by Zoey Parker
We drove away from the shopping center and Rafe steered us onto the back roads again until we came to a barren field next to a deserted farm. “This looks pretty perfect,” Rafe said, driving up the dirt road to the dilapidated farmhouse. He hopped out of the car, knocked on the front door, then walked all the way around the house before getting back in.
“Yep, this should work,” Rafe said. “No one's been here for a long time, from the look of it.” He pulled the car around to the back of the house and we got out. He handed me a stack of advertising pages and a roll of masking tape. “Start taping these over the windows. Make sure they're totally covered or it'll fuck the whole thing up.”
I carefully taped the pages into place on one half of the car as he did the other half. Then he handed me a face mask and poncho. “Go ahead and put these on.”
We put on the safety gear, and each of us took a can of spray paint. “Now remember, it doesn't have to look nice,” Rafe said. “It just has to cover the whole car so people think it's just a shitty paint job instead of a cover-up.”
We spent the next hour carefully walking around the car and spraying every inch of it. Even with the mask on, the paint fumes were nauseating. Not only that, but I kept expecting to see people with guns running toward us, since that seemed to happen almost every time we stopped.
But no one came, and we were able to coat the entire car. The paint was clearly not intended to be used on cars and it had a dull, flat look to it, but at least the original color was completely hidden.
While the paint dried, Rafe stripped off his poncho and wandered over to the back door of the house. I followed him, taking off my gear too. Rafe tried the door, discovered it was locked, and used a nearby rock to smash one of the panes of glass in it. He reached in gingerly and unlocked it from the inside, stepping in. I walked in after him.
Dust motes hung thickly in the air, dancing in the pale beams of light from the windows. Most of the furniture was gone, but in the kitchen, there was a row of empty beer bottles standing on a high shelf.
Rafe looked at the bottles for a long moment, then turned to me, smiling.
“Ever fire a gun before?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Well,” he continued, “there's a first time for everything. Help me get those bottles down.”
Chapter 20
Jewel
As the sun started to set, Rafe and I carried the empty bottles out of the house. Rafe found a few old wooden crates in the barn and arranged them upside-down in a row behind the barn before carefully setting the bottles on top of them. Looking at them reminded me of scenes from the old Westerns I used to watch with my dad when I was a kid, when the grizzled gunslinger teaches the young deputy how to shoot.
Except Rafe was far from grizzled. Even with the ridiculous-looking sweatshirt and khakis, he still looked lean and handsome, especially when the reddish-gold sunlight caught the natural highlights in his brown hair.
Rafe walked over to me and pulled a handgun from under the sweatshirt, offering it to me handle-first. But as I looked at it, my arms felt like they were glued to my sides.
“Go on, take it,” Rafe said encouragingly. “It won't bite.”
“I've never liked guns,” I said, hearing the tremble in my own voice. I was thinking about the nightmare I'd had the previous night. “And now that I've had them fired at me, I like them a lot less.”
“Well, the only good way to conquer that fear is to be able to fire back,” Rafe said. “I mean, I'll keep right on doing everything I can to protect you, but that'll be a hell of a lot easier for me if you're shooting too. Especially if I know you're good enough at it to keep from shooting me by mistake.”
I kept looking at the gun in his hand, trying to work up the courage to take it. “What kind is it?”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Why? Were you planning to write a fucking review of it later? Are you worried that someone will ask you in the middle of a firefight? 'Hey, by the way, that gun you're shooting at me is swell! What kind is it? I want to put it on my Christmas list...'”
“You can really be a sarcastic asshole, do you know that?” I asked. I wanted it to come out sounding tough, but I found myself laughing instead.
Rafe laughed too. “It's my best feature. Well, that and...” He trailed off into a fit of laughter.
It seemed strange to see a big tough biker guffawing uncontrollably like a little boy, but I liked it. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle again, which was very cute. For the first time, he didn't seem like some badass outlaw from a violent world I could never hope to understand. He just seemed like a man who got a little silly and giggly sometimes, like the rest of us.
“What?” I asked, snickering. He doubled over with laughter, holding up his hand to indicate that he couldn't talk. “What, were you about to make a penis joke?” I continued. “'Well, that and my huge dick' or something like that, was that it?”
Rafe nodded and I laughed too, snorting uncontrollably. “I knew it!” I exclaimed. “That's classy!”
“I'm a biker!” Rafe gasped out between laughs. “How classy do you expect me to be?”
“No, no, no!” I snickered. “No, see that Saab over there? You're totally a cager now!”
Rafe looked down. “Well, I'm sure as shit dressed like one, right?”
We both exploded into peals of laughter at that point. By the time we'd managed to collect ourselves a bit, I was feeling a lot less nervous.
