Fearless by Brigid Kemmerer Page B

walk.” He paused. This might be the longest conversation he’d ever had with a girl, and he couldn’t tell what that gasp meant. “It used to freak my mom out, but Dad always told her that I’d be a lot safer if I knew what I was doing with a firearm.”
    She was staring at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t, like, have a gun on you now, do you?”
    God, he wished he could carry weapons to and from school. Flashing a handgun would certainly save time with those idiots. “No. Are you crazy? That’s a good way to get expelled.” Not to mention his dad would go ballistic if Hunter took one out of the house without permission.
    â€œBut still.” Clare started walking again. “Wow.”
    He had no idea how to take that, either. And she didn’t say anything else. Their feet crunched through the leaves.
    Hunter wondered if there was any possible way he could have made this interaction more awkward.
    Here. Let me give you a concussion and then scare you.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “It’s never been a big deal in my house.”
    â€œMy parents are total pacifists,” she said, and there was something bitter in her voice. “They’re completely against guns, and war, and . . . well, you know.”
    He didn’t know. But he said, “Yeah. I get it.”
    â€œMy older brother graduated last week, and he’d secretly enlisted in the army. He left on Saturday.” She hesitated. “Mom and Dad are having a really hard time with it.”
    Clare was, too. He could tell from her voice, could feel the uncertainty in the air around her.
    â€œMy mom would have a really hard time with it, too,” he said. He had no idea whether that was true, but it felt like the right thing to offer.
    â€œYour dad would probably be proud, huh?”
    â€œHe’d probably throw a party.” Then again, maybe not. His dad wasn’t exactly the celebratory type. But he never lost a moment to impart a lesson that would fit right in with the military. Even when he was younger, Hunter had known that each gun lesson, every moment spent in self-defense was twofold: part knowledge, part training.
    Sometimes he liked that. Even now, barely sixteen years old, there was some self-assurance in knowing he could take care of himself, that his father’s rigid adherence to discipline served some purpose. With his connection to the elements, control could be a fleeting thing, and he’d take what he could get.
    But sometimes he wanted to say screw it, to grow his hair out and get piercings all over, to let his abilities run rampant, just to break free of the mold for a minute.
    â€œDoes it scare you?” said Clare. “Living in a house with guns?”
    Hunter smiled. “It’s not like I wake up in the middle of the night to find them staring down at me.”
    â€œShut up.” She gave him a light shove. “No, I mean, are you ever worried you’ll accidentally get shot?”
    â€œYou mean, when I catch the assault rifle raiding the refrigerator? Like maybe it’ll turn on me?”
    Her breath caught again. “You have an assault rifle in your house? ”
    â€œSure. It’s partial to lime Jell-O.”
    â€œHunter. Seriously.”
    He liked the way she said his name, the way her tongue lingered on the T, just the tiniest bit.
    He lost the smile. “Seriously.”
    They’d stopped again, and she was staring up at him. Her eyes were a little wide, her breathing a little quick. There was a slight flush of pink across her cheeks.
    â€œScared?” he said, amused.
    â€œYes,” she said. That flush deepened. “A little.”
    â€œI’ve never caught a gun wandering the woods yet.”
    She shoved him again. “Don’t tease.”
    He started walking before he had to analyze all this touching too closely. “Sorry. I’ll be nice.”
    She fell silent again, and he bit at the