Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cat
I grip the sleeve of Maverick’s coat as I snuggle up in the back of the sleigh. It’s late afternoon, not yet dinnertime, but it might as well be night. I sigh and drop my head against a strong shoulder.
The horses’ hooves thud against hard-packed snow. Gnarled branches creak in the light breeze, and the tack jangles like tiny bells. Cold cuts through my face mask, so I raise my hand to ward off the icy wall. Despite the slight discomfort, this is the definition of romantic.
“Are you too cold?” Bennett asks, and I lift my gloved finger to my mouth to remind him to be quiet. He grunts and wraps his arm around me.
Well, he tries to wrap his arm around me. Maverick is a smidge taller and leaner, so Bennett had one hell of a time squeezing into his clothes. I didn’t complain as I watched him stuff his rippling muscles into the jacket and pants, though.
What with all the cameras, I figured this was the best plan. While Bennett pretends to be Maverick, the real Maverick is in my room with Shorty. Now Kindra can eat her heart out and believe her little plan worked while I get to spend more time with Bennett. Maybe I can even get some clarity.
The sleigh pulls up beside the shooting range, and I hand the coachman a walkie-talkie as Bennett gathers our supplies—and Cattle—from the rear.
“We’ll call when we’re almost done,” I say to the coachman, a squat little man with a scar running over the bridge of his nose. “That should give you enough time to hook up the horses.”
The man nods down at me, then jingle-jangles his way back through the forest as I stand and watch him disappear.
A few grunts come from behind me, and I turn to see Bennett struggling with one of the Cattle we brought. The man in the red jumpsuit thrashes against Bennett, throwing his weight to try to knock him off balance, but Bennett is too powerful for him. He sets the red jumpsuit on his feet and glares at him.
“Couldn’t we have practiced with normal targets like normal people?” I ask.
Bennett swings on the bound man and catches him in the jaw with a solid right hook. The man drops into the snow with a muted thud. After shaking out his gloved hand, Bennett turns to face me.
“If you aren’t ready for the big leagues, we don’t have to swing for the fences, but it’s better to be prepared than to be caught lacking.” He kicks the man in the gut. “This one is yours. If you don’t want to kill him, don’t kill him.”
With a grunt, he bends at the waist and hoists the man over his shoulder. The action proves too much for the strained snow gear covering his muscled frame, however, and some inner seam rips with audible power.
“I’ll buy a new jacket for Maverick,” Bennett says. He carries the man toward the hay-bale targets at the end of the range, then drops him in front of the last one. Another rip breaks the forest’s silence.
“And some pants,” I mutter, though he’s too far away to hear me.
He repeats the process with the second target we brought along, carrying the man down to the end of the lane, then plopping him in front of a hay bale. He doesn’t have to knock that one out. His Cattle just whimpers and shivers. He has no fight left.
Bennett returns to my side, and I hold out my hand for the crossbow in his grip. He looks down at me, a smug smile in his eyes, which is all I can see. I made him promise to wear a mask the entire time so that the cameras—and any prying eyes—can’t see his face.
“Not so fast, kitten. Before you can use a weapon, you must first learn the proper?—”
I snatch the crossbow from his hand, aim it down range, flick off the safety, and fire a bolt into a distant hay bale. It doesn’t strike center, but it’s close enough.
“I grew up on a farm, city boy. I know how to use a crossbow.” I lower the weapon and slide my hands back into my gloves. “Fuck, why is it so cold?”
Bennett just stands there and blinks.
“Load another one,” I say. “I’m too cold to do it.”
Regaining his composure, he begins loading another bolt. “You grew up on a farm, huh?”
“Yeah. Chickens and horses. A few goats when I was younger. Daddy had dreams of being a rancher, but he never made it big.”
“Did you guys ever eat the chickens you raised?”
“All the time,” I say. “I had a really fun Carrie situation at school because of it, too. My mother never told me that raising our food would be seen as taboo by some people, so I didn’t keep it a secret. Girls who I thought were my friends dumped a bottle of red finger paint over my head when we were dressing out for gym class. They called me a murderer.”
He hands the loaded crossbow to me and steps behind me. “Kids are fucking cruel.”
“Yeah, they are.” I raise the bow and fire. The bolt flies wide this time, and I miss the hay bale completely.
Bennett takes the bow and loads it again. He steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my body and helping me hold the weapon steady.
“What are you thinking about when you shoot?” he asks. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re angry.”
