He’s teaching her to shoot. Trigger doesn’t teach anyone anything. He won’t even teach a bitch to suck his dick the way he likes it. If she doesn’t get it right on her own, he doesn’t give her another chance. He’s a picky fucker, and, yet, still a total slut.
“Stop being crude,” Princess says and looks back at him. He cranes his neck down to look at her and gives her a peck on her forehead.
“Do you even know who you’re talking to?” he says and slowly drags his hands up her arms and places them on her hips. “This is important. Quit fucking around. Now, fire.”
She pulls the trigger, and a blank fires out at the barn in front of them. She jumps and nearly drops the gun. Trigger grabs it as she spins around and buries her face in his chest. The hand with the gun rests on her hips, and the other he uses to rub her back in a jerky motion. He’s being comforting and kind, but, from the looks of it, it’s killing him slowly to be this patient. The dude’s never been very good with being nice to people when his patience has run out. He leans down and kisses her on top of her head then pulls back.
“Again,” he says. She starts to whine, but he shakes his head. “Shut up and shoot.”
Deciding I’ve seen enough, I turn and walk back to my place at the fence. Maybe in some fucked up way, Ruby’s right. Maybe Trigger needs this. The guy I just saw isn’t the guy I know. The guys I know is a real prick. He doesn’t give hugs and kiss foreheads, and he doesn’t teach a chick to do anything. But he’s clearly trying even if it is making him nuts and about to lose his temper—because it doesn’t take much. Everything Ruby said rambles around in my head. She made Jim suffer for months before she finally hooked up with him, and when she finally gave in, she demanded something from him. She needed him to protect her kids, and he gave her that. He needed a mother for his son, and she gave him that, though a lot of good that did—the boy’s still fucked up. They each had something the other needed, and they work. They’ve been working for years now. It’s a sight to see. The way Ruby and Jim move around one another, it’s like they synchronize it. It doesn’t matter what the other is doing, they just kind of circle each other. As much as Ruby loves him, there’s no way he doesn’t love her more. The way he came to the club those months ago, asking us to help him fulfill a promise he had no right to make back before he was even president. That’s love.
And fuck if I don’t want that shit for myself.
I pull my cell out of my pocket, find Jeremy in my contacts, and hit the call button. It rings four times before voice mail picks up. “You got Jeremy,” the message says, and then it beeps.
“Have your sister call me back or I’m going to assume you didn’t give her the message,” I say and then hit the end button and shove the phone back into my pocket. Walking the line, I wait another fifteen minutes or so. My brain can’t let go of everything that’s going on, and if I don’t figure out how to stop it, I’m pretty fucking sure I’m going to go insane. This much thought can’t be that fucking healthy, but it’s like I’m on a goddamn rodent wheel and can’t get off. If I’m being honest with myself, which I hate to be, I’m just fucking tired of all the faceless bitches and the getting to know you phase and then the breaking up phase, and then that awkward phase at the end where she doesn’t get it. It’s insufferable.
I’ve known Nic a damn long time, and even when she ignores me—as she does so often—I’ve always known it was her. And she’s always been hot and mouthy, and even though she acts like she wants nothing to do with me most of the time, I’ve never forgotten the girl who used to always talk about traveling all over the country on the back of a Harley. Thinking about her is making me crazy to a point that’s got to be unhealthy.
Eventually, I give in and try Nic again, but she doesn’t answer, so I try Jeremy again. He doesn’t answer either, so the second message I leave on his voice mail isn’t quite as friendly. I threaten to hunt his ass down and beat the shit out of him until he has to piss in a bag for the next month. I can’t leave, but he doesn’t know that. It’s a few minutes later when he calls me back and apologizes profusely before telling me what I really don’t want to fucking hear, but have to anyway.
“She said she’s not going to call you back and that you can talk to her at 3am when you crawl in bed like you normally do,” he says. His voice trails up at the end like he’s expecting me to flip out. He’s not far off base.
“Fuck,” I say.
“Sorry, dude. She’s been in a foul-ass mood lately,” he grumbles.