Page 26 of Property of Shotgun
“Okay. See you soon.”
He disconnects the call, and I quickly Google a photo of the medicine, screenshotting the picture before I send it to him.
“Is Uncle Shotty coming?” Raiden asks, his little voice groggy as he rolls onto his side. I stare into his glassy eyes, and touch my hand gently to his rosy cheek.
“Yeah, sweetie, your Uncle Shotty is on his way.”
Shotgun: Open the door.
I scramble off the couch,careful not to wake Raiden, before I hurry toward the front door, and disarm the alarm. When I pull open the door, the motion detection lights shoot on, illuminating my front porch. Shotgun lifts the bag from the drugstore between us, and that’s when I notice his knuckles are all bloody and bruised. My gaze immediately tracks over the rest of him, inspecting him for any other injuries, but he’s pretty covered up, dressed in a black zip-up hoodie, and a pair of jeans. The only thing I notice is the splattering of blood on his bright white sneakers.
“Here,” he says, pushing the bag toward me. “Take it.”
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing, just take the bag. There’s some Ginger Ale in there too, in case he gets nauseous again.”
Instead of reaching for the bag, I take his free hand in mine, turning his hand over to inspect the bruising. It looks like he drove his fist through a brick wall. My eyes lift to his.
“This isn’t nothing.”
He quickly snatches his hand back. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to. Just take the fucking medicine. It’s been a long night, and I have to be back here in a few hours.”
I’m taken back by the first part of his answer. I never asked Irish questions, because answers weren’t an option. I knew from the jump he wouldn’t divulge anything to me. But Shotgun makes it seem like he’d give me answers if I pressed hard enough. I don’t know that I want to, though.
What I want is for him to come inside so I can clean his hands. The man has been taking care of me and my children for weeks, and I’ve been nothing but unappreciative and resentful. And he still shows up. It doesn’t matter what time I call him, or how inconvenient the task is. He drops whatever he’s doing. The least I can do is take care of him, the way he’s been taking care of us. I think he needs that. I think he’s gone his whole life without having anyone show up for him.
“Come in,” I demand. “Let me put ice on your knuckles.”
“No.” His nostrils flare and his jaw goes tight as he shoves the bag at me once again. “I’m fucking tired, Jade. Take the fucking bag and let me be. I’m not your problem.”
That fires me up, and I snap, “But I’m yours?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but it works both ways.” I grab the bag with one hand, and his with the other, pulling him into the house. “Raiden fell asleep on the couch, so be quiet,” I whisper, closing the door behind him, then I motion him to follow me into the kitchen, but he just stands in the foyer.
“Jade.”
I toss the bag on the console table and spin around, planting my hands on my hips.
“Is this payback for me being difficult? If it is, you’ve made your point,” I hiss. “But I feel I should remind you, I’m hormonal and my husband is dead. I have an excuse, what’s yours?”
He jaw tics. “In case you didn’t notice there is blood on my shoes. Not looking to track it on your floors.”
“Then take them off, and I’ll throw them in the washing machine.” I drop my hands to my sides and give him a once over. “You got it anywhere else?”
Something flashes in his eyes, something I can’t quite detect. He lifts his bruised hands to the zipper on his hoodie, slowly dragging it down to reveal his white shirt is also stained with blood.
“I hope the other guy looks worse.”
He slicks his tongue over his teeth, his eyes flickering over my face. “The other guy is dead.”
“Then it looks like a job well done to me.” My eyes lock with his. If he’s trying to villainize himself to me, it won’t work. “Does this have to do with Irish?”
His eyes darken. “Does it matter?”
Of course it matters, but I think our reasons for it mattering are different. Shotgun needs revenge to be able to live with himself. I want it for my sons. Nothing will bring their dad back but knowing the men who took his life don’t get to live theirs, provides a sense of validation. Why should those men get to see their children grow up when Irish will never see his?
