“The rifle.”
“Oh, of course.”
“And you’ll have to be careful.”
She felt him stiffen. “Careful? Is it”—he paused—“loaded?”
Now why would he go there?
Her lip curled. “It could be.”
He remained silent.
“Of course, you’d have to pull the trigger to find out,” she added.
“I could just open the chamber.”
She shrugged. “You could. But my way’s more interesting.”
“It’s also more dangerous.”
She grinned.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Sir Stick.
She sighed. “Are you always so gullible?”
“I never said I believed it was loaded. But I can see you wanted me to believe it.”
He pulled her in closer.
His eyes looked like two nuggets of coal behind those slits. She followed his gaze as it drifted down her throat and chest, not stopping until it reached her cleavage, where it slowed its pace as it slunk lower until it morphed into something that felt like fingers grazing her nipples. That woke up Hansel and Gretel who pebbled, puckered, and pushed against her stiff leather vest. It was bad enough they wanted to escape. They might at least have stuck to the script. But no. Rather than leave a trail of breadcrumbs, the cheeky brats tossed lit matches and scorched the earth, leaving a trail of flames in their wake, which spread like wildfire all the way down under and into the bush.
Say something.
“The rifle isn’t mine. It belongs to my father. I didn’t ask if I could take it. I knew the answer would beno.”
You didn’t have to tell him all that.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get it back.”
“Do you know those guys?”
She could feel him hesitate.
“I’m, uh, acquainted with them.”
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, emphatically. And then added, sounding less certain. “I don’t think so.”
She pulled away to release herself from his grip, but he didn’t let go.
“The music’s stopped,” she said.
He looked around as though he needed to verify her claim.
“Oh. You’re right.”
