The Gunner (Dominion Hall #15)

Chapter 1

SOPHIE

Liquid Courage was exactly what it sounded like.

Loud. Sticky. Neon-lit in a way that felt slightly unhinged. The kind of place where the drinks came in colors that didn’t exist in nature and the floors were perpetually damp for reasons no one questioned anymore.

Frozen drink machines lined the bar like a row of humming beasts, churning out electric blues and radioactive greens. The music pulsed hard enough that I felt it in my ribcage, and the air smelled like sugar, alcohol, and salt blown in from the harbor.

Beth slapped her hand down on the bar like she’d just found religion.

She had that effortless, bombshell kind of beauty—golden-blonde hair that fell in soft waves no matter what she did to it, full lips always on the verge of a smile, and curves that somehow managed to look both soft and powerful at the same time.

“This,” she announced, “is where personal growth goes to die.”

Natasha grinned, lifting her drink. “Rest in peace, self-awareness.”

Natasha, too, had the kind of beauty that didn’t need permission.

Dark, luminous skin that caught the light like it was designed for it, sharp cheekbones softened by a smile that knew exactly what it was doing.

Her hair was cropped close tonight, intentional and elegant, drawing attention to her eyes—warm, expressive, endlessly observant.

Men noticed her, women trusted her, and she moved through the world like it had already made room.

I laughed, the sound coming easy, and raised my own cup in agreement. The bartender had warned me it was strong. He’d been right. One sip and my shoulders dropped an inch, the tight coil in my chest loosening.

Liquid Courage had a reputation. Big drinks. No shame. A place people came to forget who they were supposed to be.

Honestly? I got it.

“This place is insane,” I said, leaning closer so they could hear me. “Do people actually survive these drinks?”

Beth shrugged. “Spiritually? No.”

Natasha clinked her cup against mine. “But, yes.”

We’d been in Charleston less than twelve hours, and already the city felt like it was doing something to me. The pastel buildings. The way time seemed to slow without fully stopping. The fact that strangers smiled at you like it wasn’t an inconvenience.

Austin had its charm. It was home, after all. But Charleston felt … intentional. Like it knew what it was and didn’t apologize for it.

Beth scanned the room with approval. “Okay, I officially declare this trip a success.”

For a fleeting second, I caught our reflection in the mirrored panel behind the bar—three women shoulder to shoulder, all different, all unmistakably striking.

Beth’s golden confidence. Natasha’s quiet, magnetic poise.

And me in the middle, softer and fuller, all curves and copper hair and a body I was still learning how to inhabit.

We looked like the kind of women people noticed when they walked into a room, the kind who didn’t need to chase attention because it found them, anyway. The realization startled me more than it should have.

Natasha cocked her head. “Is it a success because of the ambiance or because no one has asked Sophie what her five-year plan is?”

“Both,” Beth said immediately.

I groaned. “I am standing right here.”

“And thriving,” Natasha added kindly. “You’re smiling.”

“I smile all the time.”

“Not like that,” Beth said.

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Because … maybe she was right.

I was smiling differently.

The music shifted, the DJ sliding into something louder, heavier, and the crowd responded immediately. Laughter rose. Someone whooped. A group of women nearby started dancing like no one was filming them, which felt increasingly rare in the world.

I watched them with a kind of aching admiration. The dancing people. The ones who let music take over without checking themselves first, without wondering how they looked from the outside.

I’d always wanted to be like that—to move because it felt good, not because it was safe.

But shyness had been stitched into me early, a constant awareness of my body, of taking up space, of being seen before I was ready.

So, I learned to stand at the edges, most of the time.

To sway instead of leap. To enjoy the moment without ever fully stepping into it.

Tonight, though, something in me felt looser, less guarded. Like maybe I could just … dance.

Maybe.

I took another sip of my drink, the sweetness sharp on my tongue. “I needed this,” I admitted.

Beth softened instantly. “Yeah. You did.”

