27. Audra #2
I feel him staring at me. Assessing. Measuring.
Slowly, I turn my head just enough to catch him in my peripheral vision.
He's looking me over like he's recalculating something.
Like I just shifted categories in his head.
Danger. Not liability. Not victim. Something else.
A beat passes before he moves toward the case where the heavier weapon sits. His hand reaches for the Desert Eagle.
I step forward and take it from him before he can hand it over. I'm neither hesitant nor aggressive. I just need to… feel it again. It's just… mine. I grab a magazine from the table without asking. My fingers move on instinct, slide, click, lock. The weight settles into my hand.
His brows lift a fraction in surprise. I don't look at him again. I walk back to the line. And let the world narrow.
Target.
Gun.
Breath.
Until… the range disappears. In its place, sun and heat appear.
Endless desert stretches in every direction. Dust sticks to my skin, my boots, the inside of my mouth. I'm young and completely reckless. Alive in a way that has nothing to do with safety.
"How does it feel?" Razor's voice sounds in my ear.
Low. Amused. Watching me like I'm something unpredictable. Which I try to be. For him. I glance at him, squinting against the sun. He's leaning against the truck, arms crossed, tattoos catching the light. He's wearing that dangerous half-smirk like he already knows my answer.
"It kicks." I grin. It does.
He huffs a laugh. "Everything worth a damn does."
We're here for a quick delivery. A quick handoff. Without any complications. Only, nothing with Razor is ever simple. We are out past the edge of nowhere, testing weapons before the cartel signs off on the shipment. A Mexican cartel.
The guns are laid out like candy across the hood of the truck. Rifles. Handguns. The Desert Eagle is one of them. Things I should have no idea how to use. But I've been with Razer for over two years now, and I've learned many things a seventeen-year-old girl shouldn't.
"Again," Razor orders, tossing me another mag.
I catch it without looking. Slide it in. Raise the gun. Fire. The recoil snaps through my arms, sharp and addictive.
"Shit," one of the cartel guys mutters behind us. "She's sexy with that thing. How much you want for her?"
The words slide down my back like ice. For the first time since I met Razor, I realize, really realize, what a fucked up world I stepped into.
My gaze moves from my target to Razor. Trying to read his expression.
I look at the Mexican, too. He's not joking.
I'll never forget his face. It doesn't look quite Mexican.
His skin tone is more olive than brown. A dark red patch runs over the right side.
A birthmark. He's staring at me with the same hunger I've seen on Razor's men.
That hunger has always been like a sick kind of compliment to me, because I know Razor will keep them away.
At least I did at first. But after spending two years with him…
yeah, I've learned a thing or two about him and the bikers.
One is that Razor is as unpredictable as I try to be.
Only he's more dangerous and ruthless. His unpredictability can mean a death sentence for someone.
Razor is still smirking. Like this is nothing. Like this is just another conversation. His eyes flick to me for a second—quick, sharp, measuring—and I can tell he sees it. The shift. The uncertainty. Not quite fear yet. But the question. How far does this go? How far does he go?
"How much you gonna offer?" Razor asks, like we're talking about engines. Or guns. Or anything that isn't me.
The Mexican grins, slow and lazy, like he's already imagining me being his. My stomach drops. Because this is real. This is not a game.
"Couple crates," he offers. "Your pick."
My grip tightens on the gun. They're negotiating. Cold sweat runs down between my breasts as I listen. It's like I'm not standing right here. Like I don't get a say. And I realize I don't. I never did. Razor tilts his head slightly, considering it. Actually considering it.
A year ago, I would've laughed. Would've rolled my eyes. Would've thought he was playing. He always plays. But now, after what happened a couple of days ago? Now I know better.
"She's sweet," the Mexican adds, like that helps his case.
Sweet. The word scrapes. I raise the gun.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough. Just instinct.
Just… control. The gesture makes everything shift.
Click. Metal moves. Suddenly, I'm not the only one holding a weapon.
Three. Four. Five guns lift. Not rushed.
Not panicked. Calm. Experienced. Pointed at me.
My breath doesn't change. But my chest feels tight.
