“Let’s go.” She jerks, driving home what I already know. This shit’s gettin’ to her. She’s scared.
Samantha blinks slowly, staring at me when I let her go and step away. “Go where?” she finally asks, head cocked to the side as she stands at the stove, burning something.
“You’re scared. Jumpy.” Coming up behind her, I turn off the burner. I’m not sure what the hell she’s cooking because it can’t be tacos, and I’m not interested in finding out.
In an instant, her demeanor changes. Defensive. “I’m fine.” She waves me off, her body going rigid as she walks away from me. “You would be a little jumpy if someone was followin’ you around.”
“No fucking doubt.” I’m not blaming her for the way she’s feeling. I’m trying to fix it.
“So?”
“I got you somethin’,” I tell her, slipping on my boots, waiting for her by the door.
“Is it dinner?” she smarts, looking at me and then the pan full of burnt shit on the stove.
“Buy you whatever you fuckin’ want if I don’t have to eat that.”
She narrows her eyes as she leans against her kitchen island, watching me closely. “You got me something?”
“Don’t be so fucking surprised.”
“We’ve been fucking for years, and the only thing you’ve given me is an orgasm,” she quips, a wry, goading smile on her pretty face.
Smart-mouthed little shit. “You’re lucky you got those,” I joke, giving her a pointed look.
“You’re very romantic,” she mutters, taking a drink of her wine, a smirk on her face behind her glass.
Swear to fucking Christ, any other bitch gave me this much shit, I’d be out that door, stalker be damned. But here I am, eating shit and fucking enjoying it.
Grabbing my cut, it hits me how fucking comfortable I’ve become with Samantha. Taking my cut off, sleeping in her bed, taking care of her. This shit’s not me, but then I hear myself say, “I’ll show you romantic,” meaning it more than I wish I did.
“Well then, I’ll take flowers and a candlelit dinner,” she tells me, walking toward the stairs. “If we’re goin’ somewhere, let me get ready.”
Not fucking happening. “No, bring your ass back over here and get your shoes.”
She flicks at her hair. “I look like shit.”
That’s laughable. The bitch is sexy, made up or not. “You look fucking perfect. Put your damn shoes on.”
She walks toward me, muttering, “I better get flowers if I’m goin’ out lookin’ like this.”
“Flowers are bullshit. I got you something better.”
“If it’s your dick, I’m gonna be pissed,” she tells me, looking up from slipping her shoes on.
I laugh. I can’t fucking help it. “You weren’t pissed last time I gave it to you.”
“But it’s not a surprise. I know what I’m getting when I get your dick.”
Holding the door open for her, I follow her out, smacking her ass hard. Blonde hair piled up on her head in a mess, wearing some tight legging things with a sweatshirt, she dressed down and I fucking like it. None of the fancy bullshit I’m used to. The makeup, the hair, the nines. She’s fucking beautiful either way, but I like her barefaced best. Looks like the girl I met eleven years ago.
“Where we goin’?” she asks, standing in her driveway.
“Just get on the back of my bike, baby.”
“Don’t fuckin’ shoot me,” I tell her, putting up another target on the tree about fifty yards away.
Samantha smirks, eyeing me over the barrel of her new little nine-mil Ruger. “Right between the eyes,” she taunts, pointing that motherfucker right at me.
Chuckling, I step out of her way. “As long as it’s not in my back.” I’ve been shot twice and it fuckin’ hurts, but not sure how I’d feel taking a bullet from the princess.
We’re in the woods behind the club. A gun in her hand and a makeshift range in front of her, she’s practicing her aim and perfecting her shot.
I watch her fire off a round, missing the target by a few inches. “Your dad never taught you to shoot?” Which surprises the fuck outta me. Lily can shoot like a dude, and I know damn well El, Peaches, Lala, Cali, and even Buck’s chick can shoot, but the princess can’t?
She looks down at herself and back up at me. Wearing some tight ass leggings, her sweatshirt, and a pair of pink Nikes, I get the point she’s making. “Guns aren’t my thing, never were. My dad would push, but, you know. He’d cave after I’d pout. He’d offer every once in a while, but I would have rather gotten my nails done.”
“Because nails are fucking important.”
“They are,” she smarts back, holding up the gun again, some serious concentration on her face. “But this is kinda fun.” She fires off another shot, this time hitting the edge of the target, tearing a hole in the paper. “I’m gettin’ better.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her she fucking sucks. She’s trying, and that’s all that matters. “Doin’ good, baby.”
“Do I look badass?” She turns toward me, bringing the gun with her.
Jesus, I can just see it now. Samantha putting a slug in my gut on accident. “Careful.” I push the gun down, pointing it at the ground.
“Here.” Walking up behind her, I grab both her arms and bring them up level with her eyes. “Make sure it’s eye level. Steady. Even.” I hold her hand, the one she’s got gripped around the gun, her finger on the trigger. “Don’t shoot until you’re ready, until you’re sure. Shoot to kill or don’t shoot at all.”
“Shoot to kill,” she repeats, sounding sure. “You’re good at this,” she whispers, concentrating.
I wanna thank her for that, but I don’t. I tell her to shoot instead, and she does, blowing a hole through the target, right near the center.
Samantha squeals, jumping up and down, gun flying around in her hand. “I fucking did it! I nailed it!”
She’s damn proud of herself. I’m damn proud of her. “You fucking did, baby, but be fucking careful.”
“Kiss me,” she demands, handing over the gun.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I kiss her. Kiss her like I fucking missed her.