7. 7
I press the red button on the side of the booth and the target flies forward when we go to the shooting range later that week. Three in the heart and one in the head, just like I was taught. My tac-team is occupying most of the shooting range, all practicing their shooting. It’s a regular thing besides working out. Most of them have some kind of job on the side, since we don’t have to head out full-time. Most of our work happens at the office, where Chester’s team finds the information we need. Only a small piece, the last piece, actually happens in the field. But when we head out, I need us to all be sharp and trained.
Chester is sitting on the bar of my booth, his back against the side, tapping away on his laptop. It’s not unusual for him to tag along, sometimes it’s like we’re literally joined at the hip. I’ve come to terms with it a long time ago. He depends on me and needs me to be near and I’m okay with that.
So when I hang another target, press the button to make it disappear in the distance and blatantly start shooting the target leaning over the spot where Chester is working, he doesn’t even blink an eye. Employees of the shooting range have long since given up on giving him the safety speech. When he started telling them statistics about how many accidental shootings take place at home as opposed to on a shooting range, they backed off. He looked very smug that day.
I take out my earplugs once my gun is emptied and tap on Chester’s laptop, signaling him he can take out his earplugs as well. He just wears his headphones, blasting whatever kind of music he’s into that day. Sure, it’ll keep out the sound of all the blasting guns, but I’m not so sure about his hearing being protected. Perhaps the gun blasting is the more hearing-friendly option. He takes his headphones out and meets my eyes.
“Any luck?” I ask him.
His look darkens. “Nothing. They’ve gone underground.”
I sigh. I’m trying to stay confident we’ll find them, but I’m having a hard time trusting that we’ll get there in time. For all we know, the kids have been sold already and only God knows where they are right now. My mood must be showing on my face, because Chester puts a reassuring hand on my arm. He puts his laptop on the counter in front of the lane and climbs off the counter, standing next to me.
“Teach me,” he says, his eyes glued to the gun on the counter right next to his laptop. It’s symbolic really. Both our choices of weapon. Knowledge versus bullets. Mentality versus physicality. His request confuses me. He’s never shown any interest in learning how to use a gun before today. Is this the day hell has frozen over?
I stare in his blue eyes, trying to find answers, but all I have are more questions. “Why?”
“Because I need to be able to defend.”
“Defend who?”
“You. Me. Anybody really.” He looks away as he tells me so. Something’s hinky, but I decide to let it be. I’ve been nagging him for years to let me teach him and he’s declined every single time, telling me his bullets are digital. Something that doesn’t make any sense if you ask me, and something I’ve told him every time. I’ll get to the bottom of it later.
“Okay,” I say and I step aside. “Hold your hands up like you’re fighting me, boxing style.” He listens to me and does so. I step behind him and give him a subtle push, making him step out with his dominant foot. He seems to be a leftie, which somehow doesn’t surprise me. If there’s any opportunity for him to be stubborn, he’ll take it, even when it comes to how his brain is wired. I readjust his feet so they’re pointing forward and then walk around him until I face him again.
“Left hand, pretend to hit me.” He stretches his arm with a fist. As I lift his elbow a little higher, I open his hand and press the gun in. “Now grab it with the other one to steady it.” I bite my lip, watching his posture, and decide it’s okay for now.
“Okay, now that’ll have to do. Do you know how to get the safety off?” He does so without answering. I grab some of the standard hearing protection from the range and put them on his head as I plug my own earplugs in.
“Now aim, squeeze, don’t pull.”
He takes a moment to aim and then fires the gun. The recoil makes him step back and I see him looking at the gun in confusion. He puts the safety back on, and I’m glad he does so without me telling him to. We both take off our hearing protection.
“Did I hit the target?” Chester asks as he swipes a strand of his long blond hair from his eyes.
“Not even close.”
The frown deepens.
“What’s wrong?”
“I thought this would be easier.”
Just that one small sentence enrages the fuck out of me. “Yeah, we come here for fun every week,” I snap at him, “it can’t be because it takes practice, boy prodigy.”
“I get that it takes practice, but I’ve played like a gazillion video games. I’ve always thought I’d be a good aim.”
“Sure, and everybody who’s ever watched The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is bound to be a genius hacker on their first try too?”
He dares to give me an annoyed look. “That’s different.”