Natasha leaned in, resting her elbow on the bar. “You’ve been carrying a lot lately.”

“I don’t even know what I’m carrying,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

They didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fix it. Just waited.

“I finished everything,” I continued. “School. Licensure. Got a job. All of it. And now everyone keeps asking me what’s next, and I just want to scream.”

Beth nodded. “Classic post-achievement panic.”

“But it’s more than that,” I said. “I don’t want the life I aimed for. I just don’t know when that changed.”

Natasha reached over and squeezed my hand. “You’re allowed to change.”

“I know,” I said. “Intellectually. Emotionally? I feel like I’m betraying some past version of myself.”

Beth tilted her head. “Or honoring her.”

That landed harder than I expected.

I’d always been like that—sometimes holding on past the point of usefulness. Ideas, goals, versions of myself that had once made sense and then quietly stopped fitting.

I told myself it was loyalty. Follow-through. Grit. But maybe it was fear. Fear of letting go before I understood what something had given me, or who I’d be without it. I’d stayed in places I’d already outgrown simply because leaving felt like admitting I’d been wrong to begin with.

I looked down at my drink, watching the slushy surface melt. “I don’t want to listen to people’s problems all day,” I said quietly. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Natasha said firmly. “It sounds honest.”

Beth raised her cup again. “To honesty. And not knowing shit.”

We drank to that.

A cheer erupted near the dance floor, and Beth immediately grabbed my wrist. “Come on. We are not standing still all night having feelings.”

“I like having feelings,” I protested weakly as she dragged me away from the bar.

“You can like them tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight, we dance.”

The floor was packed, bodies moving close, the music loud enough to drown out thought. I let myself be pulled into it, letting my hips follow the rhythm, letting my mind quiet.

For once, I wasn’t the planner.

The listener.

The one holding space.

I was just a woman on a girls’ trip in a city I didn’t know, moving to music that didn’t ask anything of me.

Beth danced like she had no bones. Natasha moved with effortless confidence, laughing when someone bumped into her. I followed, slower at first, then freer, my body remembering that it didn’t exist solely to be productive.

I caught my reflection again in a mirrored column—wavy hair loose around my shoulders, curves framed by a top Beth had insisted I bring.

I looked good.

But I still wasn’t used to that part.

To being … noticeable.

Natasha caught me looking and smiled knowingly. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“You do that thing where you forget you’re hot.”

I snorted. “I am not.”

Beth spun in, pointing dramatically. “False. Objectively false.”

“Can we not make this a thing?” I said.

“It’s already a thing,” Beth said. “You’re just late to the party.”

I shook my head, laughing, and turned back to the music.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about what I should be doing. Or who I was supposed to become. Or whether I was wasting time.

I was just here.

And for now, that felt like enough.

The night blurred the way good nights always did—not into chaos, but into something soft around the edges.

At some point, Beth lost her shoes.

At another, Natasha was laughing with a group of women from New Jersey, patiently reassuring them that the humidity wasn’t trying to kill them—it just required surrender.

I danced. Really danced. Not the careful sway I usually defaulted to, but loose and laughing and unbothered. I let my hair stick to the back of my neck. Let my hips move without apology. Let my body take up space.

It felt rebellious in a quiet, personal way.

We migrated—bar to bar, drink to drink—Charleston unfolding around us like it was complicit in our plans. Cobblestone streets warm under our feet. Gas lamps flickering like they were in on the joke. Laughter echoing down narrow alleys that felt too charming to be real.

At some point, our night tilted in a new direction and we followed it to The Sound Barn—the kind of place Charleston locals talked about with a mix of affection and pride. Dark, close, and vibrating with live music, it felt less like a venue and more like a shared secret.

The air was thick with sound and sweat and history, the stage just high enough to matter, the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder like everyone had agreed to be part of the same moment. Beth grinned the second we stepped inside.

“This,” she said, voice already lifted by the music, “is much more my speed.”

