Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I’m not too good with a gun either, apparently.
“Maybe you should try something else that doesn’t involve aiming?” he suggests.
I glance back to the car, where he drew a huge bullseye on the side, and bite my lip. I missed it every time. In fact, I think I hit the car itself only a handful of times.
“I’m sure I’m a late bloomer,” I say, rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants. I hate not being good at something. It’s been so long since I’ve failed at something that it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Show me again.”
Hawke raises a brow. “I don’t want to shit on your hopes and dreams, little red, but some people just don’t have a killer instinct.” He lifts the gun with one hand, maintaining eye contact as the arrogance oozes off him in waves. “I’m gifted.” He winks as he pulls the trigger without looking. When I turn to check the target I’ve been missing miserably this whole time, I see he’s hit the dead center of the bullseye.
“Why can’t I do that!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. It really shouldn’t be this hard to try to kill someone with a gun.
“Talent,” he says cockily, with a shrug that’s anything but humble. He’s self-assured, upfront, and, for the most part, easy to get along with. It makes it difficult to see him as a killer when he’s always been like an older brother to me, especially in situations like now.
I grab a bottle of water and sip from it. How many times am I going to have to do this? Sure, there are other ways to kill Braxton, but I’m not going to resort to brute strength since I’m self-aware enough to know I’m tiny compared to him, and it also seems like a lot of effort. My mind starts whirring.
“You know who has the best aim out of all of us?” Hawke says, and I’m surprised he’s willing to give anyone else credit. “Jewel. That woman…” He whistles. “She could shoot you from a mile away.”
“That doesn’t help me,” I seethe. And while it might be great to spend some time with Jewel, I doubt her husband, the mafia head, Eli, is willing to loan her to anyone. Besides, I think this is good for Hawke. Not that he’ll ever admit it.
But everyone is slowly starting relationships. They’re maturing in ways I don’t think Hawke and I ever will.
I’m certain neither of us has ever seriously considered being in a relationship. I eye my cousin from the side. He’s texting someone, most likely a woman. I definitely don’t have to ask him because I already know the answer.
He pockets the phone and then starts to pack up the guns. “I think that’s enough for today. I don’t want you to feel discouraged. It was your first day.”
“You’re not a good liar.”
He smirks. “You were fucking awful, and I think you should give up now. But I’m willing to entertain it for a few more practice sessions until you come to that conclusion yourself.”
I sigh. “Thanks for trying to lie to make me feel better.”
“Why don’t you ask your father to train you at home? He’s a great shot.”
“No.”
Hawke doesn’t look in my direction, but I can hear the teasing in his voice as he says, “Little miss independent now, I see.”
No way am I asking my father to teach me to shoot. He would be curious why I have interest in it all of a sudden, and he would do everything in his power to delve behind the reason as to why.
The burner phone in my bag buzzes. I take it out, making sure Hawke can’t see the message from the unverified number. I smile when a crime scene photo appears, showing a man who was drowned to death. He’s pale, and I study the complexities of his lifeless body, immediately inspired as to what I’ll be creating next.
I have a hobby that I’ve never told a single soul about. Something I know is morbid, twisted, and fucked up. I create sculptures of the dead.
It excites me.
It challenges me.
My curiosity started after I saw my first corpse. The body was being removed from my aunt’s house by a couple of her men. He had a stiletto heel puncturing his throat, his eyes wide open. My father belatedly ushered me into another room, most likely terrified of my mother finding out. It became our little secret. I was ten years old at the time, but instead of being frightened, I was curious.
It’s not hard to find a dead body when you live in the world I do. I would take sneaky photos here or there when my family wasn’t so quick to cover my eyes.
I see the world in shapes and forms, and the dead weight of a lifeless body has a beauty about it. It’s nothing but a vacant shell. The remains of where a soul once resided. And each death has a story.