“So how 'bout it?” Rafe finally said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You wanna give it a shot, or would you rather play 'Damsel in Distress' for the foreseeable future?”
“All right, fine, give it here,” I groaned, holding out my hand. Rafe put the gun in it. The barrel was short and it seemed very compact, but the weight was surprising and dragged my hand down immediately.
“Is this the one you took from the man at the outlet mall?” I asked.
“Yup. He won't be needing a gun where he's going. A harp maybe, but...”
I shuddered at the thought of handling something that belonged to a dead man, especially one who'd been alive just a few hours before. Still, I knew Rafe had a point. I was getting pretty tired of feeling powerless whenever people were chasing us or shooting at us. It would be good to feel like I was more in control of my own safety.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” I said. I raised the pistol with one hand, aimed it at the first bottle, and squeezed the trigger. It didn't move.
I looked down at the gun, confused. “What happened?” I asked.
“The safety happened,” Rafe said. “And that's your first lesson, right there.” He walked over to me and pointed to a small switch on the side of the gun. “If you're gonna carry, you always need to know whether the safety is on or off. Here, see how I carry mine?” He turned around and lifted the back of his sweatshirt, revealing his own gun tucked into the back of his pants. I tried to keep my eyes on the weapon instead of the tantalizing curve of his strong, lithe back.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Well, the safety is what keeps me from accidentally shooting off an ass cheek if I sit down the wrong way or take a bad step,” Rafe continued. “So you always need to keep the safety on until you're actually ready to pull the trigger. Then you just use your thumb to flip it, and boom, you're ready to rock.”
“Okay,” I said, thumbing the safety switch. I raised the gun with my right hand again.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” Rafe exclaimed. “Not like that!”
I swung around to face him. “Why? What now?”
“Recoil, that's what now,” Rafe said. “You try to shoot with one hand like that, the force from the shot is liable to tear your arm out of its socket, or snap the gun back into your face.”
“This is how I've seen people do it in the movies,” I said, confused.
“Yeah, well in real life, it's a good way to miss your target and fuck yourself up,” Rafe countered. “You want to plant your feet and use your other hand to brac
e it from the bottom. Here, let me show you. Which leg is your good one?”
“Um, I thought they were both pretty good, actually,” I joked lamely.
Rafe chuckled. “You can say that again,” he muttered under his breath, walking over to me. I felt myself blush again and hoped he couldn't see it.
He positioned himself behind me and used his boots to re-arrange my feet so my right foot was in front and my left foot was behind and sideways.
“Oh, like a tennis stance!” I exclaimed. My mother had taught me how to play when I was young. “Why didn't you say so?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Gee, I guess it slipped my mind since my membership at the country club expired. These days I mostly stick with croquet and sailboat racing.”
“Yeah, yeah, you're a big bad bruiser from the wrong side of the tracks. We all get it,” I teased. “Just show me what I need to know, tough guy.”
“Okay, so you've got the legs down,” Rafe said. “Now for the arms.” He put his arms over mine, guiding my hands so they cradled the gun firmly—one on the handle, the other under it to steady it. His hands felt rough and calloused against mine, and his chest was pressed against my back.
Even through his sweatshirt, I could feel his muscles. The smell of his hair and body were intoxicating, especially blended with the fresh scents of sunshine and the nearby field. There was also a faint hint of the paint fumes clinging to his clothes, and I tried to tell myself that was the reason I was feeling so light-headed.
But deep down, I knew that wasn't it at all.
“No, keep your back straight,” Rafe cautioned. I realized that I'd been leaning back against him without meaning to and stiffened up immediately.
“All right. See those grooves on top of the gun barrel?” Rafe asked. I nodded, turning my head slightly to take in more of his scent. “Keep your focus on them,” he continued. “Those are your sights. You use them to pick out your target. Take your time. Breathe. Aim.”
“Shouldn't I just try to shoot it as quickly as possible?” I asked. “The last time people were shooting at us, they didn't exactly give us a lot of time to breathe and aim between bullets.”
“Like I said, this isn't a movie,” Rafe said. I felt his breath tickling my earlobe and my heart pounded against my ribs. “We're not trying to make you into some kind of quick-draw artist, here. Right now, we just want to get you comfortable firing a gun. Speed comes later.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I stared down the grooves on top of the gun, letting the first bottle come into focus. Even with both hands on the weapon, the tip was still shaking slightly.
“Whenever you're ready,” Rafe whispered. “Keep your arms and legs tight and gently squeeze the trigger.”
I took a deep breath, willing my hands to stop trembling. Slowly, they steadied themselves, and the bottle stood squarely in my sights. I fired and felt the gun try to jump backward out of my hands. The sound was so loud that it felt like someone had smacked both of my ears as hard as they could. My body jerked back against Rafe's.
