Page 33 of Liar
“Then I won’t either, even if it knocks me back on my ass.” Before either man can argue with me, I raise the rifle back into position.
Call it pride. Call it indignation at not being greeted with so much as a hello. Call it whatever deep-seated emotion driving me to dismiss his advice, whatever the reason, I pull the trigger.
The rifle butt slams back into my shoulder—hard, bringing tears to my eyes. Yet I hold steady, my feet firmly planted, and my aim unwavering.
Several seconds pass before I glance to the side, only to discover Hayden stalking toward the small building. Unimpressed with my tenacity.
Uninterested, period.
Diego reacts in a flurry of motion. Hands in the air and grinning like a man who’s eaten the tequila worm. “Amazing shot, Luciana. You hit the target on your first try. We Murillo de Romeros have the magic touch.” He sprints off to retrieve the target. I wouldn’t put it past him to frame it and hang it on our living room wall.
I return the rifle to the rack. With a sigh, I tug my T-shirt off my collar bone so I can assess the damage.
“An ice pack will help the swelling.”
I spin around and catch my surprised expression in Hayden’s mirrored sunglasses.
He steps closer, and I’m conscious of a few things at once. My bare shoulder. The tender swollen skin. The sudden flush of heat washing over my body.
My confusion.
He gently, ever so gently, presses the ice pack to my skin. “You’re more stubborn than your brother.”
“What does it matter when I’ve only hurt myself?”
“It shouldn’t,” is his quiet reply. He takes hold of my hand and positions it firmly over the ice pack, then walks off before I can finish his sentence in my head.“Butitdoes.Youmatter.”
Diego jogs up to him and proudly shows him the target. Unaware of how, with the slightest of gestures and one fully-loaded comment, my day is suddenly brighter.
I’m headed over to them when Diego sprints by me. “Be right back,” he informs me, not even noticing the ice pack. “Boss wants me to train in explosives.” I watch him rush off toward the building, leaving me alone with the man he warned me about.
“Explosives?”
“Correct.”
I look up at him. “What do the Lobos need explosives for?”
“To blow things up.”
“What things, exactly?”
“Buildings. Tunnels. It fits Diego’s personality, don’t you think?”
“Perfectly.” I frown, as something occurs to me. “You could have brought the explosives outside with the ice pack and have saved him the trip inside.”
“I could have.”
But you didn’t. Why?The unspoken question lingers in the air between us. Behind those glasses, he’s watching me.Daring me to ask it?
“I didn’t know you were here, or I would have stayed away,” I say instead, reminding him of his warning.
Silence. Except words are unnecessary. His actions—this ice pack—says it all. I’m here, he’s noticed, and it’s not such a bad thing after all. “Why does everyone believe you’re Spanish?”
“They believe what they want to believe.”
“And you don’t correct them?”
“No.”
