Own the Eights Gets Married

by Krista Sandor

  “Yeah, that’s good,” he said, gripping her hip and rolling on top of her until a sharp pain made her wince.

  She sucked in a tight breath. “Ouch! Something hard is poking me.”

  A dirty grin stretched across Jordan’s face.

  She arched her back. “Not that, you, asshat! I think it’s the sleeping bag’s zipper.”

  Jordan’s cocksure expression disappeared. “Let me roll us over so I can be on bottom.”

  “Okay,” she answered, then caught a glimpse of the top of the tent, bowing and billowing inward. Thanks to their shit tent assembly skills, the unsteady quasi-shelter looked ready to topple over at any moment.

  “Here we go. Get ready for the best wilderness survival heat production you’ve ever had,” Jordan said with a sexy smirk as the tent began to heave.

  “Jordan, wait,” she said, a second too late.

  Her CrossFit giant of a fiancé rolled to the side, catching the corner of the drooping tent and taking it with them as they maneuvered with the grace of a bull in a china shop.

  With the tent resting on her head, she met Jordan’s gaze and tried to hold back a chuckle.

  “That was smooth,” he teased as she shook her head, but before she could answer, a voice cut through the crisp morning air.

  “What the heck is going on in there?”

  Georgie gasped. “It’s Syd. We can’t let her know what we’re doing,” she whispered, knowing there was a good chance the wedding frau was in contact with the boot camp leaders.

  Jordan’s gaze registered her concern. He knew it, too.

  “You’re right,” he whispered back. He turned his head toward the side of the tent. “Whatever you think we’re doing, it’s not sex,” he called, then gave her a little wink.

  “Not sex?” Syd parroted back.

  “Why did you say that?” Georgie whisper-shouted.

  Jordan grimaced. “I don’t know. It was the first thing I thought of.”

  “If you’re not having sex, then, what is going on in there,” Syd pressed.

  Georgie’s eyes went wide, pleading for her fiancé to come up with a better explanation.

  “Georgie got stuck in the sleeping bag,” he offered.

  “Try unzipping it,” came Buck’s voice.

  Perfect. They had an audience. Who else was out there?

  “Here, let me unzip the tent, and I can give you a hand,” Syd offered.

  “No!” she and Jordan cried in unison.

  “We’ve got it under control. Give us a sec,” Georgie called, squirming and jostling to pull up her yoga pants as Jordan did a weird inchworm jiggle to slide his track pants into place.

  The tent scraped along the ground, scratching and grating against the tiny rocks and fallen pine needles. She turned to try to wiggle her way out when her elbow connected with Jordan’s eye.

  “Ow!” he yelped.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, attempting to touch his face but only succeeding in poking his other eye.

  “Jesus, Georgie!” he bit out.

  “Do you two need the first aid kit?” Buck asked, with an amused bend to his words.

  Jordan pressed his hand to his eye. “No, we’re good.”

  “We’re coming out,” Georgie called, unzipping the sleeping bag and then unzipping the tent.

  The bright morning sun blinded her, and she waved her arm, attempting to shield her eyes only to knock Jordan in the face for the third time.

  “Babe, watch your hands,” Jordan exclaimed.

  “I can’t see anything,” she answered, blinking hard and turning away from the light as if she were a campground vampire—if those even existed.

  Her trifecta shook their heads in disagreement. Of course, no respectable vampire would ever go camping. Georgie pushed her literary companions out of her mind as she crawled out of the tent. She blinked again as her eyes adjusted, only to look up to find a sea of hiking boots.

  “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” Buck sang out.

  A wave of relief washed over her. “We get eggs?” she asked, staring up at the mountain man.

  He frowned. “No, it’s an expression. You get deer jerky and pineapple chunks unless you’ve got a rabbit or a squirrel hidden in that heap of a tent you want to cook up.”

  At the thought of that wretched can of tropical fruit, she pressed her hand to her mouth.

  “Eat up and join us at the center of camp, sleepy heads. We’re about to get started,” Syd added over her shoulder.

