Page 51 of Won't Let Go
“He said he’s been in love with me for years.” How that’s possible, I don’t know.
“Not everyone’s love story is the same, Jade. Look at Bink and Big. She said she was into him but didn’t want to be. He was definitely into her. They had a one-night stand and ended up with Leech. Jez and Bulk met because he paid her to fuck him. Now look at them, happy with two kids. Axel broke my old shop’s window bein’ a drunken asshole, and we’ve been together since. One of my close friends is with her ex-father-in-law.”
I get it…I do…
“But what if my PTSD and all that mess is why I want him? What if it’s not real?” I admit aloud for the first time. What if it’s a manufactured need? What if it’s just getting a taste of something new? What if it’s all those pesky chemicals in the brain giving me false signals?
“Were you attracted to him before the warehouse?” she asks.
“Yes.” That’s a no-brainer.
“You were close before that happened.”
“True.” We always have been.
“Then maybe stop coming up with excuses as to why it can’t or won’t work out.”
Leaning back in my chair, I put my hands up. “Whoa. Who are you and what have you done with Pixie?” An awkward laugh slips free.
She snorts. “I have opinions sometimes.”
“I see that.” Solid opinions that I need to think about.
The bell over the front door chimes, and in struts a tall, muscular man in an expensive black suit with dark, slick-backed hair and a gold watch on his wrist that must cost more than my house. I look over at Pixie. Her eyes widen as a thick fog of wrongness washes across the shop. This man doesn’t belong here.
The hairs on my arms stand up as I make myself act normal, like this is just another day.
Our apprentice slips a pair of black gloves off and tosses them in a nearby bin before approaching our visitor with a kind smile. “How can I help you, sir?” she asks, stepping in front of him to block him from getting past the reception area.
With a tight, menacing smile, he slowly reaches into his suit jacket. Alarm bells go off in my head. On instinct, I drop to the ground and drag Pixie down with me. One second, Jasmin’s standing, and the next, a bullet carves a path through her skull. She crumples with a loud, wet thud, as brain matter sprays the shop. Heart in my throat, I go for my gun strapped under my shop chair, as Pixie pulls up her shirt and rips hers free from a chest holster. Throwing my tattoo bed onto its side as a shield, we post up shoulder to shoulder, aim, and fire just like Blimp taught. We light this motherfucker up—head, chest, abdomen, thigh. He’s Swiss cheese by the time we’re through with him. Nothing more than a mess of blood and gore decorating our floor.
With my ears ringing and my breath coming out in rough pants, I turn to Pixie to see if she’s okay.
The glass front of the shop explodes. Grabbing the back of Pixie’s head, I shove her to the ground and cover her as glass rains down and bullets tear through the space. Ink bottles on my cart burst open, splattering everything in colorful dye. Ceiling tiles drop to the floor. A woman screams. The violence is deafening as it goes on and on for what feels like hours, but must be less than a minute.
We’re going to die.
It wasn’t all that long ago that I wanted this—to be rid of this world. But as I rub the emerald on my finger to give me something to focus on, all I can think about is what I’ll miss. Hunter’s high school graduation. Telling Josh I love him, too.Because I do, I love him, even if I shouldn’t, even if it’s scary, even if it’s batshit crazy.
Pixie trembles beneath my weight as the spray of bullets ceases, and I wait for the muzzle of a gun to press against the back of my head. We have nowhere to go—no way to escape. If we get up, we’ll be shot. Everyone else is dead. They must be. There are no cries. No screams. No begging. No pleading. Only the ringing in my ears, the soft sound of Pixie losing her shit, the crunch of glass, and men talking.
Resting my cheek on Pixie’s shoulder, as quietly as I can, I reach for my gun. It’s on the floor, not far from us, covered in debris.
The deafening rumble of tailpipes and the sound of men preparing to stand off is the miracle I need to secure my 9mm and peek over the edge of the bed.
Pix tries to get up, but I push her back down. “Don’t move,” I whisper, as six men with ski masks, carrying guns, turn their attention to the bikes outside.
“I see you gotta death wish,” Big booms. “This is our fuckin’ territory.”
I wait for one of the men to speak, but they’re not here to talk. That’s confirmed when they open fire on the brothers in broad daylight. Sirens roar from the local police. When the assholes are too focused on trying to hurt our men, I finally tap Pixie. Her eyes are wet and edged in red as she sits up, secures her gun, and wipes the snot from her face with her t-shirt.
“They need to die,” she hisses, and I nod.
She’s right. They do. While I’m no expert marksman, Blimp and Josh have given me plenty of survival lessons years ago. It would have helped me last year, had I taken it seriously and kept a gun in my house, car, and at work. But I didn’t, and I paid for that mistake. Now I don’t leave without one, unless I’m with Josh, who’s always packin’.
In the worst stealth mode in thick girl history, I duck walk in my combat boots to get closer to the assholes shooting up our guys. Glass crunches underfoot, mixed with dust and gore as Pixie covers me from behind the tattoo bed until I make it to our destroyed reception desk. Papers are scattered everywhere. Our computer is dead, with bullet holes straight through the screen.
Slipping behind what’s left of our counter, I stay low and shimmy along the far wall to keep out of sight. As sirens rip into our parking lot, I aim at the closest masked fucker, who’s hiding in front of an SUV, focused on the men in the lot. I shoot him in the shoulder. When he whips around, I pop him in the neck, and he collapses against the SUV, blood gushing from his throat. Another down, only two bastards to go.
