Page 47 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

“Is she actually coming?” a man who I’m assuming is Taio asks Forrest, fidgeting with his paintball mask’s chin strap. “From everything you’ve said, she seems more ‘afternoon tea at the Ritz’ than ‘mud-crawling commando.’”

I can’t help smirking as I emerge from the women’s changing room at Extreme Paint Warriors.

The facility, just outside the city, sprawls before us—a massive compound with terrain that ranges from mock urban landscapes to dense woodland areas strewn with bunkers.

Forrest and I left home separately, as he and his friends apparently needed to pick up new gear and ammo for the match today.

“How ridiculous do I look?” I gesture to my outfit—camo overalls with a tight black tank top underneath, my hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. The ensemble is surprisingly comfortable, with the exception of my clunky black combat boots.

Forrest turns, his face lighting up in that spontaneous way that always catches my heart in a chokehold. His eyes perform a quick evaluation, idling on the way the tank hugs my curves, and despite the decidedly un-glamorous setting, I feel a flush spreading across my chest.

“Not ridiculous at all. You look ready for battle,” he says, his voice warm with approval.

Taio pivots toward me, and my first thought is that Forrest seriously undersold his roommate’s height.

The man is a skyscraper, broad-shouldered with an easy confidence that explains his success in their line of work.

Behind him stands a tall, but more compact, muscular blond man wearing a weathered Australian flag patch like a badge of honor.

“The infamous Sora in the flesh,” Taio says with an appreciative whistle. “The brownstone bandit who stole Forrest’s bedroom slippers and his…” He drops his voice dramatically. “…let’s say, concentration .”

I shake his extended hand. “Guilty as charged. Though I have yet to see Forrest wear bedroom slippers.”

“Really? You can’t miss them. They are pink, fluffy, with little Hello Kitty charms on the front. Koda-cakes has a matching pair,” Taio says, teasing his friend.

Yet Forrest seems unfazed. “Is that supposed to embarrass me? Because I’d have no qualms matching slippers with my kid.” Forrest returns his attention to me and nods toward the blond. “Meanwhile, this kangaroo wrangler is Saylor.”

Saylor offers an irreverent two-finger salute. “A pleasure to finally meet the woman Forrest’s been drafting text messages to for twenty minutes before sending.”

That got him. Forrest narrows his eyes at Saylor. “Inaccurate.”

“I’ve got receipts, mate,” Saylor stage-whispers to me. “He’s become a walking thesaurus trying to impress you.”

“So,” I say, enjoying the color rising in Forrest’s cheeks, “thanks for letting me crash your guys’ day. Though I’m still not clear how paintball relates to this ‘touch her and die’ trope we’re supposedly reenacting.” I make air quotes around the words. “Seems like a stretch.”

Taio lifts an eyebrow. “Who says it’s a stretch? Paintball is the perfect theater for primal possessiveness. Add some danger, a damsel, a hero?—”

“Whoa, hey now. I’m nobody’s damsel. I’m here to be a helpful fourth,” I interject, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Well, good. Because no pressure, but we have a league reputation to protect,” Taio says with utmost seriousness. “And today we’re up against the Slaughterhouse Four.”

My posture stiffens. “Slaughterhouse? Why does that sound so murderous? I thought this was a fun paintball game. Like…children play here, right?”

“Not on Saturdays,” Saylor remarks. “No knives, no eye-gouging, and no boots to the back of the head, but other than that, pretty much anything goes, love.”

Forrest reads my petrified expression. “It can get a little intense sometimes, but Slaughterhouse knows we have a newbie today. They won’t give you a hard time.”

“See that look on Hawk’s face, Sora?”

“Mhm,” I murmur, staring into Forrest’s sweet smile.

“Remember that look. That’s how you’ll know he’s serving up a heaping pile of bullshit. Slaughterhouse will not only show you no mercy, they’ll specifically target the weak link.”

“Don’t scare her,” Forrest barks at Taio, before turning back to me. “I’ll admit, we’ve had a bit of an unfriendly rivalry, but that doesn’t apply to you.”

“They’re here.” Saylor perks up, suddenly alert. “Randy, Trevor, Brody, and looks like Jax is their fourth today? Shit .”

“Fuck. They brought in their sniper,” Taio says bitterly, his expression grave. “They’re looking for blood after what happened last match.”

“What happened last match?” I can’t help asking.

The three men exchange glances loaded with unspoken history.

“We might have ambushed them in the locker room with leftover paint,” Saylor admits.

“While they were showering,” Taio adds.

“And livestreamed it on Say’s socials,” Forrest finishes.

I burst out laughing, unable to picture buttoned-up Forrest participating in such juvenile revenge. “Oh my god, so whatever you have coming today, you deserve it.”

