting for the proper condiments, a man in an overly tailored suit cleared his throat over my shoulder.

"Afternoon," he told Cassie. "Leo Carter. Carter Realty. I see that you're alone. I just ordered you a bottle of much better wine than that. How can you possibly thank me?"

I mentally rescheduled my evening. Tall, attractive, obnoxious, breathing--he was her type, all right.

To my surprise, though, she declined, and rather tartly at that.

Her suitor seemed to be surprised, too. He persisted. She refused him again, in a tone that meant business.

"Look at the time," I said to no one in particular. "I should be going. Thanks for the..."

She reached over the table to grab my arm. "We just got here. I drove, and I'm not ready to leave yet."

"I have my Land Rover," he told her. "What if we call your person a cab? You're too pretty to waste your evening."

Cassie's eyes went ballistic blue--and I knew all too well what that meant. Briefly, I considered diving under the table for cover. But it was too late. By the time she finally stopped to draw a breath, Leo Carter, Carter Realty, was halfway to his Land Rover, almost running out of range of her terrible voice.

There was a brief, shocked silence in the bar. Then all the other women there--every last one of them--broke into applause.

Cassie raised her glass to them, and to the shaken male population of the room, and then turned back to me. My jaw was still on the floor.

"A woman's prerogative," she said pleasantly. "Have a cheese stick."

All right, maybe she did own me. There might be hell to pay for this, and it was probably time to make a payment. Might as well get it over with. "Monica?"

No answer. A faint light, however, was flickering in the upstairs hallway. I went up to investigate. The door of the master bath was ajar; I pushed it open to find Monica in the tub, taking a bubble bath by candlelight.

"So," she said, "you played a nice little chiphead game. And she agreed to keep me a secret. To protect you."

"She did. But how did you...?"

"You still have paint in your hair. Shall I lather you up?"

"What paint? I took a shower."

"Stop being so literal. You lose all the romance that way. Join me."

I studied her, wary. Her eyes were glittering, but no fangs were visible, and she seemed to be in a good mood, for her. Still, there was something a little too...avid about her. Being prepared for a quick getaway might not be a bad idea. So I took off only my watch and shoes, and got into the tub otherwise fully clothed.

Monica laughed and drew me close, her fingernails pointed lightly against my throat like the caress of razor wire. Then, with her free hand, she reached for the soap and rubbed my cheek with it.

"More paint? But I took a..."

"No. Not paint." She massaged the soap in with her fingertips.

Then I remembered. "Oh. That? It was nothing. Just good night."

"Was it?"

"Ask her yourself, if you don't believe me."

Monica began to use her fingernails, not hard, but not gently either. "I don't believe that I will. She doesn't like me much, does she?"

"Wonder why," I said dryly. "Considering that you went out of your way to insult her."

"While we're wondering things, I wonder why she kissed you at all."

"She had too much wine." I winced; Monica was beginning to scratch, and she might have drawn blood. "Shouldn't that be off by now?"

"Shouldn't you be tempted by now?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You will," Monica said. Then she started to lick the cut in my cheek.

(c) 1999, ROCFanKat

Continued - Part 12