Chapter 9 Valentina
NINE
VALENTINA
“I don’t know how to shoot a gun,” I reluctantly admit again, staring down at the sleek black pistol in Faith’s hand, the piece looking like an extension of her thin arm.
“You don’t say.” She rolls her eyes, offering the gun to me, her fingers expertly away from the trigger.
I grab it and huff, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If I’d trusted you to actually fire the gun, I might not have let you stand there, threatening my best friend.”
I pause, caught off once again by her forwardness. McCrae, fuck him, chuckles, and I have half a mind to raise the damn thing in his direction. “Want another bullet there, big guy?” I hiss.
He leans against the door of the truck, watching us. Although indifferent, he’s not relaxed, coiled tight, and I can’t help but secretly smile. Someone who’s not interested doesn’t get jealous by the mere presence of another man, right?
Secretly, I admire how disheveled McCrae looks, so different from his perfectly sharp and composed persona. I enjoy seeing him undone. It feels like seeing beneath the mask—it feels like progress.
Is it because of me or her?
The gun wavers in my grasp as the thought slices through my composure. I slam my eyes shut, forcing the thoughts away.
“Focus. Fuck later,” Faith snaps, and I turn wide eyes back to her.
There’s no teasing in her expression as she points downwind from us to where a large pile of rocks sit alongside the various boxes meant to be targets.
Santos huffs in agreement, and I feel like a scolded child—a feeling I don’t particularly care for.
“I’ve never seen you so serious.” I turn to the task at hand, trying to force the insecure and threatening thoughts away.
“Guns make me serious. They kill people, and that’s as serious as it gets. If you’re pointing it at someone, threatening to shoot them, you better well fucking mean it and not miss. Otherwise, you’re dead.”
Her words resonate with my soul—a gun’s a weakness unless you know how to properly handle it. And Reyeses don’t have weakness.
“Do I just pull the trigger?” I line the barrel up with the closest box, closing one eye.
She exhales loudly, and from the corner of my eye, I watch her pinch the bridge of her nose in clear annoyance.
I hate that she makes me feel so inferior, but I also don’t hate it—no one treats me as anything but a monster out to kill and destroy everything I lay my hands on.
It’s nice to be seen as something besides the scariest thing in the room.
“No, you should probably aim. Open your eyes. Breathe,” she instructs, and I focus on my breathing while steadying the gun. “It’s going to kick, so don’t be surprised. The more relaxed your body is, the better off you’ll be. If you’re super stiff, it’ll jolt your muscles and be harder to aim.”
I inhale, staring at the box a second longer, and then pull the trigger, the first crack of the bullet through the air making the hairs on my arms stand on end.
The bullet wizzes past the target, missing the rockpile by a mile.
I stumble backward, the gun falling to my waist, and I turn wide eyes to her.
“Again,” she demands before I can comment. So, I do as instructed and raise the gun again, lining up with a new target.
“Does this really make you feel safe?” I ask, shifting my weight.
“Yes.” She reaches out, adjusting the angle of my shoulder. “I don’t have to rely on anyone to save me, and I don’t have to be afraid of what lurks in the dark. I can protect myself from anything, and anyone, if the need arises.”
I fire, and this time, the bullet punches through the box, shattering with a ear splitting crack against the rock background. My arm shakes with the intensity of the weapon in my grip.
I look down at it. “This thing could kill a damn elephant.”
“No, but it could kill a very large man, one you or I’d have no hope of fighting off otherwise. Plus, you’ve got hollow point bullets in there.”
“What’s that mean?”
“They shatter on impact,” McCrae offers, and I look over my shoulder to notice he’s stepped closer, his arms crossed over his chest, his protective stance activated.
I instantly file away the insecure notion forming in my brain before it can take root.
Santos remains leaned against the truck bed, a relaxed look on his face that’s completely opposite to the sharp look in his eyes.
He’s clearly hiding something, or at the very least at war with himself, but over what? He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be against guns.
“It’s kind of scary, having the power to kill something,” I admit, even though doing so makes me feel weak somehow.
“It should be. Taking a life should be terrifying, a last resort.” There’s a tone to her voice that has me turning to look at her. It’s almost accusatory, and I bristle.
“I don’t take it lightly.”
“It should be done to protect yourself or those you care about from deadly harm only,” she reiterates, and my skin burns.
“Alright, that’s—” McCrae starts.
“You don’t know anything.”
But she doesn’t acknowledge either of us. “And killing people can result in others getting hurt, especially if it’s senseless.”
My interest in being her friend dissipates as quickly as it formed, leaving a bitter taste blossoming in my mouth. I don’t have friends, and this is exactly why. I don’t need anyone’s opinion—especially when they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.
“Fuck. You,” I growl, extending the gun to her, ready to walk back to the house if I have to. I never want to see this bitch again.
“What are you afraid of here?” she challenges, and I again try to shove the gun in her direction.
“I’m not talking about this with you. You don’t know shit.”
“Why don’t you tell me then?”
And as she asks the question, I’ve half a mind to tell her everything, but I can’t. She wouldn’t believe me—no one ever does. I’d rather be feared as the villain than looked down upon as the victim I actually am. It’s better she fears me than pity me.
“You want to teach me to shoot, fine, but you’re not my fucking therapist, and you’re not my fucking friend,” I growl, stepping toward her, careful to keep the barrel pointed down at the ground.
I want to intimidate her, but I sure as fuck don’t want to threaten her.
I know well enough that she’d have me dead in the dirt before I could even lift the pistol in her direction.
“No, I don’t suppose I am, but you need me to be. You need friends, Valentina. They’re one of the few things that make us human.”
“They make us weak.”
She eyes me thoughtfully, her eyebrows pushed together, as if what I said is a puzzle. And then, she sighs, motioning with her chin down range once more, seemingly ready to forget the spark of anger blistering between us.
I hate that it only makes me admire her more. She’s passionate but not irrational.
I exhale, forcing the gathering anger to reduce to a simmer. I don’t want to hate everyone; it’s exhausting. I want to be more like her.
“Friends don’t make us weak. They make us stronger. They take out those who might be ready to shoot us instead, protecting our back,” she states.
I turn to the targets again, putting my finger on the trigger. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know.”