Chapter 20 Stone
Stone
Soon as Harold slips the rifle in my hand, my body falls into muscle memory. The feel of the wood stock is familiar, the smell of gunpowder is reminiscent of a blurry memory, and the way the butt of the rifle feels against my shoulder is anchoring.
He gives me a stern fatherly look, the kind a dad gives before prom. It’s an If you even think about impregnating my daughter tonight, I will blow your nuts off kind of look.
Yeah, and he’s a prepper, which means not only does he have a thousand weapons that can kill me, but he also probably has a huge tub of rice to hide my body in.
Wait. How do I know that? Oh, right. That whole I-know-stuff-but-I-don’t-know-how thing.
“You ever shot one of these, Stone?”
“Yes, sir. But it’s been a while.”
“Whereabouts are you Maddoxes from?”
“New York.”
He nods. “What do you think about Mystic Meadows?”
“I like it. It’s . . . magical.”
“And how long have you been dating my daughter?”
Dating your daughter?
Coco and I aren’t dating. Right? We’re not dating. We’re friends. She’s my friend. She was there when the hard hat hit me on the head, which was very early in the morning.
Very early, as in before working hours.
What was she doing in my trailer that early?
Oh my God. What if we’d had a night of carnal pleasure? What kind of man makes love to a woman and then loses his memory?
I glance up at the house and my chest constricts. What if we’re dating and it’s killing her not to tell me? Maybe she wants me to remember on my own. Maybe she doesn’t want to tell me because that would manipulate my memories.
“Dad, lay off,” Brittany says, walking up to the weapons table and grabbing a rifle. “It’s the first time Coco’s brought a guy here since high school. Give him a chance. Let him shoot before you decide how you feel about him.”
I’m about to give Brittany a look that says Thank you for saving me until she adds, “Besides, this will take about two seconds because we all know city boys can’t shoot.”
A couple of the uncles laugh, but Harold says, “What do you say, Maddox? You ready to prove you can do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me give you a quick rundown of this here rifle.” He points to a switch. “There’s your safety. Call out Fire in the hole when you’re ready to shoot.”
Just then, Brittany yells beside me, “Fire in the hole!”
I cover my ear as she pulls the trigger. The sound is so thunderous I feel the echo of it.
After she shoots, she uses the binoculars to take a look at the target and then passes them to me. “Don’t feel bad if you don’t come close to me. I’ve been shooting for years.”
Her bullet landed slightly to the right of the bull’s-eye. It’s close. Very impressive.
There are three targets set up in total, with uncles and cousins all taking turns shooting at them.
“You’re up.” Brittany smirks. “Don’t disappoint us. The last guy Coco brought got scared off.”
Harold sits behind the table and pats the seat beside him. “Take a seat, Maddox. It’s easier to shoot.”
I sit beside him and lightly venture, “Why’d he get scared off?”
Brittany shrugs. “Couldn’t hang with the guys, I guess.”
“The guys?”
“You know, them and me. ’Course, none of the dates I ever brought around were like that. They don’t freeze. Right, honey?”
Out from the woods to the far right steps a man dressed in black. He looks ex-military. Like he could snap my neck with one hand while making a ham sandwich with the other.
“What’s that?” he says.
“I said you don’t freeze under pressure.”
The man shakes his head. “Never.”
Brittany points to me. “Jet, this is Stone Maddox. Stone, this is Jet, my husband and producer.”
Jet shakes my hand a bit too hard, so I squeeze back. His eyes narrow before he gives a slight nod and looks away. “I was just checking the perimeter for the game later.”
“We all good?” she asks.
“All good.”
I’m in over my head. Coco’s dad thinks I’m about to impregnate and ghost his daughter. Her sister has already labeled me soft.
Brittany points to a chair and Jet sits. “We were talking about how Coco never brings guys around.”
Jet stretches his legs out in front of him. “Oh yeah. She doesn’t date. Or maybe she does, but she keeps them away.”
I can see why.
Harold nods to me. “Anytime you’re ready, Stone, just call it.”
I almost forgot I’m supposed to shoot. I pick up the rifle and press the butt to my shoulder. Then I drop my cheek and look through the scope, lining up the bull’s-eye in the crosshairs.
Beside me, Brittany says, “Not everyone can be a natural like me.”
A hammer hits me in the sternum—a tightening behind my ribs, like my body remembers something my brain can’t reach, and it hurts.
That hole inside me just woke up, and it’s full of pain. My God, so much pain I nearly fall over.
A voice rings out inside my head: feminine, low, older—my mother. Bright as day, I hear the phrase, “Not everyone can be a natural . . . jerk like your father.”
It feels like I’ve been punched with a giant Wreck-It Ralph–sized fist. The memory is so sharp it stabs.
I’m not expecting the emotional fallout, and as quickly as it arrives, it morphs into something else.
Fury.
And I realize everything she told me about my father wasn’t real. It was a lie that still rings in my heart.
A switch flips inside my head. The anger channels into my posture, my breathing. I slow it down, line up the crosshairs. “Fire in the hole!”
I pull the trigger and everything happens in slow motion: the sound of the rife exploding beside my ear, the kick of the butt against my shoulder, and the bullet launching toward the target.
Then it’s over as quickly as it started.
I sit back and gently rest the rifle on the table.
Brittany smirks. “Don’t feel bad for not hitting the bull’s-eye.”
She hands me the binoculars and I ease them to my eyes. “I hit it.”
“What?” She shoots me a confused look before checking for herself. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Harold rises. Soon as he does, all the rifles the uncles are holding go down. Coco’s dad strides to the target. He pulls out a black marker and draws a circle around the hole I shot—a hole that’s dead center.
“Bull’s-eye,” Harold calls out. “Good job, Stone.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. Anger still courses through me.
I rise and turn toward the house as Hercules crashes into me like he’s done a hundred times. I don’t think, just scoop him up. Maybe I’ve done that a hundred times, too.
My gaze locks on Coco, who stands at the window, looking down at us. Her eyes catch mine—and everything inside me stills. Like she’s the only thing that makes sense.
This is the first glimpse I’ve had of who I was—fury barely contained beneath the surface. And it is a bitter, rage-fueled monster.
I start to head toward the house when Harold stops me with, “You done shooting?”
“No, sir. I’m going to get Coco, see if she wants to join us.”
“Shooting’s not her thing.” Brittany elbows her husband. “She hates all of this. Picks the same spot for hide-and-seek every time. She doesn’t even try.”
I’m not sure how long I’ve known Coco. A week?
A year? But the way they talk about her, like she’s invisible—it twists something in my gut.
Like I’ve seen it before. Like I’ve felt it before.
Maybe not with her. Maybe not here. But somewhere.
And maybe that’s why my hands shake from a memory I didn’t know I had, and why I want to walk straight into that house and pull Coco out of it.
I reply quietly, calmly, emotions tamped down, “Maybe it is her thing. She just hasn’t been given the chance to show you. Either that, or you never listened.”
“Oh, we’ve listened,” Brittany says, scoffing. “She prefers it up there.”
I put Hercules down and give Brittany a pointed look. “Maybe someone should ask if that’s where she wants to be instead of assuming.”
Harold, Jet, and Brittany exchange looks that say either Who is this serial killer that Coco brought home? or Maybe he has a point.
I’d give it a fifty-fifty shot at either one.
Brittany lifts her eyebrows. “Okay, sure.”
With that, I turn on my heel and head for the house to rescue Coco.