Taio wraps his arm around my shoulders, squeezing me tightly. “No, no, teammate. We deserve it. You’re one of us now, and shit’s about to get gnarly. You ready?”

I sniff twice. “You smell so familiar,” I tell Taio. “What is that?”

“Elixir by Dior,” Taio says proudly. “Little pricey, but it was a gift from a client.”

“Oh, yes. Elixir. My mom’s ex-boyfriend wore the same cologne. I was always fond of it. Such a nice smell.”

Taio winks at me. “I wear it better than your mom’s ex, right?”

I duck my head in a deep nod. “Of course you do.”

“Hey, Ty? You fond of that hand?” Forrest asks.

“I guess?” Taio answers, confused.

“Then remove it from Sora’s body before I remove it from yours,” he says through gritted teeth.

Taio cackles in glee at Forrest’s discomfort. Instead of removing his hand, he holds me tighter, and I swear Forrest is about to lunge, until our guests of the hour circle around us.

A tall man with a meticulously trimmed beard approaches, flanked by three equally athletic-looking men. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which flick dismissively over our group before settling on me with sudden interest. “Hawk, Ty, the Aussie, and…what’s this? Fresh meat?”

“Randy,” Forrest acknowledges stiffly.

“Who’s the pretty lady?” Randy asks, his gaze stalling on me a beat too long.

“Sora Cho,” I introduce myself before Forrest can answer. “Nice to meet you.”

Randy’s grin widens. “Charmed. So are you the ringer or just eye candy for the game?”

“We’ll see,” I reply mock-sweetly.

“Randy, back the fuck off, all right? It’s Sora’s first time here, she’s not a regular, so I expect you neanderthals to find some manners before the game.”

Trevor, a lanky guy with intense eyes, lets out a derisive snort. “Touchy, touchy. Clearly she belongs to Hawk.”

“She doesn’t belong to anybody, you misogynistic prick,” Taio growls out. “Quit your clucking. Let’s lay the terms.”

“Same terms as always,” counters a shorter, stocky guy who I assume is Brody.

“Or, how about we make this interesting?” Randy suggests, his eyes gleaming with challenge. “Losers buy drinks for the entire winning team at McGinty’s. Plus, a public admission of our superior skill, recorded for posterity. And , losers have to stay out of this arena for an entire year.”

“A year?” Saylor balks. “The only other arena nearby is in Jersey and it looks like something you’d find on Blippi.”

“Done,” Forrest agrees without hesitation, extending his hand.

“Hawk!” Saylor gripes. “Did you not hear me say Jersey ?”

Randy shakes it, then winks at me. “See you on the battlefield, Sora. Try not to get too much paint on that pretty face.”

As the Slaughterhouse Four strut away, I turn to Forrest. “That was intense.”

He shrugs. “As far as encounters with Slaughterhouse goes, that was pretty tame.”

I gulp. “So, what’s our strategy?”

“Have you ever shot a paintball or airsoft gun before?”

I shake my head.

“Have you ever been shot by a paintball or airsoft gun before?”

“No…does it hurt?”

Forrest winces. “It stings a little in close proximity.”

I inhale, then blow out a deep breath. “It’s fine. I can take it. I survived laser hair removal, so this should be a cinch. I’m ready for battle against those creeps.”

“Easy there, Braveheart,” Forrest says, smiling. “You have no experience and I’m not going to risk you getting hurt. The strategy is simple. You stay behind me at all times.”

I roll my eyes. “Is that the ‘touch her and die’ skit? I follow you around like a scared puppy and try not to trip?”

“No,” Forrest says, adjusting his protective vest, “the ‘touch her and die’ skit is the overprotective hero who loses his mind if anyone threatens his woman.”

“His woman? So I’m just a prop in this game?” I comment, but there’s something undeniably appealing about the intensity in his gaze.

Half a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps. But you’re the prettiest prop the world’s ever seen.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m crouched behind a stack of wooden pallets, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping fire through my veins.

The playing field is a sprawling urban warfare setup —abandoned buildings, junked cars, and makeshift barriers creating a labyrinth of potential hiding spots and ambush points.

Our team’s strategy was simple: stick together, watch each other’s backs, and don’t let the other team separate us. So naturally, within the first five minutes, we were completely scattered.

A paintball whizzes over my head, splattering against the wall behind me. I swallow a yelp and duck lower. From my earpiece, I hear Taio yelling coordinates, Saylor cursing in such a thick Australian accent it sounds like a different language, and Forrest repeatedly asking where I am.

“I’m behind the pallets near the blue building,” I whisper into my mic. “Someone’s got me pinned down.”

“Hang tight,” Forrest’s voice crackles through the earpiece. “I’m coming for you.”