There’s always something going on around here, and they never really tell me anything. Mom tells me I’m safe and that’s all I need to know. Ryan pats my butt and says, “Gonna have to tap that later.” Because he’s a true gentleman like that. And Jim? Anytime I ask him a club-related question, he sarcastically remarks that he must have missed my patching-in party. When he first started in on that, I didn’t know what to say. But now? I just roll my eyes and walk away. I should stop asking Jim questions, but I kind of feel like it’s our bonding time, and I don’t get to hang out with many people. Even Duke doesn’t come around and bug me like he used to. Now that Nic is closer to delivering, he spends all his time at home. Not that I miss him or consider him a friend or anything.
The gun weighs heavily in my hand as I think about my next move. I squeeze the handle until I can’t feel much of anything anymore. Months have passed, and I’ve gotten nowhere with any kind of gun. I can’t take an attacker down either. The best I can do is intimidate a Lost Girl—something Mom has spent an inordinate amount of time teaching me. She says that Carlo Mancuso is only one man, but whores sprout up like a wild fungus that you always have to be on the lookout for. I may not be able to protect myself or keep anyone alive, but I sure as hell can keep a bitch off my man.
But I can’t save him. I can’t give him even a tenth of what he’s given me, and I never will. So I try again. This time I try telling myself the bullet will boomerang and kill me if I close my eyes. A third shot doesn’t hit the target, and my eyes flutter closed. It’s not the panicky squeezing that normally happens with the harsh jerk of the gun. So I try again, and this time I refrain from fluttering a little more. With three more quick shots, I find myself screaming at the top of my lungs at the stupid fucking invincible target. I pull the trigger again and again until the clip is empty and the gun clicks in protest. Still, my screams are as loud as I can manage, and I kick at the dirt beneath my feet. I must look like an idiot—like Ryan—throwing a tantrum when I don’t get my way.
The ridiculousness of it all gets to me, and I stomp toward the target and throw the gun as far as I can. I’m close, so close in fact that the stupid fucking gun hits the target on the outer ring, near the edge of the wooden board, and then falls into the grass below. Fabulous. The only way I can hit the target is to throw a gun at it. I close the distance to the target and glare at the stupid wooden board that I painted so neatly.
Idly, I reach out and slap the edge of the board. It doesn’t budge, but hitting it feels good enough to do it again. And again. Then I close my fist and try to focus my inner rage on the bull’s-eye and swing. I lose track of time and how many swings I’ve doled out. A dampness covers my fist, and when I survey the damage, I find blood dripping down my fingers to the patchy grass below. The skin covering my knuckles is torn open, with more blood seeping out.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ryan’s deep voice shouts from across the field. I turn and catch sight of him rushing toward me. He’s wearing an old, torn wifebeater that hangs off him, obviously too large, and black jeans with his black boots. His black hair has grown out some and falls into his eyes as he runs. He ignores it and picks up speed, stopping just short of knocking me over. His rough hands reach out and grab mine. With narrowed brows and a seriously ticked-off expression, he rips off a piece of his shirt and wraps it around my battered knuckles. “Stupid brat.”
“I just lost my temper,” I say. I hate it when he calls me names, but I’ve grown more accustomed to returning the favor. “Asshole.”
I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel good to call him out. So I do it again. “Like you’ve never lost your temper, you jerk.”
“You’re beginning to have an attitude problem,” he gripes. Wrapping his large hand around my wrist, he drags me away from the target and fallen gun and toward the house. I guess he doesn’t care that he’s leaving the gun behind. We do have plenty more in the house, I reason.
“You love me,” I whisper, reminding him of something I’m certain he’s never forgotten.
“And you talk too much.”
“And you still love me.” Through his grouchy expression, a hint of a smile appears in his eyes, and I know it’s his way of confirming the obvious. Ryan loves me when I’m quiet and when I’m sassy and when I talk too much. He loves me in a stupid, self-sacrificial way, and he even loves me when I’m crying—something else I do too often as well.
And I love him, though I’ve been having trouble connecting with him. We haven’t done a lot of things together lately. He comes home and crawls into my bed—our bed—in my room—our room—and he takes me. He barely says a word, and then he’s sated and passed out while I’m left to wonder what I’m doing wrong and why he’s so disinterested. I know he loves me, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t losing interest or patience. He hasn’t even reached out for my pinky in weeks, and that’s always been our thing. It didn’t matter how much of an asshole he was being. As long as he wrapped his pinky around mine, I knew he loved me. Now I just grasp at straws because I can’t bear it if he’s found someone else. It doesn’t matter how much I loathe violence—I’ll kill the bitch who tries to take him from me.