Pistol

by Max Henry

  Because good men shouldn’t make you want them to treat you rough—should they.

  Steph laid her head on her bed, and stared at the ceiling. Gargled snores drifted through from where Cass slept on her couch. As soon as she said she was off, Cass had insisted she come too. Something about how they could save on a cab, but Steph had an inkling it was more to do with Cass being able to keep an eye on her.

  There was no way she was going to tell Cass what had happened in the alley—no way. And when Cass had clearly stated how unimpressed she was with Steph for even appearing to forgive Pete, her decision had been reinforced. Her opinion on the matter hadn’t upset Steph—she couldn’t blame her friend if Cass wanted to protect her. No, Cass had scathingly criticised the way Pete seemed to toy with Steph; the way he pulled her emotions one way, then the next for nobody’s pleasure but his.

  If only Cass knew about the belt.

  Maybe then her buddy wouldn’t look upon her with such rose-tinted glasses. Because truth be told, every little encounter she’d had with Pete, she had been the wilful participant. What did that say for her? It says you’re a twisted little minx. Maybe, but hell, Pete didn’t seem to mind. Steph closed her eyes, and smiled as she thought of the dark desire that had consumed Pete’s eyes as she leashed herself. He’d been turned on, and he sure-as-shit had gotten off on it.

  A bit like the time he sat in the corner of her room and watched her play.

  Her old room.

  Shit!

  Steph rolled to her side, and snatched her phone from the bedside cabinet. She hadn’t given him her new address. What if he was at her old place? Shit, shit, shit. Her thumb flew over the screen as she typed out a quick message to him. She placed the cursor in the ‘to’ field, and groaned. She didn’t have his number.

  What the hell are you going to do now?

  What was the time? Ivan should still be up. Surely. She thumbed to his number, and hit dial.

  “Hey, Stephy,” he mumbled. Incessant background noise cut to a dull roar with the distinct thud of a door. Clearly, he was still out on the drink.

  “Hey, Ivan. I’m so sorry to do this, but can I ask a favour?”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Do you have Pete’s number?”

  “Pete’s?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  He sighed through the line. “Why, Steph?”

  “I need to ring him—obviously.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Silence hung thickly between them.

  “Ivan?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Okay. I’ll get it, and text it to you. But Steph ...”

  “Yes?” Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the edge of the bedside table.

  “Be careful with him.”

  She moaned. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “Because they give a shit, Steph. Unlike others.”

  The innuendo lay thick in his words. Frustration drew her eyebrows close, her words sharp. “Thanks, Ivan. Good night.”

  Steph ended the call, and tossed the phone onto the bed to await the number. What was it with everyone? So Pete liked to portray the bad-boy. What of it? Who cared? They judged the book by its cover, but she had been fortunate enough to have read the inside. What did they know?

  ****

  Pete stepped into the balmy night air with his phone in his hand. He flicked through the notifications, and stopped as a missed call caught his eye. Richard. He tapped the screen to return the call, and placed the phone to his ear. People walked past him on their way home from a big night out. He drew back into the recesses of the building as he waited for the answer.

  “Pistol, mate.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Heard your old lady’s coming to visit.”

  He drew an equalising breath. “So?”

  “Doesn’t she have a few connections still?”

  “How the fuck would I know,” he snapped. “I haven’t spoken to the bitch since she went to the slammer.”

  “Easy on,” Richard urged. “I thought she may be of use to us, is all.”

  “Don’t count on it. The slag doesn’t know a thing about helpin’ others.” His face burned. They needed to change the subject. “How’d ya go with the cards?”

  “Gold mine, my friend. Our boys must have a rich daddy.”

  He chuckled. “Good. Hope it hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Richard agreed. “I bet it did. You want a cut?”

  “Nah. I think I still owe ya, so keep it all and we’ll call it even.”

  “Deal mate. Let me know when your old lady gets in, eh?”

  “Whatever.” A dull beep sounded over the call. “I gotta go. Incomin’.”

