Pistol (23 page)

Steph checked the time on the microwave as she entered the kitchen. “I’m damn lucky I didn’t m
iss the morning in the office. I’m not sure how
that
would have gone down.”

“Fine, I imagine,” Pete assured. He leant a hip into the counter and watched as she
made coffee.

“What
did
you say yesterday?”

“That we had someth
in’ to celebrate.”

Steph flicked an eyebrow up. “Did we?”

“We’re talkin’ again, aren’t we?” He shrugged.

Steph crossed to where he stood as the jug boiled. “We are.” H
er palms lay flat on his chest as she pushed to her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. She moved back to finish the coffee’s, and posed the question. “What about your mother?”

“What about her?”

“When does she arrive?”

He sighed, and drew his arms across his chest.
“Today.” The spite in his word left no illusions on his distaste at the idea. He took the coffee she offered.

“Do you want me with you?”

Pete shook his head so hard the coffee sloshed over the lip of the mug. He cursed, and changed hands so he could wipe the hot liquid from his arm. “No, Love. I’d rather ya never met her.”

“Fair enough.”
Steph sipped at her cup, lost on where to take the conversation next. She couldn’t blame him for the need to shield her from his mother. As best she knew, she’d do the same if that was the kind of thing her mother had done. “You’re incredibly brave for seeing her, anyway.”

“I’m not
gonna seek her out—she can fuckin’ well come to me.” He sipped at his brew as he scowled. “Ya want a lift to work?”

“That’d be great.” Steph smiled. He’d made the choice to change the conversation, and she was more than okay to run with it. The topic of his mother was an awkward one, and the kind of subject you can’t find your way out of once you start. “I’ll go finish getting ready.” He hummed into his mug,
his eyes hooded, and she shook her head. “No coming in my room unless I say so, otherwise we’ll get nowhere today.”

His hand shot out and slapped her on the ass as she passed by. Steph squeaked in surprise, and giggled the rest of the way to her room. She couldn’t deny the sticky subject of his opinion on murder would remain a chink in
his armour, but for now it was a subject she could happily turn a blind eye to.

As long as he never did it again, what did she have to worry about anyway?

****

Pistol finished the coffee, hot or not, and dropped the mug into the sink. He wandered about Steph’s place,
and checked out the various pictures on the walls. A stab of unfairness goaded him each time he looked over yet another happy scene, but soon subsided with the sheer curiosity he found looking at pictures of Steph in her youth—before she changed to the woman he knew her as. In every photo, an attractive young girl stared back. Her sandy locks seemed to have natural sun-kissed high-lights, and the warm colour of her skin said she spent a lot of time outdoors. Then overnight, the woman in the photos changed into a colourful butterfly. The change so sudden that the rest of her family members didn’t look a day older, yet Steph—she changed monumentally.

What had happened to catalyst the change?

Pistol failed to shake the notion there was more to his princess than she let on, but he also knew how paranoid he could be. He pulled the slider open, and stepped into the back yard. He shut the door behind him, and drew a deep lungful of fresh air, then drew his smokes from his pocket. The packet faired reasonably well given he rested on it all night. He sparked a stick, and stood with his eyes closed as he worked the ember down to his finger, and thumb. The morning played out in his mind. First he would drop Steph off, then duck home for a shower, and change of clothes.

Then the real fun began. Then he hunted out his mother. Sure, he’d told Steph he wouldn’t. But he wa
nted the shit dealt with today—not tomorrow, or next week.

Today.

He still hadn’t decided how the conversation would go down between him and his mother, but one thing was for sure. He wanted that miserable bitch to feel the same pain he did. He wanted her to lament, and mourn the loss of her child or so help him; he would give her something equally as hurtful to think about. Colin’s wee face flashed in his memory, and he fisted his hands into the lapels of his waistcoat.

Pistol spun for the house, and stalled as his eyes fell on
where Steph stood on the other side of the glass. She hadn’t noticed him; her back turned as she sorted out her lunch from the fridge. He watched the way her body moved beneath the day dress she wore, and swallowed away the lump of desire which wedged itself in his throat.
She’s got to get to work. Let the woman keep her job.

The slider rattled in its tracks as he re-entered the house, and she looked over with a warm grin. “Better?”

“Marginally,” he replied.

She shook her head, and stuffed the Tupperware container of salad into her over-sized handbag. “I don’t know how you do it; smoke. I mean, I know I used to, but the taste—ugh. I can’t stand it anymore.”

His ego bruised at the knowledge there was a part of who he was she couldn’t stomach. He resolved on the spot to kick the habit, starting tomorrow. Today, he may need the distraction for his hands. Her heels clopped on the tiles as she darted about the house, and plucked random items to add to her bag. Why was it that women could never keep their stuff in one place? All tidy, and easy to find?

