10. Hope
CHAPTER 10
Hope
“F uck, little red. I hate to tell you this, but you suck.” Hawke takes the gun from my hand as if it’s contaminated by my efforts of shooting. We’ve been practicing aiming and shooting at an old car for close to an hour. Hawke’s enthusiasm went from “no one gets it right on their first shot” to “not everyone is a natural” to “how the fuck do the bullets keep curving? Do you have a repellent aim?”
I sigh.
We’re both defeated today, not that Hawke will talk about his situation but I found out from Ivy. Only a few weeks ago, Ford almost died from being poisoned. Apparently, he and Billie, who is one of my best friends, have been hooking up for over a year behind everyone’s backs, and they got into a sticky situation. He drank the poison to save her, survived, and now they’re “official” or whatever. It’s strange to see them together. Not that it looks wrong in any way.
They’re complete opposites, but I think someone as calm as Ford would be good for my best friend Billie, with a short fuse. I hadn’t seen her until after missing her brother, Dutton Taylors wedding due to having an international engagement myself.
Whatever happened that day, Hawke seems off since. Most likely sulking because his brother, his ride or die, is now paired up, and he can’t spend all of his waking time with him. But I suspect it’s something past that. He’s still carefree, but at times, it almost feels forced. Or maybe I’m reading into it too much, considering how intense the situation is. Billie didn’t want to talk about it too much, either. We had a girls’ movie night after the wedding with Ivy as well and she was satisfied to simply cuddle up together. If she doesn’t want to talk, I’m not going to force her. Besides I’m not the best when it comes to those kinds of conversations.
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.
I can’t have anyone discovering this guilty pleasure. Not only is it incriminating, but people would see a part of me that’s best left in the dark. They would look at me weird and it’d most likely ruin my career. So I stick to my socially acceptable sculptures for the public eye, and in my spare time, when no one knows where I am or what I’m doing, I capture the beauty of the dead.
When I was fifteen, I started learning glass sculpting but never pursued it seriously. Not for my sellable pieces, anyway. But that skillset is mostly a secret. My parents know I had a tutor for three months, but I let her go and taught myself thereafter. I’ve kept this little part of me to myself. Until last night.
Granted, I didn’t expect the homicide detective to assume I was the one who left the gift in his apartment. Maybe I was too confident in having my friend Ivy hack his surveillance, and something went wrong.
But I wanted to toy with him, just as he’s been toying with me. I was hoping it might even spook him a little. That’s why I hired someone specifically to hack into the police’s systems and send me photos of bodies.
I just wasn’t expecting Braxton to clue in so quickly, especially when he clearly has no hard evidence. But it intrigues me how his mind works. Denying my talents and not taking credit for my work can sometimes be hard, and he’s the first person I’ve ever shared my secret art with.
I’d thought, why not dance with him a little before I put a bullet in his brain?
Or not, maybe. Considering how shocking it would be that I actually hit my target.
“Little red, you know you can always hire someone. Hell, tell me who the detective is, and I’ll do it for free as an early birthday present,” he suggests as we walk back to his car.
“No, this one, I need to deal with myself. It’s personal,” I tell him. He opens the trunk and loads the cases inside. The sound of sirens reaches our ears, and I freeze as Hawke draws one of the guns. I’m quick to hold down his hand as he tries to point it in the direction of the sleek black sedan coming toward us with its siren blaring.
“Don’t,” I hiss.
My blood boils. Fuck, Braxton is persistent.
“You do realize my car is full of illegal guns right now,” he comments. “But you’re in charge, little red.” He places the gun back in the trunk and then slams the lid down. He’s most likely got another two guns on his person, which is why he seems so calm, leaning against the car with his legs crossed at the ankles as Braxton pulls over and steps out of the sedan.
“Stalking is a crime, isn’t it?” I say to Braxton, who simply smirks as he approaches. This asshole actually thinks he’s God’s gift. It’s insufferable, and I’d be tempted to grab a gun and shoot him right now if I didn’t already know how fucking bad my aim is.
Braxton and Hawke size one another up, both sporting cocky expressions, as if this is the most normal interaction in the world. But they’re both beasts parading around as men. Fuck, this is bad. If Hawke reacts, he will end up murdering Braxton, and that thought infuriates me because I want to kill the asshole.
“Thought I’d take in the scenery,” Braxton says with a smile.
Hawke looks around the barren land, then says, “I think it’ll look better with a touch of red.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Braxton says.
I huff at the amount of testosterone filling the air.
“Are you following me?” I demand of Braxton as I stand in front of Hawke, making a clear message that neither of them is to start shooting or exchanging blows. The last thing I want is to give Braxton more of a reason to trail me.
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. Of course, he is. I can’t see his crystal-blue eyes behind the black sunglasses, but I know when he’s staring at me intently. “I’m making sure I don’t get any more unexpected items delivered to my home. This seemed like the most practical approach.”
“Does someone want to explain to me what the fuck is happening?” Hawke snaps. “I don’t know how to tell you this, buttercup, but Hope is a very dear cousin of mine. Our family is extremely protective. We wouldn’t want you to suddenly disappear because of a misunderstanding, would we?”
“No misunderstanding here,” Braxton says with a lethal smile, and I know he’s purposely antagonizing Hawke. He’s so fucking good at pushing my buttons, and Hawke is someone who can go from zero to one hundred flat. I put my hand against his chest as he changes his stance.
“What’s in the car?” Braxton asks, nodding to it.
“Do you have a search warrant?” Hawke bites back. When Braxton doesn’t answer, Hawke smiles, shakes his head, and gets in the car. “Little red, get in.”
“Little red?” Braxton asks curiously, and I can feel his intimate gaze tracing over me again. I ignore him and get in the car. It’s nice to see that Hawke sometimes has a brain or cares to listen. Though I’m sure, this has more to do with not wanting to show me what he really is beneath the mask.
Hawke doesn’t waste any time as he revs the engine and slowly backs up. A little tingle of curiosity makes me question what Braxton might look like if he got hit by the car and died. I haven’t seen that type of death yet.
I push the morbid inspiration down.
When Hawke drives past Braxton, he says out the window, “I wouldn’t show your face near her again.”
Braxton raises a brow, his deadly energy radiating off him. “I’m certain she’s as curious about me as I am her,” he says to Hawke, then he focuses his gaze on me. “I’ll be seeing you real soon, Shortcake.”
I flip him off and watch his reaction in the rearview mirror.
Hawke’s jaw is grinding as he growls, “That’s the detective, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I reply, still eyeing Braxton as he slides back into his car.
“Oh damn. You got yourself into some hot shit, little red.” He laughs.
I’m actually shocked at his reaction, but a small part of me feels almost gleeful. Like I’ve been accepted into some secretive little murderous group. Instead of him telling me to run to my father or ask for help, he’s accepting my terms to deal with it myself. And I’m grateful for it.
“It’s going to be fun watching you get out of this,” he says, checking the rearview mirror as he skids out onto the main road. “Though I really did want to hit him with my car.”
I try to hide the humor I find in the fact that we both had the same thought. Maybe I’m not so different from the killers in my family. And it’s a thrilling notion, not that I would ever admit it out loud.
“Just take me home,” I tell him.