Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Jessica had dreamed of being cold for weeks, but now she couldn’t remember what it felt like to be warm.
Inglis had made two mad dashes back to the shed to retrieve their things from the car. He’d left her soaked suitcase in the hall, beside his equally sodden duffel.
She dug through it and pulled out a sweatshirt—an old Nirvana hoodie she’d swiped from a guy she’d lived with back in Florida.
Fifty-seven days, her longest relationship to date.
He was a musician, the kind who gigged all night, smoked all day, and left the fridge empty.
She’d liked his tattoos, and the sex had been decent, but it had ended the way they always did—with him calling her a slut and a bitch, and her leaving with his drugs and his sweatshirt.
She yanked it over her head, mostly for warmth, but also to end the marshal’s misery. He was going to give himself whiplash with his effort to keep his eyes off her chest.
She didn’t know why he was so bothered. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen tits before. Hell, half of Bay County had seen hers. Once upon a time, she might’ve found his politeness endearing. Chivalrous, even. But she’d long since stopped believing men were capable of either.
When she came back into the kitchen, Inglis’s gaze flicked to the hoodie. She expected relief, but his face betrayed nothing. She wondered if he played poker because boy, he’d be good.
“You hungry?” he asked.
She nodded. She hadn’t eaten since last night, but given their limited menu, she regretted not grabbing something at that diner back in Alabama.
“We should eat now,” he said. “While we got light. And power.”
He held up two cans. “Beef stew or chicken noodle?” Then he picked up the mystery can. “Or are you feeling lucky?”
She pulled out a chair at the Formica table. “Not particularly.”
“Chicken noodle it is, then.”
She watched as he rattled through drawers for a can opener, rinsed out a pot in the sink, and dumped the soup into it. His shirt was still damp, clinging to his arms, the fabric stretching tight across lean muscle.
To break the silence, she asked, “Where are you from?”
“East Tennessee, ma’am.”
There was a pause.
“How long have you been a marshal?”
“Twelve years.”
“Bet you’ve seen a lot.”
He didn’t answer. The conversation died.
She tried again. “You live in Tennessee?”
He nodded. “Memphis. When I’m there.”
“So, you travel often?”
He glanced at her, wary now. “It’s kinda in the job description.”
“Right. Hunting down bad guys. And occasionally babysitting nosy witnesses, too, huh?” She flashed a smile, but he didn’t return it.
Jeez. Tough crowd.
She gave up on conversation, figuring it for a lost cause.
Inglis poured the soup into two bowls and turned to bring them to the table—but he froze when he spotted the revolver in her right hand.
His eyes went from the gun to her face. Then back to the gun.
“Well,” he said, setting the bowls down slowly. “That escalated quickly.”
“I lied,” she admitted. “About knowing how to use it. I’ve never even fired it.”
His hands slid to his hips, his gaze locked on the gun.
“And I was thinking you could show me.”
His voice stayed even. “You said that thing’s loaded, right?”
She nodded.
“First lesson—never point a gun at someone you don’t fully intend to shoot.”
She followed his gaze and realized she was aiming at his groin.
His eyes lifted, pinning her with a dry, knowing look. “Unless, of course, that is what you intend.”
She swallowed.
Only then did she notice his right hand resting, casual but firm, on the grip of his own weapon.
Heat crept up her neck. She quickly placed the revolver on the table and shook her head.
He exhaled and something told her she’d thrown him off more than he liked.
He pulled out the chair and sat. “Why’d you get a weapon you don’t know how to use?”
She tilted her head. “Because I didn’t feel safe, okay?” She gestured vaguely to their surroundings. “And, clearly, for good reason.”
Inglis said nothing, just studied her, his sharp blue eyes scanning her face like he was reading something written between the lines.
She leaned forward on her elbows. “Look, someone broke into my house and trashed it. Spray-painted that shit on my wall. Someone who you say might’ve followed us across two state lines. No offense to you or the Marshals Service, but if push comes to shove, I need to be able to defend myself.”
She held his gaze, willing him to understand.
Finally, he leaned back, arms folding across his chest.
“Alright,” he said. “After we’re done eating, we’ll find something for you to shoot at.” He paused, then added, deadpan, “Preferably something that ain’t me.”
* * *
With a final heave, they managed to drag the big roller door closed, the metal groaning against its tracks as they sealed the shed against the fierce wind.
Jessica could hear things pinging off the corrugated iron: branches, gravel, and other small projectiles. As the day went on and the storm hit its straps, she knew those missiles would only get bigger.