Heavy. Oh. Oh. There it is. The truth. I have no power here.
None. Not with the gun in my hand. Not with Razor standing five feet away.
Not with men like these. This isn't control.
This is permission. A permission that can be taken away in a second.
In the blink of an eye. Razor doesn't move.
Doesn't reach for his gun. Doesn't tell them to stand down.
He just watches me. Still amused. Still curious.
Wondering how far I will take this. Like he wants to see what I'll do. What I think I can do.
I could shoot him. The thought comes sharp. Clear. I know exactly where. Center mass. He wouldn't expect it. Or maybe he would. I could turn. Take the Mexican instead. Take two. Maybe three. Before they react. Before… before I die. Because I will. I know I will.
There's no version of this where I walk away. Not from this. Not from them. Not from him. That's the moment when it really sinks in. Not the danger. Not the guns. Not even the deal.
The newly realized truth.
I chose this. I walked into this world. Chased it.
Wanted it. Thought it made me something, gave me power.
Thought it made me free. But I'm not free.
I'm owned. Not by name. Not by contract.
But Razor most definitely owns me. He's never made it clearer than this.
My finger tightens on the trigger. Just slightly.
Enough to feel it. Enough to know I could. And that it wouldn't matter.
"Relax," Razor finally announces, like he's bored now.
He's not even looking at the men. He's looking at me. "I'm still amused by her." A pause. A decision. Then he glances at the Mexican. "Let's talk about it again in a year."
A year? Like I'll still be here. Like I'll still be… this.
The guns lower. Just like that. Permission returned. My lungs expand again, but I don't let it show. I don't lower my weapon right away. I don't give that back so easily. Razor watches me. Still smirking. Still interested.
"Go on," he says. "Show them again."
As if nothing just happened. As if I didn't just almost die. As if I didn't just understand something that I can't unlearn. I turn back to the target. Because what else is there to do? My arms feel heavier now. Not from the gun. From the weight of it. All of it. I raise the Desert Eagle again.
Line it up.
Breathe.
And for a second—just one—I don't see the target. I see Razor.
I see the Mexican.
I see Pete. Slumped over. His fingers around his feet.
I see every possible version of how this ends. Then and now.
I pull the trigger.
The shot cracks through the shooting range.
Louder this time. Harsher. Final. The recoil snaps through me.
Grounding. Real. Just like back then. When I was seventeen, I stood on the edge of becoming someone I wouldn't recognize…
I'm standing there again. I lower the gun slowly and understand something I didn't before.
This world doesn't make you powerful. It just shows you how powerless you are…
and waits to see what you'll do about it.
The weight of the gun still sits in my hands.
In my chest. In my bones. When I turn, Gabe is exactly where I left him.
Watching. Not surprised. Not impressed. Not even curious anymore.
Like something just… clicked into place.
His gaze drags over me—not my body, not the gun—me.
Like he's stripping away whatever was left of the woman I used to be and measuring what's underneath.
What's left. What I'm becoming. He doesn't look conflicted.
He doesn't look concerned. He looks… satisfied.
A slow awareness settles in my chest. Cold.
Steady. Dangerous. He knew. Not about Razor.
Not about the desert. But about this. About what I would become if I stayed.
If I didn't break. If I leaned into it instead.
My fingers tighten slightly around the grip.
Not enough to raise the gun. Just enough to remind myself it's still there. That I'm still choosing this.
His eyes flick to the weapon. Then back to mine. A silent acknowledgment. Not approval. Not permission. Something worse. Recognition. Like he's saying, Now you see it too.
The space between us feels different now. Not charged. Not fragile. Settled. A line has been crossed without either of us moving. I exhale slowly.
"Still think I'm a liability?" I ask.
My voice is steady. Too steady. His mouth curves into something darker than a smile.
"Not anymore." He nods and adds in a quieter, rougher voice, "Now I think you're dangerous."
Something in me should resist that. Push back. Tell me to deny it. Instead, I let it settle. It's an inevitable truth, and I accept it. I nod once. Slow. Accepting it. Accepting him seeing it.