Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 79959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“No,” I said, settling back into a more normal position.
He popped out the magazine, then pushed it back in, giving me a second to see the very shiny, very lethal golden bullets. “This is a Glock 19. Lotta cops use this. It's light but it might be wide for your little hands,” he said, showing me the back of it. “It's loaded so you leave it on the nightstand unless you think there's trouble. If you think there's trouble, you pull this safety and you wrap your hands around the handle and you take your pointer finger and you lay it against the gun. You do not,” he paused. “Look at me,” he commanded and my eyes rose. “You do not put your finger on the trigger until you actually see a threat, understand? Finger stays on the gun so you don't accidentally fuckin' shoot me. You see a threat, you point for mid-body, you pull the trigger. And you keep fuckin' shooting until they go down.”
“Okay,” I found myself saying though I was pretty damn sure I would never be able to pick up the gun, let alone shoot someone with it.
Somehow, he picked up on that. He pulled the magazine and moved to grab my hand. “It's not loaded,” he reminded me, shoving the gun into my right hand. “Now show me how I told you to hold it.”
He was right. It was lighter than I thought a gun would be. But maybe that was only because the bullets weren't in it. I picked it up, wrapping three fingers around the handle, my thumb across the back, and my forefinger laying down the length of the side.
“Good,” he said, getting off the bed and moving back toward the door. “Now aim it at me.”
“What?”
“Babe, need to know you won't aim for my chest and hit my foot. Aim it at me.” So I did. “Lower,” he told me, and I lowered it slightly. “There. That's where you shoot,” he said, nodding, making his way back toward me. He took the gun, loaded it, then handed it back to me. “Pick it up and point it toward the door. Now how do you pull the safety?” he asked, and I demonstrated. “Good. After that it's just wrapping your finger on the trigger and pulling. That's it. Got it?”
“Got it,” I agreed, putting the safety back on and placing the gun on the nightstand. “So you're leaving.”
“Just a couple hours. Wouldn't go if I didn't have to. You'll be fine.”
And with that, he got up, walked out of the bedroom, slammed the front door, and rumbled off.
I jumped out of the bed, following my hunger toward the kitchen, rummaging around for whatever supplies Cash had dropped the day before.
And I found a lot of dude food. Chips and glass jars of dips. Peanut butter and jelly. White bread. Boxes of cereal. With a shrug, I made a cup of coffee, grabbed a soda along with a bag of Doritos and a bag of corn chips and both dips: the salsa kind and the cheesy kind. I had been living on food I wouldn't have fed a dog for three months, I deserved to shamelessly eat junk food in bed on a Friday night.
So I did.
Then eleven rolled around. Twelve. One. Two. Three.
Still no Reign.
And then I heard it.
Awake and more than slightly freaked out about being alone, I had the TV down super low. And I heard it. Footsteps. But I hadn't heard a car or bike. There had been nothing. But there were footsteps. And then there was the front door closing. And then the footsteps were in the house.
My heart flew into my throat as I scrambled out from under the blankets and flew down onto the floor beside the bed. Then, realizing how girly and stupid a reaction that was when there was someone potentially coming in to drag me the fuck back to V, I stood up, grabbed the gun, pulled the safety, spread my legs wide, and aimed, my finger laying across the gun like I was told to.
And thank god it wasn't on the trigger.
Because not a second later, there was Reign. In the bedroom doorway.
His head jerked up. Seeing me, his brow quirked, a smirk toyed with his lips. “Hey babe.”
“You're drunk,” I accused, still holding the gun aimed at his chest. My insides were starting to feel shaky from all the unnecessary adrenaline. But on top of that, I was pissed. He made me almost fucking pee myself in fear because he was too drunk to fucking think of announcing himself when he walked in the door?
“Yep,” he agreed, still watching me, still looking amused.
And then it wasn't just my insides shaking. My arms were shaking so bad the gun could barely stay in focus. “You scared me,” I accused.
“Baby...” he said, his voice dropping. He moved forward, wholly unconcerned about a shaking woman holding a loaded gun pointed at him. He got closer, clamping a hand on the top of the gun and pushing it downward before taking it from my hand, putting the safety back on, and putting it down on the nightstand.
“I didn't hear your bike and then there were footsteps...”
“Couldn't drive,” he shrugged. Close up, I could see why. Well, no. I could smell why. He reeked of alcohol.
“Couldn't say it was you? You just let me have a fucking panic attack thinking someone was here?”
“Wasn't my brightest plan,” he agreed.
“You could have...” the rest of my argument got muffled against the material of his shirt as he pulled me forward and wrapped his arms around me. And damn if I didn't melt right into him again, my arms going across his lower back as his stroked up my spine and into my hair.
“Won't do it again,” he murmured and I felt his warm breath on my hair.
I nodded, relaxing into him, feeling my wobbly insides settle. I took a deep breath, expecting to inhale Reign: soap and man and the barest hint of manly detergent. But that wasn't what I got. What I got was smoke. And alcohol. And... perfume.