“No, it’s not if you really think about it. Hacking requires skill, memory and training. So does shooting. You’re too tense, you shoot when breathing in when you should’ve done so while breathing out and you don’t have the muscle memory it takes to focus on the important stuff.”
He huffs and refuses to meet my look. I sigh deeply. If we’re going to be fighting, I’ll never be able to teach him, and I don’t think he’ll give me another opportunity if I fuck it up right now. The idea that Chester knows how to shoot a gun would actually make me feel safer. Shouting at him won’t help though. He’ll only get more reluctant. I have to find an opening with him that’ll get through his thick skull and oversized ego. I grab his telephone, type in his code to unlock it and open his Spotify. As I tap away on the screen to find what I’m looking for, I hand him his headphones. I start Monkey Wrench by the Foo Fighters and make Chester get in position again. We mostly disagree on everything music, but we have certain commonalities, like Dave Grohl.
“End of the song,” I command him. “Sing along, second voice, Fall in, Fall out. I need you to squeeze on the out.”
I hear him mumble the words to the song, and as the song progresses his stance becomes more natural, less tense. His breathing evens out. His hand gets steady. And when he singsFall out he squeezes the trigger, hitting the paper target in the shoulder. When he puts the safety back on and puts the gun away, I slam the red button, making the paper target float to us. I’m beaming with pride as I hand him the target, and he smiles as he looks at the little hole in the target”s shoulder.
Then he goes and fucks it all up.
“Told you I had good aim.”
“Turn your fucking music down, Ches!” I yell to the closed door to Chester’s home office. I don’t think he can hear me above the utter noise that’s coming out, but I can’t even hear myself think. To my surprise, he turns the music down to an acceptable volume.
I’m in the kitchen, working on dinner preparations. After our date at the dancing studio, I wanted to ask Remy out again. But all the previous dates I’ve ever been on served the sole purpose of hooking up and then never meeting again. It’s different with Remy, and it makes me forget how to act. So I did the one thing I felt comfortable with, and invited him over so I could cook him dinner.
I’m stirring my risotto as I take a sip of my whiskey. It’s a Japanese one and goes down really smoothly. I put the lid back on my pot and turn the stove off, taking my apron off and revealing my skinny jeans and burgundy off-shoulder t-shirt. It might not be a standard dating outfit, but nothing about us has been typical, so he’ll just have to deal.
My phone pings, showing a car at the gate through the home security system. I grab it, buzz Remy in and make my way to the front door. I’m standing in the open doorway before I even give him the chance to ring the doorbell. He parks his car into the designated parking spots perfectly, which is of absolutely no use at all, because my car is the only other car that’s ever parked here. He doesn’t know that of course.
Remy steps out of his car, looking dashing in dark blue jeans with a light blue shirt and gray jacket. A smile that reaches his eyes covers his face when he sees me standing in the doorway, and fuck it if it’s not contagious. I don’t think I’ve ever met a person who makes me smile as effortlessly as Remy. He just has something that makes me feel lighter, more easy-going.
“Good evening, Miss Wilder,” he says as he combs a hand through his dark hair.
“Good evening yourself, Mr Ashburn,” I say as I curl one of my black locks around my finger. What the hell? Am I flirting like I’m a cute girl? He walks over and pecks my cheek, while my inner little Abby squeals in delight and wants to go tell Chester that she got a kiss. Utterly ridiculous.
We walk in silence as we make our way to the kitchen. When we pass the door to Chester’s office, Remy chuckles. “Six Feet Under? I take it he’s been a blast to be around today?”
I shake my head. “He’s beating himself up about a case he can’t solve. He’s personally going through every inch of the dark web with a fine-toothed comb in hopes of finding a new lead to help us get some kids back safely.”
“So, he’s in there combing, and you…”
“Suffer in anything but silence as he does so.”
We make it to the kitchen, where I take the lid off the finished risotto and stir through it once more. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Some stuffy whiskey, please.”
I snort when I make my way over to the drinks cabinet and pour him a glass.
“This is a nice Hibiki,” I say as I look at the twinkle in his eyes. “This is not stuffy.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t taste like wine,” he says.
“Can’t argue with logic like that.” He winks at me and I melt a little on the inside. Fucking hell, this man is gorgeous, smart and funny. No wonder I’m falling for him faster than a skydiver without a parachute. He sets down his glass on the kitchen island and walks around it, to where I’m finishing up the risotto.
