Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
MAGGIE
Clay pigeon shooting is another activity that I’m sure was invented to make an arse of me. Slippery mud, loud guns that make me flinch with every shot, and my inability to ever hit anything.
My fingers are fucking frozen, and my ass is numb, and I’m trying my best to curb my runny nose without wiping it on my sleeve like a four-year-old. Everything is green and covered with a glittering layer of frost as far as the eye can see.
Eliza looks flawless in her wax jacket, tight trousers and elegant riding boots. Hair tied back into a sweeping red ponytail, the gun tucked into her shoulder like it was made just to accessorise her awesomeness. She calmly strikes clay after clay like it’s nothing.
My brother, Fraser, is hovering a little to one side, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, and looking nearly as miserable as me. When he does shoot, at least he hits the stupid clays on occasion.
And there’s Roman.
Roman, who has never shot anything in his life, has taken to it like a duck to fucking water.
Annoyingly so.
Dressed in borrowed outerwear of my Dad’s, looking like he’s stepped straight off the cover of Horse and Hound magazine.
There’s a faint smile on his mouth as he watches Eliza, and a streak of jealousy flits through me.
Of course, he’s smiling at her, she looks equally cover-ready while I feel like a bog troll in the background.
Roman looks like he belongs here more than I do.
‘Pull,’ Eliza says.
The clay shoots into the air, a flash of orange against pale blue. Roman tracks it, smooth and steady, and fires.
Crack.
It explodes into a hail of shards.
Eliza smiles approvingly. ‘Good work, for an Englishman.’
Roman looks bloody delighted with himself. ‘This is very satisfying.’
‘Beginner’s luck,’ I mutter.
‘You’re just jealous because you suck at this,’ Eliza says. She’s not wrong. It’s a stupid way to spend a morning.
Roman and Eliza take turns, getting competitive. Fraser takes a few more shots before stepping aside and shoving me forward.
I take the gun with a sigh, set my stance, and try to convince myself if Roman can do it, I should be able to.
‘Pull.’
The clay flies.
I fire.
The clay zips through the air, utterly unaffected by me. Like all of the contract kills I’ve tried and failed at. It’s like I don’t even exist.
I try again.
And I fail again.
‘Relax,’ Eliza says. ‘You’re overthinking it, you need to get out of your head.’
As if it’s that easy to just not think. Like I haven’t tried it before.
I adjust my footing, shift my weight, and lift the gun. My boot slides in the mud as my centre of gravity shifts. I windmill my free hand while dropping the gun and nearly catch myself, but it’s too late. My other foot slips, and I go over like a pensioner on an ice rink.
Down with a squelch.
I land on my arse with a wet splat, a sound that echoes far too loudly in the open air. Cold seeps through my jeans, and mud coats everything.
There’s silence until Eliza bursts into laughter. ‘Oh, Maggie.’
Fraser’s mouth twitches despite his attempt to stay a sullen youth.
Roman has the decency to fight the grin that threatens his face. ‘Are you—’
‘I’m fine,’ I snap, pushing myself up, heat flooding my face.
Eliza wipes at her eyes as her words emerge between giggles. ‘You’ve always had a knack for ending up with mud on your face.’
I force a weak smile, pretending like I’m not dying inside. Roman might only be here because I’ve forced him to be, but he’s still my seriously hot neighbour, and one person who hadn’t quite seen me at full patheticdom. Oh well, another one to laugh at me.
Roman takes a step toward me. ‘Seriously, are you okay?’
‘I said I’m fine,’ I repeat, a little too quickly. ‘I just need a minute.’
Before anyone can respond, I turn and head for the fence at the edge of the field, boots squelching, hands sticky with mud. I’d say my pride is hurt, but honestly, I don’t have much to begin with.
The pigs are there. Three great brown bodies snuffling around their pen, hopeful that I’ve come bearing food.
‘Morning, boys,’ I sigh, leaning on the fence. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m a mess, but you are hardly ones to talk.’
They grunt.
Footsteps approach behind me. I don’t turn around. Hopefully, if I ignore them, they’ll bugger off.
Roman comes to stand beside me, resting his arms on the top of the fence.
‘They’re called Hewie, Dewie, and Louie,’ I say, trying to find anything to talk about other than my fall.
‘Memorable.’ Roman watches them, looking faintly scared when Louie gets closer.
‘They’re pretty useful. Excellent at disposing of bodies. Not that we take many home. But sometimes it’s unavoidable.’
He turns his head slowly to look at me. ‘Are you kidding?’
‘I’m not. I wouldn’t advise getting too close, they can be a bit bitey.’
