I aim for the right shoulder.
“The gun isn’t loaded.”
I take a slow, deep breath and pull back on the trigger. My finger moves at a glacial pace until a metallic click reaches my ears. For the briefest of seconds I feel aching relief. Then gunfire blasts through the small room. The bang is deafening like lightening has struck the ground at my feet.
Blood explodes outward from the man’s chest, spraying my face. The gun still rests in my outstretched arm as the force of the bullet sends him backward in the chair.
My breathing stops, shock freezing me to the floor. The man lies unmoving, a river of red leeching from beneath his body.
Luke lied.
The gun was loaded.
I’ve just ended a man’s life.
Bile climbs my throat, its onset so swift there’s no time to swallow it back down. I bend over and throw up at my feet. My stomach heaves until there’s nothing left.
I straighten, hands shaking. This is a nightmare and I want to wake up. But I know I won’t.
My head turns to Leander. Blood smears the back of my hand as I wipe the side of my mouth. His face is white. But why? He gave me the gun. He knew this would happen. Didn’t he?
Then realisation burns me in the chest like a hot poker. I’m no longer a petty criminal. These assholes have rendered me a murderer. The death of this man is their insurance that I’ll never betray who they are or what they’ve done, because I’ve done it too.
There’s no escape.
It means Mackenzie Valentine will never be mine. Not now. Not after this. I’ve taken a life and my soul is irrevocably stained. How can I ever expect her to live with me knowing I can never live with myself?
With a hand that takes everything I have to keep steady, I hold the gun out toward Leander. He stares at it, his eyes like dinner plates. “Take the damn thing,” I growl.
Leander grabs it quickly.
With hard eyes, I hide the crushing ache deep down inside and stare each man in the room down until they look away. I’m in deep now, as deep as it gets, but I’m no one’s bitch. “If anyone ever pulls this shit on me again, I’ll find you in the dead of night and slice your neck from ear to ear while you sleep.”
With that I leave, shoving passed Leander.
“Jonah—”
It’s all I need to snap. With the force of a heavyweight boxer, I turn and punch Luke’s brother in the face. He stumbles backward and no one steps in to help. With aching knuckles, I shake out the pain and glare. “Go to hell, Lee.”
As I step out into the dark of night, I feel as dead as the man I’ve just shot in cold blood.
MAC
2 ? years later…
I close my eyes and fall back on my bed in the early afternoon. Today is my birthday. Seventeen years old and I will never be the daughter my parents want me to be. Sweet. Well-spoken. Reticent.
My father has enrolled me at Fleur Dreyer Halvorsen and no amount of temper tantrums or fake tears will change his mind. FDH, or Fucking Dick Head school as I like to call it, is a finishing college and a “wonderful opportunity” for me. In two months, my decline into the life of a Stepford daughter will begin. My parents are eager for the transition. Whenever Fucking Dick Head school is mentioned, their eyes light up like Christmas. They want me to make friends with other people of the female persuasion. I don’t have any. Most aren’t willing to suffer my forthright attitude.
FDH is going to teach me how to find them. It will also teach me to smile bright in the face of adversity rather than resort to petty words and violence. Instead, I can seethe on the inside like a winner. Kind words will become my new mantra. I will use them in response to bigotry, bullying, and dishonesty rather than pulling hair or calling out Renae Sanders in science class as a mean, obnoxious twat for spreading the rumour that Fern Jeffries slept with the teacher to get her A in our Theory of Evolution assignment. I might have also super-glued her textbooks to the desk and used the Bunsen burner to singe an irreparable hole in the pink personalised drink bottle she carries everywhere, but that’s merely conjecture. There’s no proof.
But no more. According to Fucking Dick Head school, I will graduate with the knowledge on how to groom myself. I will learn how to artfully arrange my hair and wear makeup, walk straight, exercise, and use a knife and fork. They will bestow me with the tools necessary to radiate positivity and lasting loveliness until the end of time. My new demeanour will attract people (i.e. new friends) and my warm, gentle nature will be remarked upon, as if being a Stepford daughter is something to be admired.
Fuck that.
I’d rather stab my eyeballs out with a rusty fork.
I want to live. I want to make a difference in the world the way my brothers plan to do. Mitch is already in the academy, and Travis and Jared are gone—living on campus at Charles Sturt University and following the family path of law enforcement. My brothers are badass. That should be me too. Instead, I’m stuck here: the youngest Valentine and last to leave the nest.
I will die in my pretty pink room, festering away from boredom. Rats will come and chew at my dull, insipid carcass until nothing remains but my artfully arranged blonde hair.
“Mac?”
Mum’s voice echoes up the staircase and into my room.
“Come down for tea and cake!”
I roll over and give my pillow a solid punch, using the power in my shoulder like Jake had taught me so long ago.
“Mac!”
My pillow suffers through a few more jabs.
“MAC!”
“Arrghh!”
When my brothers’ turned seventeen, they snuck out for late night beers at the local pub in Manly. And when I say snuck out, I mean “snuck out” because my parents knew and turned a blind eye. Boys will be boys, apparently. Meanwhile, I get crusty oolong with a side of Angel Food cake because Mum is on a gluten-free crusade.
With a huff that goes unnoticed, I heave my body off the bed and start downstairs. If I don’t, Mum will only make her way up and drag me down. At least this way I can survive their birthday song with dignity.
Last year all three brothers were here for it, forcing me to suffer through their horrendous singing. Though for a bunch of wankers, they’re surprisingly astute when it comes to choosing gifts. Not that I want to give them too much credit. I am easy to buy for; clothes, shoes, and bags are my Kryptonite. My closet is bursting at the seams with all three, but right now they feel meaningless. Does that make me selfish? Having all these things and not caring about any of it?
They don’t fill the emptiness that gurgles in my belly as I eyeball the gluten-free creation in front of me. My parents begin the birthday song as the requisite seventeen candles blaze bright enough to burn down the house. Red Velvet is my favourite cake but it was banned ever since I made it at home and Mum saw the amount of red food colouring required, which even I admit was a bit gross.