supposed to let Artie knock the sword out of his hand, fall back on the sand, and let Artie pretend to stab him in the heart. For just a moment, he considered fighting back, rolling on the sand and grabbing his sword so they could keep fighting. He looked up at Verity, at her bright eyes and wide smile, her small fists in the air as she cheered him on, and damn it, he wished that he could do it, but another woman’s face slipped into his mind at the last minute, and Colt let Artie smack the sword out of his hand.
He fell to his knees as planned because, no matter how much Verity needed him, the other woman needed him more.
The crowd hushed as Artie drew back his sword, then the blue section cheered wildly as he lunged forward and “stabbed” Colt in the heart.
Colt fell back, dead on the sand as the arena erupted in chants of “French Knight! French Knight!”
Artie stood in the center with his sword held high in victory and a spotlight on his chest while the rest of the arena went pitch-dark. Colt sprang up in the blackness and trudged through the sand to the side door, slipping into a back hallway as the King offered the French Knight the protection and keeping of the Princess.
But the words “And now our Knight must honor a lady of the court!” made Colt turn and speed through the hallways to the equestrian entrance to the arena, where he stood against the wall in the tunnel where they staged the horses, and peeked around the corner just as the Princess placed the red rose crown on Artie’s lance.
With narrowed eyes, Colt watched as Artie kicked Éclair into a canter. He circled the arena once, then twice, passing by the blue area, where he was supposed to choose a lady, and stopping in Colt’s area: yellow. Scowling mightily, Colt held his breath as Artie waved to a woman in the second row, then threw the crown to Verity in the rafters. Crossing his arms over his chest, Colt sneered as she caught the crown and did a small curtsy, placing it on her head and beaming down at Artie.
Fuck.
Artie stole his move.
Fuck Artie Kingston anyway.
Without waiting to see the tail end of the show, when the five remaining knights paraded around the arena behind Artie, Colt turned and headed back down the hallway to the Knights’ dressing room, where he slammed the door behind him. Stripping off his cape and costume, he hung it up in his locker and placed the helmet in the overhead cubby. He unzipped his boots and placed them on the floor. Someone would be by tomorrow morning to shine the boots and dust off the costume.
Standing in his black boxer-briefs, he stretched his arms over his head and reached behind his neck to loosen the rubber band that held back his shoulder-length dark blond hair. He shook it free, drew back his fist, and punched the locker door with all his might, denting it badly and bruising his knuckles. He’d have to pay for it. He didn’t give two shits.
He reached for his jeans and T-shirt, stepped into the pants, and shrugged the shirt over his head. Generally, after a show, he headed to the stables to say good night to Thor and Joe, and possibly allow himself to be used by a decent-looking patron on the prowl, but not tonight. He was in a bad mood. Tonight he just wanted to go the fuck home.
He grabbed his keys and wallet from his locker and shoved them into his back pockets, then headed out the dressing room door, anxious to be gone before he ran into someone. He’d just as soon be sitting in his car than see Verity gush all over Artie when the show was over. Fuck Artie. Fuck everything.
He pushed open the door to the parking lot with too much force, listening as it slammed into the cement wall, and kept his head down as he strode over to his car. She’d be out in a few minutes with the fucking rose crown on her head, maybe with Artie’s arm around her shoulder. Maybe she’d ask Colt to give Ryan a ride home because Artie asked her out for dinner. And he’d say yes because he was a fucking fool, and he’d lie there in the dark, waiting to hear Artie’s truck pull up in his driveway. He’d tell