  Get started? She was ready for this nightmare to end.

  Jordan helped her to her feet as she listened to the crunch of hiking boots heading away from them.

  She scanned her fiancé’s face. “Are you all right, Jordan? I didn’t mean to hit you three times.”

  He rubbed below his eye, which had already taken on a yellow-green tinge. “It’s okay, babe. I’ll survive.”

  She cupped his face in her hands. “Want me to kiss it to make it better?”

  His gaze darkened, but the man froze when a woman’s voice caught them off guard.

  “Jordy Straws Marks? Is that you?”

  Georgie turned to see a young woman wagging her finger at them as Jordan’s jaw dropped.

  “Do you know her?” she asked her flummoxed fiancé.

  “Of course, Straws knows me. We went to the same high school,” the woman replied.

  “Camille Pruitt?” Jordan sputtered.

  “The one and only,” the woman replied in a voice way too chipper for spending the night in a tent.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, looking as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “I’d guess the same reason as you, Mr. Straws. For the bridal wilderness boot camp,” she answered, flashing her left hand adorned with a giant diamond ring.

  Georgie turned to her fiancé. Straws was the cruel nickname the kids from Jordan’s past had given him because of his gangly, pre-CrossFit body. He hated it. That nickname, accompanied by the thoughtless act of kids stuffing his locker with the damn things, had haunted him for years.

  “He goes by Jordan now. That’s his name,” she corrected.

  “That’s right! Silly me! I should know that by now. My fiancé and I love your More Than Just a Number blog,” the woman cooed.

  “You do?” Georgie asked, crossing her arms and trying not to allow the avalanche of skepticism to seep into her voice.

  “Yeah, and you even know my fiancé, and Straws, I mean Jordan, does, too,” Camille said, grinning like an idiot.

  “I know your fiancé?” Georgie asked, completely stumped.

  Camille gestured toward a man standing in the shade of an aspen tree. “Pooh Bear, come say hello! That CityBeat couple is here!”

  Stepping out of the veil of darkness and wearing a ball cap with a Casey Pest Control logo, Georgie did a double take.

  No, it couldn’t be!

  “This is my Pooh Bear, Brice Casey,” Camille clucked.

  “Hey, Virginia!” the supreme asshat and catalyst for her Own the Eights blog said with an idiotic grin.

  She stared at the man. Of all the boot camps in all of Colorado, what were the chances of meeting this jackass here? Her usually loquacious trifecta could barely believe their fictional eyes.

  “Her name is Georgiana or Georgie. Not Virginia,” Jordan said, finding his voice and joining the conversation.

  Brice put up his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, sorry! Lucky for me, you don’t have a beer to dump on my head.”

  Then, Camille and Brice giggled. They actually giggled.

  The last time she and Jordan had seen Brice Casey, it was the night she’d inhaled a boatload of Jell-O shots and entered a wet T-shirt contest at a rowdy Denver bar. Jordan had dumped a beer on Brice’s head for making a Brice Casey-level douche canoe comment about her.

  “But you have to admit, your name is confusing,” Brice said, sharing a nod with Camille.

  “It’s so confusing because Georgia and Virginia are states,” Camille agr
eed with the logic of an empty paper bag.

  “I think I’ve told you this before, but you should consider changing your name,” Brice said as his expression grew serious.

  “You want me to change my name because you can’t remember it?” she repeated, incredulity lacing her words as heat bloomed on her cheeks.

  Jordan must have sensed she was about to lose her shit and pressed his hand to her back.

  “Well, Brice, Camille, how did you guys meet?” Jordan asked.

  God bless this man for shifting the conversation.

  Camille emitted an exaggerated sigh. “It’s a beautiful story.”

  “It sure is,” Brice agreed.

  Camille’s face lit up. “And we’re famous, too. Brice is Colorado Rodent Royalty, and I’m the Plunger Princess.”

  Georgie shook her head to knock away the fatigue cobwebs. She had to be hallucinating from lack of sleep.

  “Did you just say you were the Plunger Princess?” she asked.

  “Camille’s family owns a plumbing business,” Jordan supplied.

