26. Paige
26
PAIGE
There's nowhere I can actually hide in this compound where the guys won't find me eventually, but I slip into a gap between the old rectory and the outside wall where it's both shady and quiet. I'm not much of a drinker, and definitely not this early, but this felt like a good day to make an exception, so I took two bottles out of Savage's fridge before coming out to think. I sit down on the grass, my back against the wall and take a sip.
Uncle Walter is dead.
The guys won’t give me details, but I heard the whole thing, so I know it has to be bad. Like really bad. Stefano Fabbri had him killed, and it’s my fault. At least partly. Uncle Walter wasn’t exactly blameless, but now I might never know if it was his decision, or maybe the mafia that bullied him into helping them. I can't tell if I'm feeling guilty, sad or angry. Or just numb.
I take a long drag from my bottle, then grimace. Beer's okay, but it's not my favorite, but then I didn't come out here to enjoy myself. Just to try to… process.
God. My uncle wasn't anyone's definition of a hero, but what about Aunt Heather? Did they kill her, too? Not to speak ill of the maybe-dead, but she was kind of a bitch, always encouraging him to try whatever new scheme he’d come up with. Or maybe Mom just didn’t like her and I was too young to form my own opinion about her. He wasn’t a child. She didn’t hold his hand and make him do anything.
How did this become my life?
It led me to Crank, Poe and Savage, so even if everything else is horrible, I don’t regret that part. My heart skips a beat. If the only thing that can make me even react emotionally right now is three men who've done their own share of killing and law-breaking on this short journey we've been on, then maybe I’m just as much of a problem as anyone else.
I bonk the back of my head against the wall a couple of times. I feel so useless, sitting here moping while other people do the real work. The Outlaw Sons might end up at war with the mob because of this and is that my fault, too? If they hadn’t seen Uncle Walter’s bounty, they would never have tracked me down.
And if my mom had never met my dad… And if I’d gone for a four year degree instead of two… And, and, and…
I try to take another sip, but the bottle is empty. “Stupid, fucking world!” I throw the bottle at the tall wall that protects me from the outside. It smashes with a loud crash, throwing bits of glass everywhere.
“Man, that's going to be a pain to clean up,” a raspy woman's voice comments dryly, before softening. “Rough day? If Savage and the boys are giving you trouble, just say the word.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find a woman in her early fifties with steel gray hair and deep crow's feet. Her jeans are ripped at the knees and she's wearing a loose tank top, showing off her tattooed arms. She's holding a beer of her own as she comes over and sits down next to me. This must be Bonnie. Jessica mentioned her, but we haven’t met yet.
“I’m not very good company right now,” I snap, not really meaning to be a jerk, but it’s been a hell of a day. Every day. For the past few weeks.
“Okay, but see, this is my house. And you're filling my backyard with glass. Maybe you don’t see the problem with that, but I got a kid now. Thirteen might be a little past the running around in the grass stage, but still, I feel like I should probably care about safety or some shit.” She doesn't say anything more, just sits there quietly and sips her beer, letting me talk or not talk.
My first thought is to get up and go somewhere else, but I stay. I guess company is okay.
“Sorry.” I look at her quickly and then away. She doesn't say anything, just takes another sip. “Am I making a mistake? Is there anything I could've done?”
She still doesn't answer, not until I actually turn and give her a meaningful look. She doesn't know me or my situation from a hole in the ground, but she's here. “Oh, you're talking to me? I thought those were rhetorical questions.”
I shake my head, just getting annoyed now. Not sure what I was expecting.
She snorts a little laugh. “Sorry. General always said I was too much of a wiseass for my own good. But I’m not a mind reader or a fortune teller. I don’t know shit about your situation. Yes, you’re probably fucking something up. And also yes, you probably could have done something. Did that help?”
I roll my eyes. “No. Nothing personal, but you suck for advice.”
She laughs, like really laughs now, deep in her belly. “Honey, you’re asking advice from an old bike chick who’s probably made more mistakes since breakfast than you have in your entire life so far. You’re just young and too far up your own ass to see it.”
I twist the cap off the second bottle, but when I'm about to take a sip, she reaches out and grabs my wrist. “Wait, I have a better idea. You need a distraction, and I'd really fucking prefer you didn't litter my whole backyard.”