Natasha laughed. “At least, now we’re somewhere that expects chaos.”

The bathroom line was long and packed with women who instantly felt like best friends. Compliments flew freely—about outfits, hair, eyeliner skills.

A girl in a sequined top grabbed my arm. “You are stunning. Like, if I looked like you, I’d be unbearable.”

I blinked. “Oh. Thank you?”

Beth leaned in. “She knows. She just pretends she doesn’t.”

I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks warmed. Compliments still felt new on me, like I’d missed a class everyone else had taken years ago.

In the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

Not because I looked different. But because I looked comfortable. Relaxed. Like someone who wasn’t bracing for the next obligation.

The girl in sequins pointed at my chest appreciatively. “Those are spectacular.”

I laughed, startled and a little embarrassed. “They’re … a lot.”

“They’re a gift,” she said reverently. “Honor them.”

Natasha raised her drink in the mirror. “To honoring the gifts.”

We drank to that, too.

For a long time, I hadn’t had anything worth pointing out. I’d been a late bloomer in every possible way—flat-chested through most of high school and even into the early part of college, built more like a question mark than an exclamation point.

I’d watched other girls fill out, get noticed, learn how to use their bodies like currency, while mine stayed stubbornly neutral.

And then, somewhere between semesters and stress and growing into myself, everything had shifted.

Curves where there hadn’t been any. A presence I was still learning how to own.

Sometimes, it felt like I’d skipped the adjustment period entirely and gone straight from invisible to undeniable, without ever quite figuring out how to stand comfortably in between.

Oh, well.

By the time we stumbled back out onto the street, the night had softened. The music faded behind us, replaced by the low hum of late Charleston—distant laughter, the clink of glasses, the occasional passing car.

“I’m starving,” Beth announced. “I require greasy food immediately.”

Natasha pointed down the street. “Pizza. I saw pizza.”

We followed the promise of melted cheese like it was destiny, ending up perched on a curb with oversized slices, laughing about nothing and everything.

Grease dripped onto my fingers. I didn’t care.

“This is the happiest I’ve seen you in months,” Natasha said casually.

I paused mid-bite. “You’ve seen me happy.”

“Yes,” she said. “But this is different. This is … lighter.”

Beth nodded. “You’re not carrying your future on your back tonight.”

I swallowed. “I don’t know what my future is.”

“And?” Beth prompted.

“And,” I admitted, “that scares me. But also … it kind of doesn’t right now.”

Natasha smiled. “That’s growth.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Beth said. “You’ll spook her.”

I laughed softly, leaning back on my hands and looking up at the sky. It wasn’t as wide as Texas, but it felt deeper somehow. Older.

“What if I don’t want a plan?” I asked quietly. “What if I want … space?”

Beth shrugged. “Then take it.”

Natasha added, “You don’t owe anyone a perfectly executed life.”

The words settled into me, warm and steady.

We walked back toward our hotel slowly, shoes in hand, arms linked. The city felt quieter now, like it was exhaling.

The Palmetto Rose waited at the end of the block, its white facade and glowing lanterns a soft welcome after the noise—elegant, unhurried, the kind of place that absorbed the night’s chaos and sent you back to yourself.

Stepping inside felt like crossing a threshold from celebration to something gentler, the hush of thick linens and polished wood closing around us.

When we reached our room, Beth collapsed onto one bed dramatically. “I am deceased.”

Natasha kicked off her shoes and grabbed water bottles. “Hydration before regret.”

I sat on the edge of my bed, the night finally catching up to me. My body hummed—not from alcohol, but from something else. Energy. Possibility.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

But that didn’t necessarily feel like failure.

It felt like an opening.

As I lay back and stared at the ceiling, Charleston humming faintly outside the window, one thought drifted through me—unbidden, insistent.

Maybe this trip wasn’t about distraction at all.

Maybe it was about remembering that my life didn’t have to make sense yet.

And maybe that was exactly where everything was about to begin.