“You cooked this yourself?” he asks as he stands behind me, putting a hand on my lower back as he stares over my shoulder at what I’m making.
“Hmhm,” I answer, putting in a dollop of butter. “My mom taught me how to cook. She loved cooking. Always said it was one of the easiest ways to be adventurous while acting domesticated. I don’t know, makes me feel closer to her.”
“She’s gone?”
I inhale sharply. Part of the reason I’m a big fan of hooking up instead of dating is that there’s no actually getting to know one another in a hook-up. I don’t like talking about my history. That’s what I have Robin for. And Chester. Two people seems like enough, right? Remy starts stroking my back with his thumb. I grab my whiskey, throw the contents of the glass back in one go and shudder. Doesn’t go down as smoothly when you drink it like this.
“My mom and dad died when I was twelve.” Let’s leave it at that for now, that’s all that really matters. I don’t have to divulge. He presses a kiss to my exposed shoulder, the warmth of it taking away the surprise quickly.
“That must’ve been hard,” he softly says, the deep sound of his voice way too close to my ear. I can feel the whiskey taking effect on me, because surely that’s the reason I’m suddenly so warm.
“I don’t know any other reality,” I answer, trying to shrug it off. And while that is true, it doesn’t make the gaping hole in my heart any less big. “So you must’ve lost your parents to have come into your inheritance?”
Way to go on light subjects, Abs. Really, good job.
“My father died five years ago of lung cancer. Too many cigars, I think. We’ll never know. Maybe he just had bad luck. My mother died last year, heart attack. She was a work-a-holic until the day she died, so it might’ve been her heart that gave out, but it was the work that killed her.”
I grab three plates, and start dividing the risotto between them. “That must’ve been hard…” I imply while I grab the cheese grater and grate fresh Parmesan over the finished plates.
“Not really. They’ve not been a real part of my life for the last fifteen years. We used to call at Christmas and on birthdays, but no more than that. We’ve always lived in different worlds. They were lawyers, and reason and words were their everything. And here I was, the dreaming, feeling, dancer. I didn’t want to talk, or argue, or reason. I wanted to feel. So we just drifted apart until they cut me out of their lives, and I don’t feel any less of myself now that they’re both gone.”
I look at him, sensing no dishonesty whatsoever. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand. I’ve run into the same issue with Chester. While his parents aren’t in his life for a very good reason, orphan-Abby just can’t understand. It’s not something rational, I think it’s something emotional on a primal level. I just don’t understand why parents aren’t willing to put aside at least some of their grievances. But perhaps I’m the lucky one, not having been in a situation myself where I know how that is.
I give Remy a soft smile, not sure what to say. Maybe sometimes silence is a perfectly acceptable response.
“Can you take these two plates to the table over there?” I point to the dining room table with my chin. “I’ll take this to Chester and we can eat together.”
He nods and grabs the plates, before heading off in the direction of the dining room. As I walk in the hallway, Useless Sacrifice by Death Decline tries to fucking murder-stab my eardrums until they’re dead and I slam the door open, almost spilling the plate of food on the ground.
“Jesus Christ, Ches. What happened?”
Two eyes that try to set me on fire, glare into me. “I’m not getting outsmarted by these motherfuckers. It just... I… I’m so fucking frustrated!”
“Yeah, I can hear. Put on The Cure or something, wallow in your depression. This is terrible.”
He sits back in his desk chair, letting his head fall back, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes.
“They’re not winning, Abs. I just fucking refuse to let them win.”
“Why Ches,” I ask in an overly sweet tone, “is that emotion you’re experiencing? Ryan would be so proud of you.”
The glare is back, and I chuckle. He turns off his music though. “What’d you come to do?” he asks. I hold up the plate.
“Food. You’ll need it if you want to fuel all this rage.”
He looks at the plate, as if it’s the first time he’s seeing it. “I’ll come out and eat with you,” he says as he grabs the plate from my hand and walks out the door. I stand there in the middle of his room, frozen for a second, before I turn around and follow him.