I laugh and turn in his hold. “No I’m not. I’m pretty sure I’d know what my own emotions are.”
But he doesn’t laugh with me. There’s no glint of humor in his blue eyes, and thanks to the stadium lighting surrounding the shooting lanes, I can see them quite clearly. Feeling mildly uncomfy, I struggle in his hold, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, he spins me around and raises the bow in my hands.
Warm breath filters through my hood as he says, “Remember how you felt when those kids dumped that paint on your head? I want you to feel that right now. Then I want you to push all of that pain into the bolt and send it.”
I roll my eyes. This is a stupid fucking exercise.
I pull back on the trigger, and the bolt shoots forward. Right into a distant tree.
Bennett takes the crossbow, loads it again, and shoves it back into my hands. “Feel it, don’t fight it. When you were confident, you shot straight. Now you’re shaken. You’re trying to stuff down what you’re feeling. Just let it happen.”
With a sigh, I grit my teeth and raise the weapon again. But I can’t do it. I don’t want to go back to twelve-year-old me. I don’t want to remember what it felt like to be laughed at and mocked.
I lower the crossbow. “Bennett, I?—”
“If that doesn’t work, channel something else. Channel some rage. I know it’s in there.”
“Maybe toward you,” I grumble.
“Five women.”
“What?”
“The guy I picked for you. He raped five women.”
Taking a deep breath, I look down the lanes and find the crumpled figure wearing a red jumpsuit.
“He has a type, too,” Bennett continues. “He likes them weak and old. He doesn’t even kill them when he’s done. After breaking their bones and?—”
“I don’t want to know.”
“You need to hear it. Aim the bow at a target.”
A tear slips past my eyelids as I raise the bow and take aim at a hay bale.
“His first victim was eighty years old at the time of the assault. Her name is Rhonda, and she’ll never walk again.”
I fire the bolt, and it strikes the bale this time.
Bennett grabs the crossbow, loads it again, then moves us to the next hay bale in line. “Your next shot is for Greta. A breast cancer survivor. After enduring so much, he put her through a hell no woman deserves.”
The bolt flies, and this time, it’s a perfect shot. Dead center.
As he loads another bolt and takes us one step closer to the lane with the Cattle, I realize what he’s doing. He’s leading me down the line, hoping I’ll take the shot when we reach the end.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can.” He shoves the crossbow into my hands and leaves no room for argument. “Stop thinking in terms of can and can’t and start thinking like us.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I say. “I’m fascinated by what you do, but I’m an outsider looking in. I’m not truly one of you, and I think it’s time I accept I never will be.”
“Bullshit. You’re just afraid of your potential.”
“What potential? My potential to fail? Because that seems to be all I can manage lately.”
“Because you haven’t tried yet.”
I push the bow back into his hands. “Because this isn’t something I can’t take back. It’s a life, Bennett.”
He pushes the bow into me. “Do you think he cared? Did he care about lives? Now do it. Shoot him.”
“No.”
“Shoot him, Cat.”
“No!”
Without thinking, I turn and fire the weapon. The bolt finds a home in the Cattle’s shoulder, but it’s the wrong one. I shot the guy in the pink jumpsuit.
“Oh, shit,” I say as the man lets a scream squeal through his nose. “Sorry!”
I rush forward and drop to my knees in front of the man. Pulling his shoulders forward, I reveal the target just behind him.
Bennett whistles. “Bullseye.”
“This isn’t a joke!” I say. “Help him! He’s bleeding!”
A red puddle gathers beneath the man at an alarming rate . . . and it’s my fault.
Bennett pulls a knife from his pocket and uses it to slash through the superglue holding the man’s lips shut. Unfortunately, he snags the man’s lower lip in the process. The yellowed strip of flesh wobbles and pours blood with each scream he releases.
“Jesus, you’re making it worse!” I shout.
“Tell her what you did,” Bennett says over the man’s screams. “Tell her the truth, and I’ll let you live.”
The man’s red-rimmed gaze shuffles between us before finally landing on me. “My niece,” he blubbers. “I made her?—”
“I don’t want to know!” I push the crossbow bolt deeper, and he finishes his sentence with a scream.
Bennett presses the knife to the man’s throat. “I said, tell her .”
The man screams, then focuses on me. “I forced my six-year-old niece to?—”
I wrench the knife from Bennett’s hand and drive it into the man’s throat.