“Nice job!” Rafe said.
My ears were ringing. I lowered the gun and looked at the bottles. All of them were still intact, but there was a hole in the barn just an inch to the left of the bottle I'd been aiming at.
“You've officially managed to hit the broad side of a barn,” Rafe chuckled. “So you've got that going for you.”
I sniffed the air. A strange combination of smells filled my nostrils, including charcoal, sulfur, and...
“Do you smell pee?” I asked.
Rafe laughed. “That's gun smoke,” he said. “The piss smell comes from the saltpeter in the gunpowder.”
“Wow. I learn something new every day,” I said.
“Yup, that's me,” Rafe intoned. “I'm an educational motherfucker.”
“Jesus, it's so loud,” I added. “Isn't there anything I can do about the noise?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said. “You can fire it enough times to get used to it. Now try again.”
I aimed and fired eight more times. By the third shot, I was able to hit the bottles I was aiming at. When the sun finally went down and I couldn't see the bottles anymore, we walked back to the Saab and drove off in search of a motel to spend the night. I kept the gun Rafe gave me tucked into the back of my leggings with the safety on.
It felt good, knowing I had a gun and knew how to use it.
Looking back, I wish I'd known how little that would help me in the end.
Chapter 21
Rafe
I drove the old Saab up the back roads, keeping both windows wide open to help with the smell of the paint fumes. Even with the paint dry, the odor was enough to make me a little dizzy. I knew it'd seem pretty suspicious if anyone got close enough to sniff it out, but I figured it probably wouldn't come to that. As long as we parked far enough away from other cars, it'd be enough to keep us from being noticed.
If we were really lucky, the owner of the other car may not have even noticed its plates were gone. It's not like people usually notice their own plates.
I glanced over at Jewel. She had the gun in her lap with the safety on. She was staring at it and running her fingers over it, but I could tell her mind was miles away. For a first-timer, she'd done a damn fine job of hitting her targets.
I'd never have admitted it out loud, but she'd actually done a lot better than I had the first time I'd been handed a gun. I was just glad the asshole in the outlet parking lot had been carrying a .22. The small, lightweight pistol was perfect for beginners in general and women in particular.
I hoped she wouldn't need to use it. But I was glad she had it, just in case.
Unfortunately, the dickhead I'd taken the gun from hadn't been carrying a spare clip. The magazine capacity on a .22 was fifteen rounds and she'd fired nine. If she was really going to be any use to me in a firefight, we'd need to grab more ammo.
But that would have to happen the next day. That night, we needed a motel to crash in. I'd have preferred to hunker down in the old farmhouse since it was more low-profile. But without any running water, it would have been almost impossible to dye our hair properly. Even though the thought of bleaching and coloring my hair made me feel like a lame-ass, I knew we couldn't take any chances.
Plus, even though Jewel had been able to loosen up and laugh a bit during target practice, I knew she was probably still fighting a lot of anxiety. A motel would provide a more normal set of surroundings for her to try to relax and overcome her fear. Maybe some fast food and bad TV would help her feel like she was on more solid ground.
The truth was, I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone through anything like the emotional shitstorm she was probably experiencing. When I searched my memory, the only thing I could come up with was my parents dying in the fire. My whole world had been reduced to ashes in a single fucking night, and ever since then, I embraced the fact that any of us could end up kissing the dust at any time, regardless of how safe we thought we were.
The lesson had been painful, but it had made me free. Living, dying, killing—ever since then, they'd all seemed the same to me.
But Jewel had mentioned that her outfit was a gift from her parents, which probably meant they were still alive. From the way she talked about her job, it sounded like that meant a lot to her, too. She had plenty to lose, including her mind. And if she gave in to her shock and horror, she'd be no good to me.
Is that really what's bugging you? I asked myself. Are you just worrying about her safety and comfort because you think she's still got information you need? That seems pretty fucking unlikely, doesn't it? So what, then? If you were really all about fucking her, you'd have done it last night when she gave you an opening. Are you catching feelings for her? Is that it?
I shook my head to clear these nagging thoughts away and switched on the radio, flipping through the stations. I was looking for heavy metal or even some classic rock, but every station seemed to be playing either obnoxious commercials or drippy love songs that
didn't exactly stifle the questions I was asking myself.
I could feel Jewel looking at me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead until I saw a sign for a Comfy Nest Motel and pulled in. It was a cheap national motel chain that dotted just about every highway in America, and better still, it was away from the highway. I figured it'd serve our purposes pretty well, all in all.
“You've got credit cards, I'm guessing, right?” I asked Jewel.
“Sure,” she replied. “There's not much money on any of them, though. Probably not even enough for a room for the night.”