Page 44 of Shots Fired

“Chicken, please, but you know I can make my own soup. I’m twenty-four,” I reply, already restless to get on with life again.

She’s right; today is the first day where I’m starting to feel myself, the vomiting and diarrhea finally subsiding. I’m used to antibiotics, but these ones were new and didn’t sit well in my stomach. Still, they did the job—my chest isn’t as tight, and the coughing is beginning to ease.

“I’m quite aware of your age and ability to heat a pan of soup. What I’m saying is, I can do it for you. Jon and I are heading to Seattle the day after tomorrow, and I want to make sure you’re all set and okay. It’s a mother’s prerogative.” Mum makes for the door, spinning around to face me. “You’ll understand if you have children of your own one day.”

I screw up my face. “Don’t hold your breath on that one. I think Jack and Kendra might be your best shot at becoming a grandma.”

Mum opens her mouth, probably to protest at the use of grandma, when a drilling sound stuns us both.

“Is that …” Mum doesn’t finish her sentence, thumbing in the direction of my front door. “Is that coming from outside?”

I shrug and pull the duvet back, sliding out of bed and grabbing my robe. “No idea, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

The drilling starts up again just as Mum reaches the front door and opens it, and I stay back a few paces.

Dressed in full overalls, with safety goggles on and an electric drill in hand, my landlord, Ian, stands in the doorway.

“Can I help you?” Mum asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Ian looks equally flummoxed as he takes our shocked faces in. He points to my doorframe. “I’m here to fit the smart doorbell.” He bends down, pulling a package out of his toolbox. “Also this dead bolt on the inside of your door.”

I have zero idea what he’s talking about, but get the feeling I shouldn’t argue. The guy is doing me a favor. “Oh, okay, thanks.”

He nods his head once and gets back to drilling just as Elsie pokes her head around the frame and smiles at me. She might be the nosiest neighbor I’ve ever had, but at least she knows when to keep her mouth shut. She’s never breathed a word to anyone about Archer’s visit.

Mum makes her way back down the hallway, running a light hand across my shoulders as she passes. “He seems like a very attentive guy. You can never have too much security, living in the city.”

My gaze lingers on Ian for a beat as he continues to work, still perplexed as to why he’s here. Ineverforget a conversation. “No, I guess not.”

With Mum heating soup, I head back into my bedroom and close the door, sliding back into my warm bed when my phone buzzes on the side table.

Thigh Boy: How are you feeling?

I smile down at the hundredth message he’s sent since I banned him from coming over while I was sick. I told Archer not to come around for several reasons, the first being risk—I wasn’t lying when I said family could show up at any point. Plus, I looked and smelled like absolute crap. There is no way I’m letting him see me like this. However, all that aside, I didn’t want him here, spending too much time with me. He might be able to separate his feelings, treating me like a friend in need one second and fucking my brains out the next. I can’t. There’s a sweet side to this boy, and slowly, I’m starting to understand why—aside from him being insanely handsome—women fall at his feet.

I wonder how many hearts he’s broken.

Me: Actually better. My temperature is coming down. Plus, this morning, I had this random package from my favorite dress store. All in a size four. Do you happen to know anything about this?

Thigh Boy: You have no idea how happy that makes me. And, no, no idea about the dresses. Who do I need to beat up?

Me: Well, thank you. I knew they were from you. That said, you can drop the sweet-boy act and just ask when you can come over and bang me.

Thigh Boy: Wow, Doll. That cuts deep.

Thigh Boy: So, when can I come over?

A spontaneous bubble of laughter spills from my rattly chest. He’s so fucking cheeky.

Me: Not right now. I have Mum here, heating soup like I’m ten years old, and my landlord is upgrading the security on my apartment.

Me: I can’t even remember agreeing for him to come over today. Clearly, the sickness-induced hallucinations were bad this time around.

It must be five minutes before another text comes through from Archer, just as Mum hands me a tray of food and a glass of water.

“Who the hell is Thigh Boy? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

I pick up my spoon and take a first mouthful of soup. It’s only premade and from a packet, but it’s a universal fact that anything made by your mum always tastes better.

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