Chapter Fifteen
Jason—Present
Power Over Me- Dermot Kennedy
“I’ve never done this before,” Mara says in the cold morning air on the front porch. “It feels weird.”
I’m sure it does, if it’s her first time.
The snow has stopped momentarily which gives us a clear view of the targets I set up down the driveway for Mara to aim at.
When she admitted this morning that she’d never shot a gun before, Dylan and I jumped on the chance to teach her how to use her Christmas gift.
A stainless steel 1911 with an engraved relief designed with a feminine paisley pattern.
Some of my most intricate work. Dylan helped with the main structure of the firearm but he’s not as skilled with engravings as I am.
I lost myself in the process, letting my subconscious take over to create something beautiful for her.
Yeah, we put a lot of time and resources into making her Christmas gift, but it was worth it to see the look on her face.
I don’t like admitting it, but she’s become one of us.
Not like a sibling, that would be weird.
But part of our misfit family. Having her around feels way too natural.
But I won’t complain as long as we keep fucking like we do.
We’ve hooked up every night since Christmas.
The night after she came into my room, I went into hers and flipped her onto her stomach in another one of my t-shirts—and only the t-shirt—before lifting her hips and plowing into her.
We’ve used a condom since then, as well.
It was reckless of me not to use one the first night.
Sometimes we have sex in my room, sometimes hers, but we never fall asleep together.
That’s too much intimacy for me. I’m sure some would say fucking is more intimate than sharing a bed, but it’s easy for me to detach emotions from sex.
Mara is the one who taught me that emotions have no place in sex. They just complicate shit.
“Am I holding this right?” She asks, pointing the gun toward the target with poor posture. She’s arching her back with her shoulders back and her arms stick straight. Not to mention her finger is on the trigger and the safety is still on.
Dylan already explained how to load the clip and empty the chamber.
I chuckle to myself at the amateur sight.
I move closer so I can guide her finger to release the safety.
Then I model the correct posture. One foot back, one forward to steady.
Torso leaning forward so I pivot at the hips, shoulders are forward.
Right arm bent at the allow and left arm straight for stability.
Mara almost mirrors my posture perfectly, but not exactly. I guide her trigger finger to the side of the chamber and nudge her back so her front folds forward from the upright position she’s in. If she’d fired the gun as she was before, she probably wouldn’t have fallen on her ass.
Which, in hindsight, would have been fucking hilarious.
“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” Dylan instructs, “that’s gun safety 101.”
Mara nods in understanding.
We’re all wearing hearing protection. Mara looks particularly funny in her giant headphones and safety glasses. Out of place.
I give her the thumbs up once she’s in position.
A deep breath, and then she pulls the trigger.
The gun performs perfectly propelling the bullet forward while spitting the case to the side.
Even though a 1911 is fairly user friendly, and nothing compared to some of the shotguns I own, the recoil shocks Mara so much she stumbles back and lets a little yelp leave her.
A beat of silence lingers in the cold air while her astonished face takes in what just happened before she laughs uncomfortably.
I can’t help it, I chuckle a little too.
It’s just too funny. Any time I’m ever sad, I’ll just think about how her little body jolted and the horrified expression her face contorted into beneath the dorky glasses. That should cheer me up.
“Try again,” Dylan says between snickers. “You didn’t even hit the target.”
Mara takes position again, catching on quickly to all the minute details of her posture that help her maintain balance.
Moving her finger to the trigger when she’s ready to fire, she pulls it back releasing another round that strikes a hole in the bottom left corner of the target.
Not actually in the red rings on the target, but at least she was closer this time.
“I did it!” She shouts with pride. “I mean. I know it’s not a bullseye but I hit it!”
I smile, her joy is infectious. It’s cute how proud of herself she is over something so little.
If I’d taken a shot like that, I’d beat myself up over a lousy shot.
But for someone who’s just learning, she should be proud of any improvement.
Especially for her second time firing a gun, that’s not half bad.
Mara catches me smiling and stares like I’m a fucking pink unicorn in the wild. Eyes wide and breath hitching. She only pauses to stare for a second before taking aim once again.
