I squeeze the trigger.
Twice.
Three times.
Each time the barrel bucks upward, I bring it back down and line up the next shot.
I squeeze and I squeeze and I squeeze, following Buddy’s body as he topples to his knees. Wet stains dot his body.
The gun clicks empty.
Silence.
Silas just looks at me. “You got him, honey.”
I shake my head. Hand him the empty gun.
Hobble over to Buddy Ibsen, the man who was once my father. He’s still upright on his knees, somehow, sitting on his heels. Blood trickles out of his mouth.
His eyes meet mine. I hold his gaze and say nothing. Just stand over him and stare down at him, watching the life drain from his eyes.
I feel nothing.
His eyes turn glassy, and he topples backward.
I hang my head, then. With a relieved sigh, I rip open the body armor vest and fling it off, sucking in a breath, wincing as a hitch of pain digs through me. I grab the empty sheath from my shirt and toss that aside.
I look at Silas. “Did you keep your vow?”
He nods. “Malik did the kill shots.”
I look at Malik. “Are you okay?”
He’s ripped a length off his shirt and tied it around his arm. “I’m good. Just nicked me.” He glances at the bodies, lingering on Buddy Ibsen’s. “You’re one bad bitch, you know that?”
Somehow, from him, that comes across as a compliment.
I just smile at him, and then turn to Silas. “Can we go home, now?”
He frowns, puzzled. “Home?”
“The club. Where you live.” I lean into him. “Wherewelive.”
He curls his arm around my shoulders and supports my weight. “Yeah, baby. We’re going home.”
homecoming
Silas
The common room beneath Club Sin is a beehive of activity when Naomi and I finally descend the stairs from the parking lot.
Lash, Taj, and Toro are clustered on the couch in front of the TV, shouting over each other; none of them are shouting in English. Empty and partly empty liquor bottles and beer bottles litter the table in front of them. A soccer game is playing on the TV, which explains the ruckus.
Chance, Rev, and Kane are at a table together, playing cards—Chance and Rev sip beer while Kane toys with the tab of an empty cola can.
At another table, Annika, Anjalee, and Myka huddle together, glasses of wine in front of each, with a couple of empties nearby. They’re chatting and laughing, easy and companionable. Annika’s cane leans against her thigh, her other leg bouncing with nervous energy.
Noticeably absent are both of my brothers. We’re not the most sociable bunch, but if everyone else is in the common area, so are we. Concern niggles at my gut as I lead Naomi down the hallway.