  “No worries.”

  Richard ended the call as Pete switched over to the other call. “Yeah?” He didn’t recognise the number.

  “Pete?”

  “Who’s this?” He answered as he scowled at a woman who stopped to eyeball him. She carried on her way, head hung.

  “Ivan.”

  “What do ya fuckin’ want?” He couldn’t stand Derek’s oldest boy. Granted they were close to the same age, but he couldn’t shake the first impression he ever got of Ivan as a spoilt little brat.

  “Steph rung me.”

  “Yeah?” Where was the prick going with this?

  “She wanted your number.”

  “Did ya give it to her?” Otherwise he’d have an impromptu stop-over on the way home.

  “Yeah.” Lucky boy. “She didn’t say why though. What’s up with you two? I thought you’d dropped her already?”

  “What fuckin’ business is it of yours?”

  “Steph’s like a sister to me, and I don’t appreciate people fucking with my family.”

  “Ya got a point there, pretty boy?”

  “You make her so much as cry, and I’ll make sure your Visa doesn’t renew.”

  Pete’s eye twitched. “Ya don’t have the power.”

  “But Dad does.”

  Pete slammed his fist into the side of a trash-can. Bruises sprung up, and discoloured his skin. “That’s it, ya little pussy, hide behind yer old man.”

  “I’m not hiding behind anyone, asshole. Just protective of what’s mine.”

  The word echoed through his mind. Mine. Like fuck Steph was his. “She know ya refer to her like that?” he hissed.

  “Like what?”

  “Like she’s yer fuckin’ property?”

  The silence spoke volumes. Ivan knew he’d slipped. Pete had him by the short and curlies.

  “Didn’t think so.” He slammed the ‘end’ button, and pocketed the phone. Today rapidly headed from bad to worse. Each time he thought things were on the up—each time he saw Steph—the hours afterward always ensured his mood ditched to an all-time low. Fuck this shit. Was anyone on his side? Ever? His mother wanted to use him, Richard was the same, and Ivan thought he was a fucking threat to Steph. Aren’t you?

  Pete lifted his foot, and kicked the trash-can over. No. No he wasn’t a threat.

  He’d fucking prove it.

  ****

  Steph checked the time. It was after two in the morning. Should she call? Maybe he went home. Chicken. Cass still snored like a trooper on the couch. Maybe she should ring Pete and tell him not to come over—if he still wanted to, that was. She scowled at her indecision, and plucked the phone from the bedspread.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  Maybe she should hang up. Just one more.

  “Hey, Love.”

  She exhaled her pent up tension, and smiled. “Hey, you.”

  “I was wonderin’ when you’d call.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I should.”

  “Why?” His suspicious tone cut into her.

  “I thought you might be tired and want to hit the sack.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I am tired.” Her heart clenched. “But I’d rather sleep next to you than on me own.”

  Steph�
�s legs wiggled in a silent happy dance. “I guess I better give you my address then.”

  “Text it to me, Cutie. I don’t know if I could remember it right now.”

  Dullness in his speech didn’t sit well with her. “Are you okay?”

  He paused a little too long before he answered. “Yeah.”

  Her chest tightened, the distance between them painful. She wanted to hold him, reassure him, make him laugh again. He couldn’t get to her place soon enough. “Okay. I’ll flick you the address. See you soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hung up.

  That’s all he said? ‘Thanks.’ What the hell was that? No ‘I can’t wait,’ or ‘I’m on my way, Love.’ An unwelcome anxiety settled in the base of her gut. The nausea needled its way into her nervous system, and left her unsure of everything. One simple comment from him, and she re-evaluated every moment they had spent together so far. Had she read too much into his possessiveness? Steph wanted to believe that such a need to claim, and dominate a person came from the basic desire to take a partner for one’s self. That such emotions came from the same basic origins as love. As loyalty.

  Maybe she had been wrong? What did she know of the dominant, aggressive nature Pete had anyway? What she’d seen in movies, read in books? How much of that was true? Her stomach churned at the thought such behaviour could stem from something deeper, darker.

