Page 6 of Vipers & Roses

“Yes,” I answer again.

“Friends with Z?” he asks, perplexed.

“Zara? Yes. Why, what is the matter?” I glance behind me, expecting to find something out of place, like a firing squad or a lit canon, but everything is as it should be.

“I'm sorry,” he says, sitting on the bench beside me. “I expected a guy.”

“A guy?”

“Yeah, your name is Rae. I have an Uncle Rae, so I was expecting not a girl.”

He’s not quite what I expected either, and the more I look at him, the more attractive he becomes. Messy wavy black hair, soft chocolate eyes, unshaven chin, and his soapy scent has a hint of engine grease. He’s maybe a couple of years older than me, and his fit body is adorned in black jeans and an old white T-shirt with a faded print that looks like it’s seen better days.

“Not a girl?” My body tenses, and I make my hands into fists to stop them from trembling. “Your uncle’s name is probably spelled with a Y.”

“I’m Blake,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake. I notice engine grease marks as I take his hand and wonder if he works with cars when he’s not selling guns.

“I’m Rae, obviously.” There’s an awkward silence between us before I add, “I know I was supposed to sit on that bench, but the lovely old couple beat me to it.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” he answers, “but then I was looking for a guy so…”

In an attempt to calm my racing heart, I make stupid, irrelevant small talk. “Are you a mechanic or something? I mean…when you’re not stealing stuff.”

He grins and combs his raven hair with his fingers, and it springs forward again. “I don’t know if it’s wise to talk about my personal life.”

“Sorry. Of course. You’re not what I expected either,” I tell him, lacing my fingers over the bag on my lap.

“Don’t tell me. You expected a hardened criminal straight out of prison covered in tatts and scars,” he croons as his eyes find my lips.

“Actually, yes.”

“Anyway,” he places his bag on his lap, “the hardware. Do you have the cash?”

I exhale before opening my bag and shoving my trembling hand inside. “There’s a lot of people about. I expected our meeting place to be a lot more private.”

“We look less suspicious sitting here, though, don’t we,” he explains. “Like we’re having a romantic picnic or something. Besides, the Rae I thought I was meeting was a man, and I’d rather keep those exchanges public in case he’s packing.”

“Okay,” I say, finding the four $50 notes and taking them out of my bag. He takes the money from my hand, doesn’t count it, shoves it in his pocket, and then slips the handgun wrapped in fabric into my bag. “Are you going to count it?”

He shrugs those shoulders nonchalantly. “I trust ya. The gun is unloaded, but I added a box of nine-millimeter bullets free of charge,” he explains as he watches a man ride by on his trail bike. “If you need more bullets, pick them up from any regular gun store.”

“Thank you,” I say politely, feeling the weight of pressure on me to follow through with the task.

I expected him to get up and leave at this point, now that the trade is done and he’s received his money. But he relaxed into the seat and gazed across the glistening water.

“Am I supposed to leave first?” I ask, wondering if there’s a system or ritual. “Sorry, I don’t know how this works.”

He looks at me under those black eyelashes that turn my legs to rubber. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Yes, I’ve shot a few things in my lifetime,” I lie, sounding like a dick.

“Really? Like what?” he questions, sliding his hand into his pocket, taking out a brown paper bag of Raspberry Twists, and offering me one.

“No, thanks,” I decline, even though they smell nice.

“Go on,” he encourages, chewing on the end of the twist. “What have you shot?”

“Oh, just cans and bottles lined up on the fence when I lived on my aunt’s ranch,” I answer, trying to sound convincing. But the truth is, my aunt and uncle kept the firearms locked up because they were concerned that my failing mental health might prompt me to do something stupid. The truth is…I’ve never touched a gun once.

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