Page 33 of Vipers & Roses

His hand slips into his pocket, takes out his phone, checks it, and then glances at a black sedan parked on the street. From this angle, it’s apparent that it’s Det. Gabe and I assume the vehicle is an unmarked police car. He’s showing interest in a doorway slotted between the pawn shop and the liquor store that leads up to apartments above the stores. I glance up to the apartments to see if there are any suspicious activities of people eager to flee the police, tossing drugs out the window, but then it occurs to me that there are no marked official police cars here. It’s only one unmarked vehicle with blacked-out windows, and as far as I can see, only two people – Gabe and a second person in the vehicle, whom I can only see the silhouette of.

Part of me wants to see Gabe flex his masculinity and kick the door down, but instead, he steps toward the black sedan and opens the car door, and my heart sinks. Just as he’s about to climb inside, he glances upwards and scans the floors on my side of the road as if searching for something. When his eyes spot me leaning over the balcony railing, I’m unsure if he can tell it’s me from that distance, so I wave to him. His eyes lock onto me for a few seconds as if he’s trying to figure out who I am before gracing me with a gorgeous smile, and my entire body crumbles under his spell.

He gives me a little captain’s salute before disappearing inside the vehicle, and my heart yanks out of my chest as he drives away. I put my phone down and exhaled out the conflict of sexual attraction going on inside me. Gabe would have to be at least twenty years older than me if his son is my age. I’m sure a mature man like him wouldn’t go near a girl like me, especially a girl he knows has been used, abused, and weighed with emotional baggage.

Anyway, it’s probably unwise to date a member of the Torres Island Police Force when I’m planning to kill four men. But then, no one would suspect the girlfriend of a highly respected detective, would they?

“Girlfriend? Now, I’m calling myself his girlfriend,” I chuckle at my stupidity, yet my imagination travels to naughty places, wondering what he’s like in bed and how great he’d look naked.

Pulling away from the railing, I mutter, “I guess I’ll never find out.” Then it strikes me that I’m wearing very little—my ripped, very short Daisy Dukes and a tank top, which reveal a lot of leg. Heat forges into my cheeks in embarrassment, and as I land back on my bed, I conclude that he probably couldn’t see that much from that distance anyway.

Before diving back into my assignment, my eyes find that photograph of the girl I once knew, surrounded by the Four, and all the joy of seeing Gabe drains out of me. It’s good that I’ve decided to place that photograph in a prominent place to motivate me.

Several hours pass, and the sun drops below the horizon, making my room shadowy and cool. I’ve finally finished my assignment and am reasonably satisfied with its quality. It’s done and finished, so I have something to hand in tomorrow, which is the most important thing.

I grab a TV dinner from the freezer and poke holes in the plastic with a fork before chucking it in the small benchtop oven that takes up most of the space on my kitchen counter. I think of Gabe again as I sit on this large bed eating a lousy version of beef stroganoff alone—a meal for one.

Night falls eventually, and I climb into bed and try to sleep, yet my mind is too active thinking about Gavin at my parents’ place and the picture he left in my bag that I’ll force myself to look at every day. If he wants me to be scared of him, it won’t work. In fact, it’s doing the exact opposite.

Then I think of Gabe and Cormac and wonder what they did over the weekend and when I will see them again. Well…I don’t expect to see Gabe anytime soon unless I actively pursue him, but Cormac will be in class on Tuesday, so that will be nice.

My phone lights up in the dark, startling me. It’s just after 11 PM, and it’s unusual for a family member to message me this late. A smile stretches across my face when I read the name of the stranger who sold me the handgun wrapped in a rag sitting in my drawer.

Blake: Corolla Girl! U still want shooting lessons?

Me: So, you’re back from flipping burgers? Code for: Stealing stuff.

Blake: Is that a yes or no?

Me: It’s a Yes.

Blake: Good. Meet me down at Milson’s Shooting Range at 1 PM tomorrow.

I know I have a class then, but this is important, and I can always catch up later.

Me: OK. See you then.

The conversation goes quiet as my nerves toss about in my stomach about this next step and the thief I’ll be doing the next step with. The shit is about to get real.

17

After handing my assignment to my tutor, I entered Milson Shooting Range on Google Maps, and once given the location, I put my car into gear and headed to the university gates. I have my handgun in my glovebox, still wrapped in a rag, and nerves are like trapped moths in my chest. The sun is shining, and it’s another hot day, but because I’m meeting the thief, whom I don’t entirely trust, I wear hot sticking jeans and a plain pink T-shirt that reads, Bonjour. I tie my long golden hair up in a ponytail to keep it out of my eyes when aiming at a target, and before I left for uni this morning, I forced myself to stare at the picture of me before or after I was raped that The Pig kindly left in my bag. The picture is my fuel to inflict revenge. The more I think about Gavin the Pig, the more I want to wipe him out first, before Lyons, but I need to keep focused on the original plan and stop being swayed by the existence of slimy fuckwits.

I wish I had someone to discuss this with, but Z is the only appropriate person I can think of. However, once I bring her into my plan, she’ll either talk me out of it or want to be part of it. I can’t have my bestie involved in this because if we get caught, she’ll be convicted of my crime. No, I’ll keep my head down and be a lone wolf. Nobody knows who hurt me because they threatened to kill me and my family if I squealed, so no one will suspect me when the first domino falls.

The shooting range is on the city's edge in an industrial suburb near the Severn River Bridge. I can hear the river gurgling behind a line of tall trees blocking the view. I find a park and take a deep breath as I open the glovebox, take out the gun, and place it in my bag. A knock rattles against my window, scaring half to death.

Blake.

He opens my car door like a gentleman. “Corolla girl,” he says charmingly as if he could sell ice to Eskimos. He runs his eyes over my body, not in a sexual way, as if he’s searching for something.

“Hi,” I answer breathlessly, as my stomach is in knots.

“Bring your Glock?” he asks, stepping aside so I can walk ahead of him. His cologne permeates my senses.

“Glock?” I enquire, noticing that he smells lovely and is wearing nice black jeans and a button-down short-sleeved striped blue shirt. This caught me off-guard. I expected him to be in similar clothes to what he wore when he sold me the gun—a scruffy T-shirt and dirty jeans. “Oh, the gun? Yeah, I have it in my bag.”

“Let me see it,” he insists as we walk to the gun range entrance, but I cannot get over how good he looks. Is all this effort of me?

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