  “That’s right! We’re the largest family owned operation in the state. We’ve unclogged over a million toilets,” the woman remarked proudly.

  “And my family has been in rodent removal for five generations. Mice, rats, squirrels, if it’s a rodent, we’ll remove it,” Brice added proudly, wrapping his arm around Camille.

  Georgie’s gaze bounced between the couple. Was this ridiculous conversation really happening? Could this be the result of ingesting the equivalent of twenty-two vegan chocolate chip cookies on zero rest?

  “Our families have been friends for years, and Brice and I reconnected at a wet T-shirt contest,” Camille continued.

  At the mention of a wet T-shirt contest, Georgie snapped back.

  “Was it the one I was in back in June?” she asked, addressing Brice.

  “No, the next weekend,” Brice replied with absolutely no shame in frequenting weekly wet T-shirt contests.

  “It was meant to be,” Camille gushed, pushing up onto her tiptoes to kiss Brice’s cheek.

  “Yep, Camille is the perfect ten I always knew I’d end up with. Plus, a couple of months before we reconnected, Cammie traded in her C’s for D’s,” Brice added, gesturing to his fiancée’s ample bosom like they were a rack of ribs.

  “Pooh Bear, you are the sweetest man,” Camille cooed.

  Georgie caught Jordan’s gaze. Had they somehow wandered into the twilight zone? When they turned left instead of right, had they entered some bizarro bridal dimension? She looked around, hoping a camera crew would jump out and say surprise. After the last night and even this morning, she’d be up for a day at the Ritz spa with her mother.

  And that was really saying something!

  “Are you guys ready for the competition?” Brice asked.

  Jordan crossed his arms. “What competition?”

  Georgie swallowed hard. There was no mention of a competition in the email they’d received from the frau’s assistant, but, then again, there was no mention they’d be attending a wilderness torture event, either.

  “A friendly wilderness survival skills competition between the couples. Cammie and I love this stuff,” Brice replied.

  “You do?” Georgie asked.

  These two barely had two brain cells between them. But at that thought, a kernel of hope bloomed. If these airheads could survive wilderness boot camp, surely, she and Jordan could, too.

  “I was a highly decorated Girl Scout, and Brice was an Eagle Scout,” Camille replied.

  The kernel of hope faded.

  “I was a beauty queen,” she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Brice and Camille stared at her, and she plastered on a high-wattage smile.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  Was she intimidated by these morons?

  No!

  No, no, no, no!

  She parted her lips to say she’d misspoken as the irksome clang of a cowbell rang out.

  “We better head up. It looks like the race is about to begin,” Brice said to his fiancée.

  “Are you guys coming?” Camille asked.

  “We’ll see you up there,” Jordan answered as Brice and Camille headed toward the center of camp.

  Jordan turned to their floppy tent and pulled out their shoes and backpacks. “We need to get ready fast. Grab the deer jerky. We can eat after the race.”

  Georgie laced up, then opened the bear canister and placed the clump of meat into her backpack, while also keeping a watchful eye on her fiancé.

  “What are the chances of two people from our pasts showing up here? It’s crazy!” she said as Jordan’s features remained neutral.

  He grabbed their water bottles. “I don’t care what we have to do, Georgie. We’re not letting those two beat us at anything,” he said, his voice low as he glared at the stainless-steel containers.

  “I don’t think it’s a real competition—” she began, but Jordan didn’t let her finish.

  “Did you not hear what the crown prince of rodent royalty said?” he shot back.

  “I did, but I’m assuming it’s all in good fun,” she answered.

  “Yeah, good fun, like pelting me with straws anytime I walked past the school cafeteria,” he bit out.

  She rested her hand on his back, feeling his muscles tense beneath her touch. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll ignore them. There are a bunch more couples here. I’m sure we’ll barely have time to interact with Brice and Camille.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jordan answered with a pinched expression.

  She pulled a strip of deer jerky from her bag and handed it to him. “Eat this. The Supreme Emperor of Asshattery requires sustenance.”

