“I should give you a gun more often,” Six said against my neck.
I let out a small chuckle, my body nothing but jelly.
Yes, he should. Especially if it led to more of that.
The next day my hands hurt. An ache in the muscles needed to fire a gun. Muscles I didn’t normally use to such an extent. My thumb muscles were the worst. They didn’t want to move much, and I understood the struggle of all creatures without opposable thumbs.
The shooting did the majority of the damage, but I was certain holding my body suspended on the edge of a metal catwalk fifty feet above the ground didn’t help.
My leg was sufficiently cleaned and wrapped, Biofreeze and aspirin working on my shoulder muscles and the lump on my cheekbone, along with the cramps from my period that started in the night.
Six’s chest was painful to look at, the bruises fully in black and blue hues. He said he felt fine, the vest did its job. His arm was also wrapped in gauze, the other in a sling.
And after a lot of work and pain, all of the blood was gone from our skin.
“Fuck, this is hard,” I cursed as I pressed the bullet down with my useless thumb. “How many clips do you have?”
His brow scrunched as he leaned against the headboard loading another. “Clips? There are no clips here.”
I held it up and waved it in front of him. “Then what am I loading?”
“A magazine.”
I quirked my brow and wrinkled my nose. “That sounds weird. And if they’re magazines, why do they always call them clips in movies?”
“Because that’s Hollywood. I’m sure some high-up long ago decided clips sounded better and the average Joe wouldn’t know the difference.”
Sounded logical.
“What’s a clip, then?”
He held up the magazine he was loading. “This feeds the gun bullets. A clip feeds magazines, which…”
“Feeds the gun bullets.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
He smiled and nodded. “Good girl.”
“Do I get a cookie?”
“No, but if you keep playing that way, you’ll get a cock.”
“Well, you know how much I like that.” I pressed down the next bullet, only the fifth one, but I couldn’t get it down before the two rounded sides slipped off each other. I tossed the bullet down onto the bed and put my poor thumb in my mouth. “Thith thucks.”
He chuckled and raised his brow as he held up the magazine in his left hand and a bullet in his right. “The trick is to press down on the back of the last bullet, then press down the tip with the new bullet and slide it back with your thumb.”
He demonstrated the action a few times, and I glared at him when each bullet seamlessly slid in.
Taking my thumb out of my mouth, I picked the bullet up from the bed and tried to recreate his actions. With the strength in my hands gone it was difficult, but pushing on the back of the bullet did help.
It took some time and a lot of whining, but I finally filled the magazine with as many bullets as would fit.
In the duffle bag of doom, he had a least a dozen empty magazines along with a couple boxes of ammo. The empty magazines from the other night were just left there, thrown away, which was probably why he had so many.
I spun one of the bullets in my fingers. On the flat end there was some writing which seemed to indicate the caliber and manufacturer, as the name matched the box I pulled it from.
The tip had a divot in it. “Why does it have a hole in the top?”
“It’s called a hollow point. When the tip hits water the bullet flattens out, slowing it down and stopping it from passing through the body.”
My jaw dropped as I stared at him. “What’s a full metal jacket then?”
“The tip comes to a point and isn’t hollow. Without that tip to slow it down, it can rip right through a body.”
My eyes popped open. “Oh my God!”
“Sometimes it’s better than having the bullet lodged in your body. Trust me.”
“You took those hits like they were nothing.”
His head tilted to the side, and I watched the muscles in his jaw jumping. “I’ve probably been shot over fifty times.”
“What?”
“With the vest on I’m not as worried about being shot, which gives me an advantage.”
“So…you willingly take them? Take the risk?”
“Whatever to get the job done. After the first time, you know what to expect. You lose some of the trepidation.”
“That leads to cockiness.”
He shook his head. “No. Confidence. By wearing a vest, I’ve greatly reduced my target zones. Accuracy decreases with less area. I’m more confident in my survival chances. Cockiness gives the wearer the belief that they are invincible, and stupid mistakes are made.”
It made sense. Six didn’t do reckless.
Even in a situation out of his beloved control, he wasn’t flustered. Cool and calm, and with deadly force. He knew everything that was going on. Knew where his targets were. Knew when to reload.