Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
"Oh, fuckin' hell," I groaned as the song changed away from some tolerable early 2000s alternative to, as fate would have it, Baby Bash.
My head slammed back on the headrest, staring at the ceiling as Peyton went fucking HAAM on the track.
"Do you have a problem with it being wood grain and raw hide when we ride?" she asked, tone serious as the song came to an end.
"Am I ever gonna live that song down with you?"
"I haven't even gotten to use the 'get blowed' line yet!"
"I'll take that as a no," I decided.
But, glancing in the side mirror, I realized I was smiling.
"Stop closing your eye," I demanded as she missed the target again.
"That's how they do it in the movies!"
"Yeah, well, in the movies Vin Diesel defies the laws of physics," I said, moving behind her again, covering my hand with hers. "You're squeezing too hard."
"How can I squeeze it too hard when it only goes back so far?"
"Not the trigger. Your hand. Your hand doesn't squeeze. Your hand holds the gun. You need to teach your finger to work independently of your hand."
Another ten minutes later, she was mostly hitting the target, switching between guns, trying to get a feel for one.
"Ugh," she declared, shaking her head.
"What? That was a good one. Would have been right in the stomach if it was a person. Stomach shots are good. Create all kinds of a mess inside."
"Not that. I am a verifiable badass marksman now," she declared, but her wobbly smile let me know she was fucking around.
"What then?"
"You were right," she informed me, sounding pained at the idea.
"Right about what?"
"The stupid gun. The cop gun. That's the best one."
"Yeah, figured. So what? It's a good start. We will work you up to the Ruger, so you can get your Dirty Harry on."
"Don't make me promises you don't know you can keep," she said, looking away, shutting down. She was good at that, sabotaging herself, cutting off her own happiness. Because, make no mistake, for the past few hours out here in the woods, she'd been beaming, having the time of her life. But one mention of something even remotely hinting at a future with us, and she was dropping that guard right back down.
"When I give my word, Peyt, I mean it."
"What time is it?" she asked, ignoring my comment.
"Should get going in a few. Give you a chance to get ready for work."
"Sounds good," she agreed, handing me back the gun, and starting to walk back down the hill. We were about half a mile away from the car. I had a feeling it was going to be a tense walk. Especially because I was taking the opportunity of her complete inability to get away from me.
It was time to make some shit clear.
Whether she liked it or not.
THIRTEEN
Peyton
There was something up with him.
I could feel it bouncing off him as he moved in beside me.
I knew I had blown cold at him back up at the top of the hill.
Why I did things like that, I wasn't sure. Maybe it was self-preservation. Maybe I was just worried that he would know things had changed a bit for me, that I was unsure about it, struggling with it.
But it wasn't exactly fair to him to show that.
I had been very specific about us being casual.
I had explicitly told him not to catch feelings.
I couldn't go back on that.
My pace quickened as my car came into view, bleeping the locks, then climbing into the driver's side as he went to the back to unload and stash the guns.
He got in beside me, turning slightly in his seat, gaze on me, looking serious. Like he wanted to talk.
And me, well, I wasn't great with the talking thing. That wasn't true. I could talk a high school girl under the table. But only about things that weren't personal. Since this was Sugar, the man I had been fucking - and more - I figured this was definitely going to be personal.
Which meant it was time for some Marilyn Manson. Turned up to ear-bleeding levels.
"You coming in?" he asked when we parked at the compound.
"For sex?" I asked, cringing inside at how that sounded.
"Yeah, sure," he said, sounding less than enthused as he climbed out, fetched his guns, and started in toward the door.
Once inside, he threw the bag on the bar in front of the freak of nature coffee-hater from earlier. "Handle this for me?" he asked, putting a hand at my hip, and steering me toward the hall.
Eager.
But clearly not for sex.
Which, for maybe the first time in my life, I wasn't either.
So why the hell were we going to his room at all?
"We gotta talk," he said, closing the door behind him.
"Why talk?" I asked, dropping my voice, going for a sultry I didn't feel. "When we are so much better at other things?" I went on, moving closer, tracing my fingers up his stomach.