Page 3 of Aim for Love

One of her friends snorts when I say “really hard” and whispers something to the other friend.

This is the worst part of these tours: being objectified by the single women who come looking for an escape from their so-called real life. They forget that, for me, thisisreal life. My job is safely leading newbies on the kind of adventures that will get their heart racing and get them talking to their friends. But I go home at night to a room I rent from my boss because everything else around here is too expensive, driven up in price by the very tourists I serve for a living. I have a life fitted in around my adventures that includes laundry and clipping my toenails. I don’t get to escape from reality by working here.

Scott revels in the larger-than-life allure his job gives him. I wear it like a badly chosen suit on a white water river trip. I try to make it fit, yet I’m constantly uncomfortable. Maybe I chose the wrong career, but I feel more like this career chose me. I’m from here. I grew up doing this. There weren’t a lot of other options besides moving away to the city and probably wearing a tie every work day—never a real consideration for me.

Mollie steps forward suddenly and reaches for the axe I’ve been throwing. “Can I try again?” she asks.

I realize she sensed my discomfort and is volunteering herself to cover for her friends. I wonder how often she does this. Mollie is clearly the peacemaker. The empathetic smoother who makes it easier for everyone else to be less sensitive.

“Do you want me to help you adjust your stance?” I ask, holding up both hands so she understands I’m asking if I can touch her.

She bites her lip and nods.

In her eyes, I see determination and doubt. She’s going to try again, but she’s pretty sure she’s going to fail.

I put my hands on her hips and turn her body an inch so she’s facing the target by three quarters. “Does it feel better when you step forward as you throw or when you stand still? Try it a few times without the axe,” I direct.

Stepping back, I watch as she tries to repeat everything I showed her. I fix her stance a few times, trying to imprint the body memory for her. She smells like coconut and her hips are plump, my fingers dipping right into the flesh there. I rarely get this close to clients for this long, but Mollie takes several tries to start repeating the correct movement.

“It’s better when I line up and stay still, so my aim doesn’t change,” she eventually decides.

“OK, let’s try that. How about when you hold the axe with one hand or two? Sometimes when you throw with two hands, it makes it steadier, and sometimes it’s too much force. Try holding the axe without throwing it, just feel it when you hold it over your head.”

I correct her a few more times, telling her to hold the axe over her head and not behind it, and to not let the weight of the axe pull it to either side. She decides to try it one-handed.

“OK, remember you’ve got to keep your wrist stiff so the axe goes where you’re throwing it,” I tell her, ignoring the giggles over “stiff” from the other women, who have refilled their cups. I’m sure they have many lovely qualities that are not at the forefront during this activity. “You want to release at the top of the throw, not at the level you’re trying to hit,” I coach Mollie.“Keep your eyes on the target the whole time, don’t watch the axe.”

“This is a lot to remember,” she murmurs. Her body is tensing up.

“Hey, it’s just a game. Nothing to get too worried about. Axe-throwing is a good way to get some justifiable rage out, if you have any. And I hear rage is justifiable for most women.” I’m trying to win a smile, and I get one.

“I don’t have too much rage,” she denies. “Maybe some.”

“Alright, well, channel that into your throw.” I grin at her. “Not too much rage, though. The perfect amount. OK, Mollie. Give it a few warm-up throws. You got this.”

Stepping away from her, I gesture at her friends that they should be filming this. She’s got it this time. To their credit, they both fumble to get out their cell phones quickly and start recording.

Mollie repeats the throwing sequence twice, mimicking everything I showed her, before she lets an axe fly. It hits the target, barely off the bullseye. She screams in excitement. It’s the first time her axe has stuck to the wall.

Her friends shriek too, jumping up and down.

I hold up both hands to give Mollie double high-fives and she jumps into my arms instead, surprising me. I give her a celebratory hug, unable to prevent her soft breasts from pressing against my chest. It’s nice. She fits there perfectly.

Shit, it’s been too long since I touched a woman.Half a year, at least, since Jenna and I broke up when she quit the adventure center and left town. No—that was last season, so nearly a year ago.

Before I can get too inappropriate, Mollie jumps back like she realized she’s hugging a stranger. She gives me a shy smile and then rejoins her friends to re-watch the moment on their phone screens.

In the next stall, Scott meets my eyes. He gives me a thumbs up and I grin. This is why I became an adventure guide, after all. The satisfaction of teaching someone how to do something they thought they couldn’t gets me through the less fun parts of my job.

And sweet hugs from pretty women don’t hurt, either, despite my misgivings about being the object of a stranger’s affection.

two

MOLLIE

“That guy was definitely into you.”

“Hunter,” I remind Sophie. “His name was Hunter.” And he was tall and had a man bun that made me think I might actually be into man buns—a sentence I never thought I’d think.

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