didn’t really know what was wrong. The rest of the drive back we were silent. Not even the vibrating beneath me nor the adrenaline-pumping speed could lift my spirits.
Red would never contact me again. He wasn’t the type to get over it. He was one stubborn ass.
As the exit to my apartment drew near, I grew more relieved, still with a heaviness of regret, but there was some relief that I wouldn’t have to continue this charade. I could go back to my life before, solve the case, and try something else. This could be left behind for something more familiar. I wasn’t really supposed to live here, to breathe this foreign air, to be riding on the back of a motorcycle with an outlaw.
It was a nice vacation, but nothing more. I understood that as Jackal dropped me off. It seemed like Red knew as well, because he was effectively dropping me off forever without another word.
“Thanks,” I told Jackal.
He gave me a goodbye nod, revved his engine, and took off.
Glass still covered my living room. A flowery breeze brushed by gently, confusing me how nice it felt, since it was coming out of the broken sliding door. Would Red attempt to fix it now? I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. He helped enough by throwing my ex through it.
There was no use in trying it myself right now. I locked my bedroom door and crashed in my bed. I didn’t get much sleep the night before and my mind was swept up in turbulent emotions, changing from one extreme to the next. In my own bed, I succumbed to exhaustion.
My cell phoned rumbled next to my head, jostling me awake. I grabbed it with one finger and pulled it to my buried eyes, peeling them from the cushion.
Work? I’d forgotten all about my cover story. I would need to get ready for work in an hour. Damn, damn, damn.
There was no time to call off. I’d feel bad leaving Francis short a waitress in such a short amount of time. Besides, I wasn’t sure if the photos I took of the compound the night before would be enough for Wyatt, who I really needed to call sometime soon.
Wyatt could wait. Francis couldn’t. Having two jobs really sucked. This was beginning to all really suck.
Getting dressed into my wholesome black and white outfit complete with my apron, my eyes kept darting to the busted-up mess in my living room. Since I was going to be away from The Bastards for a while, I grabbed my concealed carry revolver and strapped it to a holster wrapped around my lower back. With the apron, and the poofy white shirt, it would never be noticed.
The Taurus .357 magnum is a fine weapon, one that I knew most women, and men, couldn’t handle. The first time I picked it out, I thought smaller would be easier to shoot, but boy, was I wrong. Having a smaller gun with such a powerful round like a .357 meant there would be a lot of kick back, enough to send the gun flying out of my hands. The first shot almost ripped my arms off.
I kept training with bigger guns with easier bullets to handle, like .22s, then moved myself up gradually. When someone tells me I can’t do something, I do it. Now it was mine. A great accomplishment to wear it, to know that I could handle such a powerful gun after a year of intense training. I spent a lot of time at the shooting range, a jolt of excitement after long days in an office.
I had to snicker when a bunch of guys from work would see me with the gun and tell me that I wanted something different. Maybe when I first started out that would be wise advice, but then I would place myself in front of the targets and fire, and they would see my form, see my steady rate of fire, and see the target blasted in the center. That would shut them right up.
Too bad the shooting range wasn’t an option. No one could know I wasn’t the damsel in distress, the helpless female that I was supposed to portray myself as. Shooting a magnum and blowing away targets could always relieve some stress.
I headed for The Long Road Diner to serve a bunch of starving and impatient
Red would never contact me again. He wasn’t the type to get over it. He was one stubborn ass.
As the exit to my apartment drew near, I grew more relieved, still with a heaviness of regret, but there was some relief that I wouldn’t have to continue this charade. I could go back to my life before, solve the case, and try something else. This could be left behind for something more familiar. I wasn’t really supposed to live here, to breathe this foreign air, to be riding on the back of a motorcycle with an outlaw.
It was a nice vacation, but nothing more. I understood that as Jackal dropped me off. It seemed like Red knew as well, because he was effectively dropping me off forever without another word.
“Thanks,” I told Jackal.
He gave me a goodbye nod, revved his engine, and took off.
Glass still covered my living room. A flowery breeze brushed by gently, confusing me how nice it felt, since it was coming out of the broken sliding door. Would Red attempt to fix it now? I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. He helped enough by throwing my ex through it.
There was no use in trying it myself right now. I locked my bedroom door and crashed in my bed. I didn’t get much sleep the night before and my mind was swept up in turbulent emotions, changing from one extreme to the next. In my own bed, I succumbed to exhaustion.
My cell phoned rumbled next to my head, jostling me awake. I grabbed it with one finger and pulled it to my buried eyes, peeling them from the cushion.
Work? I’d forgotten all about my cover story. I would need to get ready for work in an hour. Damn, damn, damn.
There was no time to call off. I’d feel bad leaving Francis short a waitress in such a short amount of time. Besides, I wasn’t sure if the photos I took of the compound the night before would be enough for Wyatt, who I really needed to call sometime soon.
Wyatt could wait. Francis couldn’t. Having two jobs really sucked. This was beginning to all really suck.
Getting dressed into my wholesome black and white outfit complete with my apron, my eyes kept darting to the busted-up mess in my living room. Since I was going to be away from The Bastards for a while, I grabbed my concealed carry revolver and strapped it to a holster wrapped around my lower back. With the apron, and the poofy white shirt, it would never be noticed.
The Taurus .357 magnum is a fine weapon, one that I knew most women, and men, couldn’t handle. The first time I picked it out, I thought smaller would be easier to shoot, but boy, was I wrong. Having a smaller gun with such a powerful round like a .357 meant there would be a lot of kick back, enough to send the gun flying out of my hands. The first shot almost ripped my arms off.
I kept training with bigger guns with easier bullets to handle, like .22s, then moved myself up gradually. When someone tells me I can’t do something, I do it. Now it was mine. A great accomplishment to wear it, to know that I could handle such a powerful gun after a year of intense training. I spent a lot of time at the shooting range, a jolt of excitement after long days in an office.
I had to snicker when a bunch of guys from work would see me with the gun and tell me that I wanted something different. Maybe when I first started out that would be wise advice, but then I would place myself in front of the targets and fire, and they would see my form, see my steady rate of fire, and see the target blasted in the center. That would shut them right up.
Too bad the shooting range wasn’t an option. No one could know I wasn’t the damsel in distress, the helpless female that I was supposed to portray myself as. Shooting a magnum and blowing away targets could always relieve some stress.
I headed for The Long Road Diner to serve a bunch of starving and impatient
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