  At least Cass was here.

  Cass. Shit. What was with her head tonight? She’d been so consumed in her evaluation of Pete’s mood that she forgot to warn him Cass was there. Steph lifted her phone, and typed her address into a fresh message. She finished the text with ‘Cass is on the couch.’ If he could be blunt, so could she.

  His reply rang through. ‘Threesome?’

  ‘Ha de ha,’ she penned back. He was kidding, right?

  Oh God, she hoped he was kidding.

  Darkness enveloped Pete as he stood over Cass—and watched. She snored like a damn train that chugged through a siding. Attractive. Aside from that, she was still a beautiful sleeper. Her arm lay lax over the side of the couch, a blanket draped over her from the waist down. He followed the lines of her top with his eyes, especially the way the neckline of her shirt sat so close to her nipple that he could make out the slight bumps of the areola. Disgraceful.

  Once upon a time he would have gone there. But now he had better things to play with.

  His eyes drifted up, and across to Steph’s bedroom door. Nobody realised he was inside—that he knew of. The front door had been locked, but he picked it. He wanted to surprise his girl. Pete walked slowly and purposefully to her door, where he peered through the darkness. A notification on her phone lit the room in intervals of green light. She lay on top of the covers, fast asleep.

  He had taken longer than intended to get to her place. It was forty minutes from where he worked, plus he had an errand to run on the way over. Richard had been ... wary of his visit, shall he say. And rightly so. As long as he had anything to do with it, nobody would side-step him to use his mother—least of all for their own criminal benefit. He might hate the woman, but he also didn’t want people to think he was happy to hand out free rides at the expense of his reputation.

  Pete moved to Steph’s side, and knelt on the floor. Her breaths were slow and even; her plump lips moved ever so slightly—nothing like her friend who still chopped down a forest out there. Steph slept like what he had imagined sleeping beauty to look like as a child; beautiful, and pure. He carefully placed his elbows on the edge of the bed, and leant over her so that his face hung directly above hers. The soft scent of vanilla and frangipani wrapped around his nostrils, and filled his senses with her heavenly smell.

  She stirred.

  Pete held his breath, and waited. Within seconds her breaths resumed their even pace, and she slipped back into her dreams. He should wake her, let her know he had arrived, but she looked so fucking fantastic. He wanted to burn the image of her into his memory, like a ghosted image on a plasma TV. Everywhere he went, he wanted her to be right there in the background.

  He drew back on his heels, and dropped his shoulders. With her before him like this; so pure, so innocent—it ate at him. It served as a painful reminder of what a perfect woman he ruined. He could leave, right now, never look back. She wouldn’t know he came. He could walk out the door, and spare her this misery.

  But he couldn’t. You’re a selfish bastard, O’Malley. Yeah, yeah, so what? He wasn’t going to leave.

  Instead, he drew to full height, and padded around her bed to the far side. The intermittent light from the phone gave her room an eerie feel as he stripped his boots off, followed by his jeans. His shirt made a dull thud as it crumpled onto the pile of clothes. He edged himself down on the bed, careful not to disturb her as the mattress slowly dipped with his weight. He sighed, and ran his hands over his face before he took another look at her.

  Waves of brown hair fanned around her face as she slept. The soft lengths gave the illusion of an angel’s aura. He stretched across the bed, and ran his fingers through her locks. So damn soft. Pete pulled back, and closed his eyes. He desperately reminded himself of the reason he came—he wanted to tell her everything, share his world with her. The burdens of the last few weeks had hit a precipice, and either he lightened the load, or he would snap. And people around him didn’t do well when he snapped.