  He sighed, taking the hunk of meat as his shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Georgie. Seeing Camille brought back all the shit I thought I’d left behind. Are you okay? I’m sure you didn’t expect to run into Brice Casey.”

  “Oh yeah! I’m totally good with bumping into the guy who was such a jerk it compelled me to start a revolution.”

  Jordan raised an eyebrow playfully.

  “Okay, to start a blog. It’s almost the same thing,” she replied, holding his gaze, which, thankfully, had softened.

  The clang of the cowbell cut through the air, calling them to camp, and Jordan offered her his hand. She took it and savored the warmth of his touch. He brushed his thumb across the center of her palm, and she relaxed a fraction as they wove their way through the foliage to the center of camp to find the group already assembled.

  Syd clapped her hands. “All right, wilderness couples! It’s time for a scat race.”

  Georgie met Jordan’s gaze, and his eyes lit up.

  “Is scat a type of training like HIIT training?” he asked, radiating excitement.

  Syd stared back blankly. “I’m not familiar with hit training.”

  Jordan lifted his chin, going into trainer mode. “HIIT, H, I, I, T stands for high-intensity interval training. It’s a form of cardiovascular exercise where you alternate between bouts of high-intensity training and recovery periods. It’s great for conditioning and improving metabolism.”

  “Is there any shit involved with your hit?” Buck asked with a quirk to his lips.

  “Shit?” Jordan echoed.

  Buck nodded. “Yeah, S, C, A, T, scat, is just a fancy way of saying shit.”

  Jordan took a step back, and his mouth fell open. “We’re doing a race to see who can shit first?”

  The entire group broke out into laughter, and Jordan’s expression hardened.

  “No, this is not a competition to see which boot camper can produce a bowel movement first, and of course, if you need to have one, don’t forget your trowel,” Syd advised as the couples nodded.

  Buck took a step forward. “Teamwork is a cornerstone of any marriage. Part of being a committed couple is working together and understanding the lay of the land. Life isn’t always a stroll through the park. The task at hand will h
ave you trekking through the backcountry and identifying the different animal scat or feces. You know what feces are, right, Jordan?”

  Another round of snickering percolated through the wilderness campers.

  Georgie touched Jordan’s arm and glanced up as a muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t know what it was either,” she said under her breath. But her fiancé didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Not now, Georgiana,” he mumbled, his posture going rigid.

  “Jordan, it’s not a big deal,” she tried, keeping her voice low.

  “Georgiana, can we listen to the directions so we can win this bullshit shit race,” he bit back.

  She dropped her hand from his arm. What the hell was up with this gruff Georgiana pay attention perfection attitude?

  Then it hit her.

  Perfection.

  Shit!

  She stole another look at her triggered fiancé, who, thanks to this wilderness poop race and the arrival of his high school blast from his unpleasant past, Camille Pruitt, had morphed into ten-mode. It had been ages since she’d seen this asshat and the true reigning Emperor of Asshattery. Sure, they joked about it now, but there was no denying the Class-A douche he’d been when they’d first met.

  Syd gestured for their attention. “Every couple gets a clipboard. On it, you’ll find a list of animals and a picture of their scat. Your job is to find scat from four of the ten animals listed. The first couple to complete this task gets to spend the night in the honeymoon yurt,” Syd added.

  “The honeymoon yurt,” Georgie repeated as the thought of a real bed and a working toilet made her weak in the knees—or perhaps that was all the cookie dough and deer jerky. But still, the idea of not sleeping in a tent sounded like heaven on earth.

  “And don’t think you can cheat. Not all the scat on the list is found on our land. If you mark off each piece of shit, you are officially shit out of luck and lose any claim to the honeymoon yurt,” Buck cautioned.

  Georgie swallowed hard as Syd handed each couple a clipboard.

  “Form a circle. We don’t want you on top of one another. There’s plenty of land and plenty of scat. We’ll send you off in different directions, but make sure you’ve got your compass so you can track where you are on the map.”

  Georgie waved Jordan down. “Should we tell them we’ve never done anything like this before?”