Page 233 of Barinov

“No jokes or deflecting either,” Nate adds, stepping forward.

“Deal,” I bite out. “Get your guns.”

Nate shakes his head with a quiet laugh as he lays his weapon case on the ledge. “You brought this on yourself, Zeke.”

For the next ten minutes, the range is pure, focused silence, shattered only by the deafening cracks of our weapons. We run a rapid-fire drill at twenty-five yards. A distance that makes even a millimeter of a hand-shake show up like a mile on paper.

I block out the vibrations in my hands and let the muscle memory take over. I squeeze the trigger.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

When the targets slide back to the lanes, Tex steps up to inspect the damage.

“Damn, y’all,” he laughs while looking over our groupings.

Nate’s silhouette has a neat, fist-sized hole right in the center of the chest. Tex’s is even tighter, a smoking circle where the poor bastard’s heart would be.

I pull my target off the clip. Right in the dead center of the skull lies a hole no bigger than a fucking silver dollar. Every single round is stacked perfectly on top of the last.

I toss the paper on the bench, giving Tex a smug smirk. “Look’s like I’m keeping my mouth shut.”

Tex stares at the paper, then looks up at me with a mixture of pride and frustration in his dark eyes. He lets out a heavy breath and claps me on the shoulder. “You really are an asshole, you know that?”

“I’m a great shot,” I correct him, holstering my Glock. “Now let’s go home.”

♥♥♥

Mine and Bella’s Penthouse

I’m greeted by a flash of neon as soon as I enter the doorway.

“Ahh! Z!” Ivy yells as she charges at me.

“What in the world?”

I’m forced to catch her tiny self when she jumps up into my arms.

“Ivy?!” I laugh into her curly bob. “What the hell are you—Ah!” I hug her tighter. “What are you doing here?”

Ivy Cruz, to this day—and any day if she has any say in it, for the rest of our lives—is the only tattoo artist in the entire world who’ll ever lay a needle on mine or Bella’s skin. She’s the one who did our Dylan tattoos, the massive one on my thigh for my parents, and a few others. We met her in Miami years ago and she’s been family ever since.

She squeezes my neck so tight I can feel the dig of her silver rings against my skin. She smells exactly the way I remember: cinnamon apple body spray, a hint of cigarette smoke, and the faint chemical bite of tattoo stencil transfer spray.

I set her back down on her feet. My hands grip at her shoulders as I push her back just far enough to look at her. “Seriously, Ivy. What in the hell are you doing all the way in New York?”

The door bursts back open behind us before she can answer my question, followed by Bella’s squeal and a very confused-looking Cade.

“You made it!” Bella beams, running toward us. She drops her dance bag on the floor and immediately wraps Ivy up in a fierce hug.

Cade stands by the door, his eyebrows arched and looking at me for an explanation.

“Cade, this is Ivy,” I say, motioning to the little black and green haired thing clutching my sister. “She’s Bells and my tattoo artist from Miami.”

“The one that did our Dylan tattoos,” Bella adds, grinning from ear to ear. “And the Z on my shoulder.”

Ivy glances up at me, then tracks her eyes downward. “And the beautiful piece of work that I did way down on your—”

“Ivy!” I reach down and shove a hand over her mouth.