“I’m kind of having a date with Remy!” I yell at his back, but he’s already so far ahead of me taking huge strides with his long legs that it’s useless. He barges into the dining hall, where Remy is patiently waiting for me to get back before he starts eating. The only sign I get from him that he’s surprised, is a slightly raised eyebrow. Chester is still in a fucking mood, stomps over to the table, and plants his plate at the head of the table, right next to the plates where Remy and I were going to sit opposite to each other. This romantic dinner just became an awkward party.
Then again. If I’m really going to try this thing with Remy, we’re going to have to figure this out sooner or later.
“Hey Ches,” the handsomely roguish dancer greets my grumpy best friend and his ex-lover like it was planned all along.
“Remy,” he says, not taking his eyes off of his plate and tucking in immediately.
I pick up my cutlery myself as soon as I sit down, making eye contact with Remy. He just gives me a crooked grin.
“Sooooo,” Chester starts, “Is this just going to be weird then?”
I almost choke on the bite I’ve just taken, having a kernel of rice going down my windpipe as I start coughing. Remy laughs.
“Why would it be weird?”
I grab a glass of water, and forcefully cough the rice out of my lungs.
“Just checking,” my friend says, “if we’re all okay with not having this be weird. I’m all on board.”
I don’t know about the men, but having this conversation about everything being weird is just awkward and I for one don’t want to have it. My phone pings and I see the deliveryman at the front gate. I buzz him in and rush to the door, leaving the room faster than if it would’ve been on fire. I hear Remy say something about being saved by the bell, followed by Chester’s genuine laughter. I don’t know what I find more terrifying: having these two men at each other’s throats, or the two of them actually getting along. Fuck, this is complicated.
The mailman is already waiting at the door with a package in his hands when I open it. With my eyes already focused on the package, I thank him and close the door again. Something’s off. I can feel it in my bones. It’s a package with the same material as the box with the photos I received. It’s addressed to me and this time I’m certain I didn’t order anything. My heart starts racing as I take it with me to the dining room, where I let it fall on the table. Chester’s eyes widen as he sees what kind of package I’m carrying and the response I’m having to it.
“Open it,” he whispers as Remy is looking at both of us, trying to find answers to what”s happening. I don’t have it in me to tell him. Even if I’d wanted to, my mouth is so dry I couldn’t get the words out. I force myself to remove the tape and open the box, but there’s a slight tremble in my hand and I can’t hide it. When it’s open I tilt the box, holding my hand out to grab the content that’s now falling out.
Another stack of Polaroids falls out and I start chanting in my head to please let it not be more women. A little model of a cargo train falls out and breaks the palpable silence that is filling the room as it falls on the table with a thud. I poke it with my finger, but it’s just a little toy. Meanwhile Chester is looking at the photos, and all I can see are the white backs of the Polaroids. Chester is calm though, so I’m guessing it’s not more women. He hands the stack to me, and I’m looking at different black photos with white dots. Stars, I guess? I don’t understand it. Trains and stars? I catch Remy staring at me, but I still haven’t found my voice.
“I once read these books, where a girl received packages with severed heads, and then when her friend had to send her a package he wrote ‘Not heads’ on it. I don’t know why, but I feel like we could use a heads up about our incoming mail like that,” Chester says, almost bored as he lets his eyes glide over the various items.
I look up at him with wide eyes. The fuck kind of books does he read? When he sees me looking at him in shock, he adds: “Oh, the part about the heads up was no pun intended. Just a happy little accident.”
Remy just sits there, looking like he has just followed a white rabbit down a rabbit hole and has ended up in Wonderland. I’d love to eat a cookie that would make everything better.
Chester flips over a photo and squints his eyes when he looks at some lettering.
“What?” I snap.
“I don’t know, there’s a pattern. There’s something there. I’m missing…” He just falls silent as he starts rummaging through the photos.
“WHAT?” I yell, not giving a crap. Remy looking at me with wide eyes.
“Drive me to the office, call in my team. Now! There’s something here. We’re figuring this out. I need my computers. Oh, Remy, run to the kitchen, grab a tray of energy drinks in the cupboard beneath the sink. Abby, you put this shit back in the box, I’m grabbing my laptop.”
He clasps his hands as both Remy and I just stand there, looking at him like he’s a raving madman.
“What the hell are you standing here for?! Chop chop, let’s go!”
I blink out of it, giving in to his commands as I start packing the box back up and mentally prepare myself for an all-nighter.