With a sigh, I pull my hand back. “I won't throw it.”
“Let’s start this over.” She holds her hand out. “Name's Bonnie. My whole life was being General’s old lady, and now I’m trying to figure out who the fuck I am without him, so I know a thing or two about wanting to smash shit.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this, but lately it feels like everything I do gets someone hurt.” I shake my head. “Now my uncle is dead and I don’t even know how to feel about it because he got me into this mess and now more people might get hurt. Including me.”
She nods. “Family. Yeah, family’s a pile of shit in a gift bag sometimes. But the good thing is you can always say fuck it and choose a new one. Mine sucked, too, but fate threw me in with these bastards. You could do worse than the Outlaw Sons. They fuck shit up sometimes but they mostly mean well, and honestly? That’s the most anyone can ask for.”
“What about ice cream?”
Her laugh carries the weight of a lifetime of difficult emotions. “Now you sound like Anne, my sort of kid. Come with me. We’ll blow off steam, and then I’ll see if I can find you ice cream. I might have something in the freezer if Anne and Jessica haven’t robbed me dry.”
“What are we going to do? I shouldn’t go anywhere without telling the guys.”
“Relax. Not outside the walls. Just come. Unless you’re having more fun sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?” She pushes herself up to her feet with a grunt. “Jesus, I have to stop sitting down so low. Don't turn fifty, girl. All fucking downhill from here.” It doesn't stop her from holding out her hand to pull me to my feet, though. Honestly, she looks way stronger than me and by the easy way she yanks me up, she proves it. I wouldn't take her on even if she's more than twice my age.
She takes me around the back of the compound behind the school. A couple of guys wave, but when one starts to approach, she shoos him off. “Girl time. We'll talk later.” As we round the corner, there's a… gun range? They’ve set up a whole thing back here with marked up lanes, targets, a covered shooting area.
“What are we doing here?” I look at Bonnie in confusion. “Shooting? I've never touched a gun in my life.”
“Then it's time. You don’t have to love ‘em, or even like ‘em, but anyone who can’t at least operate a firearm around here can be a liability when shit hits the fan. Besides, this is as close as we get to therapy.”
We're the only ones here right now. She pulls me towards the railing that separates the shooters from the field and pulls a gun from her belt that she puts down on the tray attached to the fence, then a handful of ammunition. “I'm gonna give you some quick lessons on handling this bad boy, and then you're gonna take all that ‘getting glass in poor Bonnie’s yard’ anger and put it to good use.”
About ten minutes of instruction later, I'm finally staring down a red and white target with the gun in my hand. My grip is solid, and I'm braced for the kickback. I think. There are target zones and point values, but I’ll be happy if I even hit in the first place. I'm not sure how this is supposed to make me feel better, but I'll take anything right now. I can’t always depend on having the guys around to distract me from what’s going on in my own head.
“Squeeze gently, but with purpose,” Bonnie instructs. “This gun's a baby. It's not gonna kick you hard.”
I shriek when the gun goes off, but I don't drop it, so there's that. The second shot goes easier when I know what to expect, and on my third try, I actually hit the target, even if it's nowhere near the middle. “Did you see that?”
“Good! Try again.”
The fourth shot—by pure natural skill and not at all just dumb beginner's luck—puts a hole right between the eyes of the target figure.
“She shoots, she scores!” Bonnie yells. “Now visualize that target is your problem. Works best if it’s a person, but sometimes we gotta do what we gotta do. Imagine that you can get rid of it this easy. Then go to town.”
My first thought? Stefano Fabbri. I don't even know what he looks like, so my mental image is kind of a generic movie mobster dressed in a suit with slicked back hair, and I squeeze the trigger. The gun goes off with a satisfying crack. I fire again. And again. I stop even noticing where I’m hitting, because it doesn’t even matter anymore. I pull the trigger over and over, snarling deep in my chest and not stopping until the magazine goes empty.
When the gun starts clicking, Bonnie chuckles. “Good girl. Show me how you reload.”
I never thought guns would be my thing, but right now, right here, I have to admit it's feeling pretty good.