Page 47 of Mob Star

I watched a couple videos before I suggested it, so I at least know the technique. I stagger my stance with my dominant hand holding the handle. My less dominant foot out in front. I wrap my other hand over the one holding the ax. I raise it until I point the blade at the bullseye. I inhale, transferring the weight to my back foot. Then I pray I don’t make an ass of myself, shift my weight forward, and exhale as I bring it over my head and release. I’m tempted to squeeze my eyes shut, but I watch as it thuds against the board. It embeds above the bullseye but in line with it.

Okay. That wasn’t as hard as I feared.

Finn’s hand comes to rest on my lower back. “That’s awesome.”

I turn my head to look at him, and our lips practically brush. He kisses my cheek instead. I step aside. I make sure I’m out of his way so he can bring the ax back over his head. Except he doesn’t. He holds it in his left hand; his stance clearly showing he’s been an athlete. He brings the ax up and throws without having to practice lining up his sights. It digs into the target just left of the bullseye. My eyes narrow. I knew he was left-handed, but…

“You missed on purpose.” I’m not asking. I’m telling.

He looks over at me, his brow furrowed. The picture of innocence and confusion. Fuck. He’s going to be a good liar. Far better than me. Neither of us says anything as I pick up my second ax and take my position. I focus again before hurling the ax with more force than I planned. I’m annoyed.

It hits dead center; the blade embedding deep into the wood. It’ll take some prying to get it out. I step out of the way again, but this time, I’m practically glaring at Finn. I don’t want pity shots to make me feel better. It makes me feel belittled instead. He watches me as he raises his hand. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he sends the weapon sailing through the air and into the target at the very most center part of the bullseye.

“Thea, I own an Irish bar. I used to go there after school when I was in elementary school. I did my homework there while Nana babysat my brothers and me. I’ve been throwing darts since I was nine. I wanted you to have a good time.”

Fuck. I’m a bitch.

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against his body. He presses the softest kiss to my lips. It’s so gentle after watching him do something— violent if we weren’t here—manly —impressive —that makes me want to jump his bones. That is Finn. A contradiction.

“Thank you. I should have been gracious like you said I was.”

“No. I made you feel like I did a pity throw. And I did. Not because I don’t think you’re good at this. You impressed me the first time. A little scared of you now after the second time. I did it because I didn’t want you to think I was showing off and being a dick.”

I cup his face. I’m falling into infatuation. He’s too good to be true. My kiss is not a mere brushing of our lips. It’s hard and fast. I want to be somewhere private. I want to take off my panties and let him do what he wants with my pretty little pussy.

Instead, I sweep my thumb over his light stubble. “Thank you for always putting me first. I’m sorry I assumed the worst.”

“You didn’t know why I was good at it, but I shouldn’t have tried to hide what you obviously already knew.”

“I want to try it single-handed, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough. I don’t want to embarrass myself by having it land on the floor halfway to the target. Will you show me, please?”

“You’re strong enough to make it across that space. It’s not that far. I think you’re worried you won’t throw hard enough to get it to stick. Considering how you just threw the last one, you definitely are. I think what’s really your concern, though, is the timing, so the blade is facing the right direction when it hits the wood.”

I nod. My fear of embarrassment is all of that. That I won’t be strong enough with one hand to make it sink in, but I also don’t feel confident that I can throw it so that it hits the wood at the right rotation.

“Cailín, I think your nerves are telling you that you have to do everything perfectly. Instead, they’re making you feel less coordinated. It doesn’t have to be a bullseye every time. It doesn’t matter if you don’t even hit the target. Everyone is busy doing their own thing. People aren’t watching us. And even if they are, there are plenty of other people who aren’t doing so great at this. You wouldn’t be alone at not being an expert.”

All of that. It’s why I take forever to bowl a decent game or play pool well. It’s not until I practically give up trying to be any good and just play that I hit pins and shoot balls into pockets.

I keep my voice low for only Finn. “It’s not exactly that I resist doing things I can’t be sure I excel at. I mean, there are some cases of that. But I was game to try this, knowing I have no experience with it. It’s not that I think you would look down on me for missing every shot. I’m used to being good at most things I do. When I get to something I don’t think I do well, I overcompensate. Then I’m way worse. I have to get to a point where I don’t care that I might not be good enough. And that ‘enough’ is some ridiculous self-imposed standard.”

I just admitted something that makes me feel kinda vulnerable. All I see in his gaze is— I’d say love if we were that far along in our relationship. I guess it’s respect and acceptance and —I just don’t know. It’s something I can’t articulate. But it makes me feel warm and gooey inside. I’d stepped back a little to talk to him, so he pulls me close again.

He whispers in my ear. “Fate gave me a gift the day you walked into McGinty’s.”

He lets go of me and fetches the axes. We take turns for the next hour until our time is up. I’m at ease during each of my turns, and I get progressively better with the one-handed throw. Moving my way from the right side of the outer-most ring to the bullseye. I don’t hit it dead on, but I get much better each time.

I excuse myself and slip into the restroom. There’s a stall open, so I go straight in. I want to surprise Finn later, so I’m pulling off my panties as I hear two women talking.

“Did you see the guy with the red hair and green eyes? What I wouldn’t give to be his girlfriend.”

“How could I not? The man is fucking hot as hell. He looked so sweet and in love with her. She’s so lucky.”

“I know, right? He’s gorgeous and is obviously the perfect boyfriend. I wish he was whispering whatever he was saying in my ear. His girlfriend is stunning. They could be like in a movie or something.”

“Why do gorgeous people always fall in love with other gorgeous people? I’m not surprised she’s with such a hot guy. She’s straight and out of my league.”

I hear them flush each toilet. I remain hidden. It’s not that I’m eavesdropping— okay. I totally am — I don’t want to embarrass either of them. It would be awkward, wouldn’t it?

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