A back door opened onto the yard beyond. Wind and rain whirled in, rattled the tools and chains that hung from the walls.
Inglis shook the water from his hands, then held out one for her gun. Jessica took it out of her pocket and handed it to him.
He turned her pistol over on his palm. It was burnished silver with a pale pink grip. In his big hands, it looked ridiculous.
He pressed the thumb catch and swung the cylinder open. Then he pushed a pin and dumped all five rounds into his hand. He reloaded it one by one. “Who gave it to you?”
“Just some guy I used to know. Said it was ideal for a woman. Easy to use.”
He closed the barrel with a neat little flick of his hand. “He was patronizing you. If he really cared about your personal safety, he’d have got you a can of Mace and a jackknife instead.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
He held it up. “This is a .38 Special snub-nose revolver. They’re marketed to women because they look like they’re easy to fire.
In fact, the opposite is true. They’re hammerless, see?
” He showed her a blank space at the back of the gun.
“That means the trigger pull is heavy. And the recoil is a hell of a thing. If you’re not ready for it, it’ll snap your hand right back.
Plus,” he added, as if he hadn’t dressed down her little gun enough, “they can’t shoot worth a damn. ”
“You seemed pretty twitchy a minute ago, when I had it pointed at your junk.”
He pressed his lips together but didn’t deign to reply. Then he slid his own weapon from its holster with his other hand. It was matte black with a heavy stippled grip. Long, rectangular barrel. It looked well-handled and, in the dull light, coldly lethal. It made hers look like a Mattel accessory.
“This is a Glock 22,” he said. “See how much longer the barrel is?”
She shrugged. “So, yours is bigger than mine. Big deal.”
“The longer the barrel, the higher the velocity of the shot. And the faster the shot, the more accurate it is.” He gestured with her gun. “This thing? You’d have a better chance of hitting someone with it if you threw it at him.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Now who’s being patronizing?”
He didn’t reply, just handed it back to her.
She looked down at it, tiny and pink, and realized the asshole who’d sold it to her had been low key trolling her.
He swiveled her until she was facing out into the backyard. Through the haze of rain, she could just make out the dark shapes of objects: rubbish bins, a ride-on mower half covered by a tarp, and a couple of forty-four-gallon drums.
Pointing at one of them, he said, “Aim for that drum. See it? Imagine it’s your target. Don’t try and be fancy and think you’re gonna put one between his eyes. Go for the center mass. Shoulders, torso, stomach, back.”
She looked up at him. “What about aiming for the leg or something? Seems more…humane.”
“Way harder than it looks.” He met her gaze directly. “You shoot him where you have to, ma’am. And you keep on shooting until he goes down. Got it?”
She held it in her right hand, palm around the grip and her index finger under the trigger guard. He got behind her, lifting her elbow until her arm was out in front of her. Then he angled her until she was pointing it at the drum.
She said quietly, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
His voice was next to her ear. “No one I wanted to.”
She looked back at the drum, squinted one eye to bring it into focus.
When she thought she had it lined up with her hand, she squeezed the trigger.
There was more resistance against her finger than she was expecting, which made her think it was stuck or something, but then it went off with an almighty bang.
The recoil shot up her arm and pushed her whole body back against him. He steadied her with both hands on her upper arms. The sound reverberated and died away. ‘Did I hit it?’
“You pulled it to the right. Try again.”
She did, trying to focus on the drum and not on the feel of Inglis’s hands on her shoulders or his body heat radiating through the damp fabric of his shirt. Three more times she tried, and on the last, saw a bright yellow spark and heard the faint metallic ping of the bullet hitting the target.
“Woo hoo,” she said, lowering the gun and glancing up at him. “What’d I win?”
He was still standing right behind her. His gaze fell upon her, the corners of his mouth quirking up in the closest approximation of a smile she’d seen on him.
Registering their proximity, he promptly released her and retreated a step. “Okay. That’s enough practice.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. They just stood there listening to the drum of rain on the roof and the thump of each wind gust against the roller door, like they were the most fascinating sounds on Earth.
Finally, she broke the silence. “He’s still out there, isn’t he?”
Inglis met her eyes again, his expression tense. He nodded.
Jessica cast her gaze upwards. Their shelter was dubious at best. The fragile structure felt like a metaphor for her own precarious situation, each gust a painful reminder.
She looked down at the little gun in her hand. Sure, it was better than nothing. But would it be enough to protect her from the men who were hunting her?