We stand quietly, listening to pig snorts and the distant crack of clay being hit.
‘Thank you for going along with everything.’ I pick at the fencing, separating little wooden shards from the bulk of the board.
‘I’m just doing what you told me to do. Just in case you aren’t all bluster and I’m actually surrounded by killers.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘It’s pretty unbelievable, to be fair.’ Roman shrugs.
‘I wish I were lying.’ I sighed. ‘For what it’s worth, you’re better at this than I am. They like you. I’ve known them for twenty-nine years, and I don’t think I’ve ever impressed any of them.’
Roman turns to face me, narrowing his eyes a touch. ‘Why do you need them to be impressed by you?’
I snort. Then wince. ‘Have you never wanted your family to think you’re not a waste of space?’
‘I only have my Gran.’
‘I bet she thinks the sun shines out of your perfectly solid ass.’
Roman grins. ‘Glad to see you’ve noticed how perfect it is – a lot of squats have gone into it. As it happens, my Gran thinks I speak a load of horseshit.’
‘She’s not wrong,’ I say, lifting my brows.
He studies me, then he lifts his hand.
Jeez louise, what is he doing? My pulse trips over itself on the way through my veins.
His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a smear of mud. The touch is brief, but it sends a shiver through me that I can’t hide. The way my breath hitches is positively embarrassing.
His hand lingers, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel its heat. The world narrows to the space between us, and I wonder if he feels something for me. But what? Or is this a ploy to get on my good side, to escape? My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool when I’m near him.
‘You don’t need to be like them,’ he says softly. ‘You’re weird… but in a good way. Other than the kidnapping, that’s in the bad way.’
My throat tightens. ‘I was desperate.’
‘I know.’ Roman’s face softens, and I can’t decide if it’s from pity or something more delicious.
My heart skips as his tongue darts over his lower lip.
Is he going to kiss me?
But of course, he doesn’t; he clears his throat and steps back, bursting my bubble of idiocy.
‘You should probably get cleaned up,’ he says.
‘Yeah. Probably.’
The kitchen hasn’t changed.
It doesn’t smell of food, exactly. The industrial kitchen is used more often by the chefs.
The pretty family kitchen smells like lemon polish and copper pans.
The ones that hang like a glittering bunting above the central island.
The ones that I’ve never seen used in my whole life.
Despite it being my childhood home, I’ve never found the kitchen to be homely.
It’s like being in a show home. Built for style, not substance.
The chef moves around me without acknowledging me, which is fine. Preferable, perhaps. He looks as uncomfortable as I do in the space.
Priscilla is by the drinks trolley, back to me, stirring Dad’s whisky. Which is odd, because who stirs whisky? I move to the side to try to see past her slim form.
She has something in her hand, and I catch just a flicker of shine against her skin. What’s she doing?
It’s a small, clear vial. And in a flash, it’s gone, tucked into her cleavage.
I’m tempted to walk over and snatch it from between her far too neatly formed breasts, or go in all accusation and little thought. But accosting my almost step-mother probably isn’t the wisest plan.
‘What was that?’ I ask.
Priscilla turns with her brows lifting slightly, a placid expression on her face, as if I’ve asked her to repeat a recipe. ‘Sorry?’
‘What did you put in Dad’s whisky?’
Her gaze flicks to the glass, then back to me. ‘Oh. Nothing.’
I hate her tone. The way she and Dad always talk to me like I’m a child. I’m nearly bloody thirty.
‘What is it?’ I demand.
‘A supplement for his blood pressure. He forgets to take his tablets, and I don’t want to nag him in front of the staff. Stop your fretting, love.’
I want to accept her explanation, but it still doesn’t sit right with me.
‘I didn’t know he was taking anything.’ I press at her, watching her face for any signs of distress.
‘It’s new. His doctor recommended it. You don’t need to worry.’ She picks up the drink and gives me a look that I think is supposed to be reassuring. I do not feel reassured. ‘You always get a bit het up when you’re home. Maybe you should take a walk. ’
I glance at Dad, laughing with Fraser through the doorway in the next room. Relaxed and completely unaware.
‘You could have told him,’ I say.
‘He knows,’ she replies smoothly. ‘There’s no need to make a thing of it.’
The subject is closed. Priscilla turns back to the trolley and picks up the drink before heading through to where my Dad sits.
Heat creeps up my neck as I watch her. Things never change around here. Even this newer addition to the family expects me to just listen and obey. It’s one of the many reasons I left for London, craving a space where I didn’t feel like a child in an adult’s body. Somewhere that I have free will.
Maybe it is nothing, I tell myself. Maybe you’re inventing threats because this house drives you mad.