THIRTY

Mel

Secrets are nothing new in a life like ours. Everybody came to the Aces with demons that chased them until they could fight no more. It’s what attracts most of our members: the search for a kindred spirit, somebody who understands what it’s like to stand before the mirror and loathe what you see, people who spend their lives running in search of an Eden they’ll never find.

Yet witnessing the way a grown man can belittle and tear apart his son like that … it still shocked me. I don’t know Dog’s history, and I don’t know if I ever will considering he’s played his cards so well up to this point. But one thing I know for sure is that a fracture that deep between parent and child isn’t born from pointless arguing. Something considerable went down in that family, and to witness the pain, the anger, the resentment—it hurts.

I hurt for him.

Dog paces at the edge of the mall parking lot, sucking back a smoke before we venture inside. His head is down, the thoughts that tumble through his mind evident in the pinch of his brow, the crushing grip he has on the cigarette, and the relative silence he’s given me since we stopped.

Despite what happened he still wants to go hunting. That’s all he said. Nothing offered on what happened at his father’s house, no apology, and no explanation. I like that. He doesn’t owe me one. Nobody should have to justify why a parent looks at their child as though they resent their very being.

“We’ll start with a rifle,” he grumbles, stamping the smoke out under his boot. “Work out how much I have left for gear after that.”

“I can help.” Not very easily, considering my bankcard is somewhere in Fort Worth, and I have no cash on me. But we could sort it out.

His brown eyes find mine, his brow still hard, the anger bubbling below the surface as he seems to think it over. “I didn’t bring you out here to spend your money, Mel.” He runs a hand over his head, the overgrown lengths of his sun-bleached blond hair falling wayward to the side.

I lose myself in the way his stern brow brings a hard edge to his face, the intensity of his gaze; as though he dares me to look inside and find the things that trouble him.

“Mel?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were ready.” His lips come close to displaying a small smirk, but the hard stare he can’t seem to shake cancels out any chance of playfulness he might have been trying for.

“Yeah, sure.” I slip off the wall of the garden bed I’d been sitting on and head toward him.

“Pull your hood up.” He gestures to the mall as we approach the entry doors. “Hide your face from the cameras.”

People stare at Dog as we walk side-by-side, their reactions as vast and varied as the people themselves are. Kids point, while their parents try to nonchalantly push their little hands down. Older folk make no bones about their disgust at what he is, spitting comments as we pass by such as “filth,” “that lousy trash.”

I watch his face every time an insult is slung his way, each time somebody clearly crosses to the other side of the walkway to avoid him. He stares ahead stoically, unwavering in his goal to get to Walmart and organize a gun for our impromptu hunting trip. Shoulder set firm, and his stride long, his body language screams “I don’t give a fuck what you think,” which I find strange considering his father’s hate clearly cut him so deep.

Dog’s always been the clown, the larrikin making everyone laugh with his unbelievable antics, usually involving women. He makes out that he’s indifferent to other’s opinions of him, and yet now that I know different I can’t see him like that anymore.

My hands itch to reach out and shake him, to yell at him that he doesn’t need to hide the truth: that we care. I care.

“Have things always been like that?” I ask as we turn into the brightly lit store.

He frowns a little, making out that he’s searching for which part of the store we need to go to. “Nope.”

I hustle to keep up with him as he abruptly turns right and ducks down an aisle to cut through to the back of the store. He slows down as we approach the glass case that holds the array of rifles for sale, eyeing them all with a frown as he comes to a stop.

Time passes, him not saying anything, me wondering what the hell is so confusing—surely he knows what he needs?—and the clerk behind the counter that holds the ammo eyeing us both.

“You can talk about it if it helps.” I shrug. “I won’t say anything to anyone else. I’ll just listen.”

Dog runs a palm over his face and sighs. I prepare for the sharp reminder to mind my business, the denial that he’s bothered by it at all, but not what he does do.

Silent treatment.

He spins on his heel and approaches the guy behind the counter who looks as though he’s one misplaced frown away from dialing in the cops.

“What’s your pick for a .300 or .308?”

The guy opens a flip-up door at the end of the cabinets and emerges to take Dog back to where I still stand. I duck my head, adjusting my hood. The employee’s breathing is loud and labored, huffing out his nose from the strain on his back carrying that keg around on his front. I smile sweetly as he eyes me, then returns his focus to Dog.

“What do y’all need it for?”

He may as well have asked, “Who you gonna shoot?” but I suppose employees are probably advised against that kind of straight up confrontation.

“Deer.”

The guy snorts and then proceeds to itemize the main difference between two rifles that are similar in price. I leave them to it, wandering to the next aisle over to check out the equipment on display. By the time Dog comes looking for me I have an armful of pink camouflage.

“Fuck me,” he groans, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Settle down.”

“Come on,” I tease. “Did you expect less?”

“I guess not.” He smiles for the first time since we left his father’s and it only spurs me on.

“You know what else I found?” I beckon him to follow and whip around the end of the aisle, back to the shelves beside the display cabinet.

The shop clerk waits on us at the counter with the rifle Dog picked laid out on top of a carry bag.

“This,” I exclaim, pointing to a smaller boxed rifle with a pink stock.

He chuckles, pulling me to his side with a lazy arm around his shoulders. “That’s a kids gun, babe.”

“Why? It’s pretty much the same size as those.” I point to some basic wooden-looking ones.

“You don’t shoot bullets with it, babe. It’s an air rifle.”

Fuck me dead. Why did I not realize that? “Well, shoot. Makes sense why it’s not locked up, then.” I laugh, ducking my head in shame when I see the clerk smiling at my mistake.

Hey, at least I made everyone laugh with my blonde moment.

“Fuck it. Why not.” Dog nabs the box, carrying it over to the clerk. “We’ll take all the shit she’s got too.”

“Will that be everything?”

“Yeah.”

I bump his elbow, catching his attention. “What about gear for you?”

“I’ve got camo pants at the clubhouse, plus a black T-shirt works fine too.”

“Great.” I scoff. “I’m going to be all trussed up like special-ops Barbie, and you’ll be getting around in your normal get up.”

He gives me that wink of his and smiles as he pulls out a credit card. “At least one of us will be visible to other hunters, huh?”

“I guess.”

The clerk rings it all up and we leave the mall toting our purchases back to the bike. Dog puts the ammo in his pannier bag, unboxes the air rifle and slips it in with his, and then slings the bag over my back. He ditches the packaging, tucking the plastic bag of clothes on my lap after I get settled behind him.

I feel like Rambo’s missus as we ride through the streets with the gun bag poking above my head. The whole time, I can’t wipe the silly grin from my face.

If he wanted to give me an escape, he’s done a pretty excellent job. Because right now I feel like a totally different woman.

All I can still hope is that this high never wears off. Because if this isn’t how life is going to be from here on out, then I don’t want to know about it.