Mara empties her clip making subtle changes each time to improve her aim. By the time it’s empty, her last bullet grazed the outer ring of the target. Linear improvement. That’s something to rejoice.
Dylan praises her, “Well, hey, if you ever have to shoot an intruder, at least you can do some damage. Just aim for the chest.”
“Let’s hope that never happens,” she frowns. “Are you guys prepping for a zombie apocalypse or something?”
I shake my head.
Dylan replies, “No. But it’s good to know how to defend yourself. Especially as a woman, you should always protect yourself. There will always be men who want to hurt you no matter how much equality between genders has changed.”
“Can’t argue there.”
I’m working in the shop when Mara enters bundled in her snow gear. She discards the thick coat in the heat of the shop but leaves the snow pants and boots on. As she’s looking around at the tools and materials.
Wordlessly, she runs her hands over the leith and scans the machinery we use to craft our products while The Steeldrivers plays on my phone.
A leith is considered a primitive way of crafting metal, these days, a CNC machine is the most widely used, now.
But when we started our business, this was all we could afford and it still nearly cleared out our bank accounts.
Now, I like the simplicity and familiarity of it.
Some of our customers even prefer we use a leith so they can brag about how much work went into their handmade firearms.
I’m currently engraving a special order a woman placed for a Damascus GMX with her husband’s name engraved on the side.
She even sent an example of the font she wanted.
It all has a very cowboy western vibe to it.
Not my personal style, but we have had a lot of customers who like the style, especially from Texas.
I want to ask Mara what she’s doing here since she hasn’t said a word while she peruses the shop. But I keep my mouth shut and my head down.
Until I see her frame stop near the tarp covered vehicle I keep in the back. I haven’t given myself much time to work on it this winter.
“What’s this?” Mara asks with a brief glance in my direction. “Can I take the tarp off?”
She doesn’t even wait for confirmation before walking it back over the hood of the car and tugging it over the roof to reveal the 1965 Chevrolet C10 truck beneath the warn tarp. It needs a paint job and lots of other updates. But it runs and drives.
I just haven’t touched it because it belonged to him and it’s hard to work on it without thinking about him.
An audible gasp leaves Mara’s mouth when she sees the faded rust colored truck in all its run-down glory.
I haven’t started it up since last spring.
It’s like it’s cursed and every time I get near the damn thing, I can’t unsee his face.
I can’t unsee how his life ended. I wouldn’t say I feel remorse for his death.
But…sometimes guilt seeps in. It was my fault, after all, even if Mom and Dylan insist it wasn’t.
Sometimes I don’t even feel right being in this house.
The cabin was his place. As much as the rest of us loved it, he loved it more.
And he had it long before he met Mom. It was his sanctuary yet here we are, the two people he hated most in the world, occupying it like squatters.
He’s probably rolling over in his grave considering how much of his life we’ve taken.
The fact that we are still thriving in his absence.
“Jason,” Mara breathes, “this is incredible. I mean, I don’t know much about classic cars, but it looks like it’s in great condition. Did you fix it or find it like this?”
A little bit of both. The interior was new when we moved up here.
And the engine was halfway restored. Dylan and I finished the rest but cars really aren’t Dylan’s thing, so I’ve been slowly replacing parts that are too old or worn out to operate.
As well as updating a couple things to make it safer to drive.
Right now, it’s somewhere between “original and unrestored” and a resto-mod.
Not sure how much more I want to do with it.
“We should really figure out some way for you to answer questions if you’re not going to talk.”
It’s called sign language, and I don’t do it on purpose.
“Blink once for no, and twice for yes. Did you find it in this condition?”
I just stare at her. I’m not playing this game.
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” she gripes. “I don’t know why you still refuse to speak, but sometimes I wish you’d get over whatever is holding you back cause I have so much I want to ask you.”
Interesting. This is a rare sight of vulnerability from Mara I don’t see very often. What kind of stuff does she want to know?
Knowing Mara, it’s probably all trivial like my favorite movie or if I was hugged enough as a child.