  Steph stirred, and rolled in her sleep to face him. He waited until he was certain she wasn’t conscious, and then slipped into the bed beside her. Time stood still as he lay, and stared at her perfectly proportioned features. Her slight nose had the tiniest jump at the end which made him twitch with the need to tap it. Her eyes were framed by the softest, yet longest lashes he’d seen. When she blinked at him earlier, he’d been struck with the need to know if they were indeed as soft as a butterfly’s wing. But those lips—they were by far his favourite part of her oval face. So full, so soft, and the perfect shade of pink. They simply begged to be kissed.

  Pete’s eyes burned with the need to sleep. As much as he would be happy to watch her all night, he needed rest. Early dawn light tainted the black sky as he finally closed his eyes and succumbed to his exhaustion.

  ****

  Steph yawned, and stretched her hand over her head. She opened her eyes, and stifled a scream. Could have warned me, you prick. Who knew what time Pete had finally arrived, but there he was, asleep in her bed. And he hadn’t woken her. She wasn’t a hundred per cent on what to think of such a thing. Should she be offended he didn’t want her that badly? Or was it sweet that he let her sleep?

  His breaths were deep, and long. The boy was clearly exhausted, and far-be-it for her to wake him. Steph slipped a leg out of bed, and dropped her body over the side in a singular graceful flop to the floor. She spun around to check him, but he hadn’t moved. Success.

  She tip-toed to the lounge room, and her eyes fell on Cass as she stirred on the couch. Shit. The memory had completely escaped her that Cass was in her house.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” she whispered.

  “Why are you talking so quietly?” Cass asked, full voice. “I don’t have a hangover if that’s what you’re worried about.” She stretched, and pulled herself to sit.

  “No reason,” Steph lied, aware her voice had barely risen in volume. “Coffee?”

  “Puh-lease.” Cass dragged herself to the island bench-top, and drew a stool out. “So then, what do you have to tell me about last night?”

  “Huh?” Steph tried her best absentee tone, but failed miserably.

  “You know what I mean,” Cass scolded. “Spill.”

  “There isn’t much to spill. We spoke, we agreed on a few things, that was that.”

  Cass’s eyes narrowed, and she rested her chin on her hands. “I call bullshit.”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to say?” The teaspoon clanked a frustrated rhythm on the mug. “We sorted our issues out. Happy.” Yeah, issues. That was a new name for sex, was it?
r />   “So you’re not an item?”

  Steph bit her lip, and turned to face Cass with the coffee. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Because that guy ... I don’t know. Something doesn’t sit well. He’s not all there in the head, you know?”

  Her lips drew a thin line as she regarded her so-called friend. “No. I don’t know.”

  “It’s like he’s had one too many hits to the head,” Cass continued, oblivious to the intensity with which Steph bored holes into her skull. “He seems like he psyches out at nothing.”

  “We aren’t all perfect.”

  “No. But we can all be civil.”

  Steph matched Cass’s gaze with a heated stare. The blonde quickly looked away, and fussed with the sleeve of Steph’s t-shirt she borrowed last night.

  “Sorry. I know you like him. It’s just—“

  “What?” Steph interjected.

  “He’s messed up, babe. Are you sure that’s the kind of problems you want in your life?”

  “Real compassionate, Cass. Real compassionate.”

  “Just because a hot guy has issues, it doesn’t mean you have to play nurse with him.”

  Fire pulsed through her veins, and Steph licked her lip to bite back her words. Since when had Cass become this holier-than-thou person, so damn scathing of her decisions? What happened to friends who understood, and accepted? Since when did Steph have to conform to society’s expectations of the ‘perfect mate’?

  “I’m going to have my coffee in my room,” she said, and stepped out of the kitchen. “Feel free to make yourself breakfast.”

  Cass didn’t say a thing as Steph walked into her bedroom and closed the door. The lack of words said it all. She crossed the dimly lit room, and placed her coffee on the nightstand. With a handful of curtain, she tugged it open a few inches to let morning sun brighten the room. Pete stirred in his sleep, but didn’t wake. Steph rounded the bed, and fell to her knees beside him. Even in his sleep he looked troubled. A strong urge bloomed within to stick one up Cass by giving Pete the best wake-up call she could offer.