She stopped before him, a hand flat on his chest. “How do you manage to look so delicious in the same clothes you slept in?”

Lurid thoughts of her naked, and spread out over him left a smile on his lips. “How is it I can’t stop thinkin’ about bein’ inside of ya?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she stepped for the door. “Let’s hit the road before the rest of the traffic, huh?” She avoided the situation, but what of it? If she didn’t take control, he’d have her on her back, with the dress in another room entirely.

“Whatever ya like, Cutie.”

****

Steph opened the door to the rod before he had brought the vehicle to a full stop. Pistol caught her hand as she pushed from the vehicle, and she planted back into the seat, startled. “What?”

His fingers wrapped around her neck, and her balance tumbled into his body with the remainder of his self-control. Steph met his onslaught with a kiss of equal ferocity. She nipped his piercing between her teeth, and he groaned
; his fingers tightened on her neck.

“What are you going to do for the day?” she asked.

He let his eyes fall over her alluring sight as she sat in the passenger seat of his rat-rod. Her aqua-green hair, and beautiful ink were classily set-off by the plain white day dress. His eyes trailed down her long legs to the ridiculously high heels she capped her best assets with. Steph’s legs were lick-able on any given day, but when she insisted on wearing those damn man-killers, he battled to keep his hands off her. “Hadn’t decided,” he answered.

“Do you think
she’ll find you?”

His
thoughts of how easily he could take Steph in his car flew out the open window. “More than likely.”

“If you need support ...”

“No. You’ve got yer work to worry about. I’ll be fine.” He tapped a finger on the shifter, and wished it didn’t physically separate them.

“What do
you think you’ll say?” she asked, albeit a little quieter.

He could only guess how
unapproachable his scowl made him appear. “I have no idea.”

She hummed her acceptance of his answer,
and then drew her gaze to her hands which fidgeted in her lap.

“What’s the matter, Love?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”
He reached across the car, and drew her face to his. She eased her lips apart as he kissed her, and sighed against his mouth.

“I don’t want to cause an argument,” she explained when she pulled away.

He drew back, and brought her hand to his lips. “Cutie, if ya need to set yer mind at ease, tell me what’s on yer mind. I don’t want us goin’ forward with anythin’ in the way.”

She
huffed with a little shake of her head. Her distress was clear, and his chest grew heavy with dread. What on earth was so important she was so afraid to ask? “Do you regret sparing your mother’s life?”
Oh, that.

He nodded.
His black heart grew colder, and more ruthless—if that was possible. “Every day.” Now he simply hated the bitch more for upsetting Cutie so much when Steph hadn’t even met the cow.

“Why did you let her live?”

Pistol shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Steph drew his hand to her chest, and pressed against where her heart pounded a tempo beneath her ribcage. “We can face her together, you know.”

He pulled free, and slumped into the door. “I don’t want ya to see her—ever.”

“Why?”

“What’s the point?”

Her frown grew. “
She’s your mother. That’s why.”

“She won’t stick around for long.” He tapped an impatient rhythm on the dashboard.

“How can you be so sure?” Steph asked. “You said she does what she wants, so how do you know she’s going to leave after making this much effort to get here?” Her hand crept to his leg, and squeezed before it settled.

He drew his eyes
closed, and committed the earlier sight of Steph to memory. For all he knew it would be the last time he’d see her. Despite all her words of encouragement, support, and commitment—he knew she’d go. They all did. Everyone he ever loved, left.

“Remember what I said, Love—if I can’t fix the source of a problem, I remove it.”

The final remnants of his hope that he could ever be enough for her died as her hand withdrew, and the door opened. He sat in the hell that was her silence, and winced as the door shut without a word.

Pistol heaved a sigh, and ran his tongue across his teeth
. A single tear which balanced the rim of his eye signified the worst.

She had
finally broken him.

No matter how many times I write my thanks at the end of a novel, I don’t think I will ever be able to express enough gratitude for my husband. Thank you babe for always being there to tell me you’re proud of me, and that I can be as successful with my writing as
I
choose to be. I promise that the hours you spend alone at night while I hammer away at my keyboard
will
be worth it.

To my beautiful boys.
Although you’re too young to even read, thank you for the days near a deadline where Mummy isn’t available for play-time. Thank you for giving me space, and riding your bikes when I need a moment to run through edits, format, or market on the ‘pootah’.

Love you all, my family, to the moon and back ... and then some.

But
equally as important, thank you to you, the reader, for taking a chance on me. I still struggle to fully comprehend that people want to read
my
stories, and that they truly enjoy them, and want more. Without you showing your support by purchasing, and reviewing, I would have let my self-doubt take over long ago, and Steph and Pistol’s story would never have been told.

I love hearing from fans, and sharing your experiences, so please feel free to contact me via Facebook, or my email [email protected].

Until next time ...