"No shit," I mutter under my breath.
"You know," starts Emmett, seemingly through a mouthful of chips. "If you just switch feet—"
"No helping." The Bulldozer cuts him off. "If the route is so—what was it—mediocre, she doesn't need any help, does she?" His voice is full of over-the-top confidence. We're talking beyond cocky now. He's bordering on impertinent.
That provides the incentive I need. There is no way I'm letting this fucker—the wall or the man—get the better of me.
I place my weight on my right foot. If I nail this, it'll look fucking awesome. If I don't, well...I'm going to eat mat. Hard.
I switch the angle on my right foot so the outside of my ankle is pressing into the wall. Plastering a look of absolute determination on my face, I give the wall an almighty shove with my left hand and left foot at the same time. My body swings like a barn door, and using my right foot as a pivot point, I whip my head to look over my left shoulder, spotting the next handhold. My back hits the wall with a thud, and I snatch at the green piece of plastic almost blindly. I lock my left foot onto a foothold, and I'm now at full-stretch, my legs spread at a rather unladylike angle.
Gripping on to the wall with all I'm worth, I hold on and face my audience, my chest heaving.
Edward's eyes widen, and I swear his perfect jaw hits the floor. Emmett chokes on his chips.
I grin.
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