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“Spark.” He held out his hand to me, and I reached out, shaking it firmly.
“Meyah.”
A smile quirked in the corner of his mouth, and he looked over my shoulder at Huntsman. “She passes.” He took a couple steps back, saluting me with his fingers before wandering back toward the garage, leaving me terribly fucking confused.
I narrowed my eyes and turned on Huntsman who was actually smirking as he leaned against the doorway. He nodded to my hand, and I looked down, finding it covered in a black handprint.
“The boys like to weed out the prissy princesses pretty fucking quickly around here.”
I scoffed, wiping my dirty hand on my jeans, not giving a shit about the big black marks. “It’s gonna take more than a bit of grease to scare me.”
I loved to get dirty.
When I worked with the horses, I was always the first offering to do the hard yards or help clean the stables. I wasn’t afraid of a little hard work or a little mess. Things just continued on into my drawing and the way I used my fingers and hands to smudge my shading or to blend colors, and I always ended up walking out of my room with it all up my arms, all over my face and often on the carpet. I was nowhere near a princess, and if they thought that’s what they were going to get just because I was Huntsman’s daughter, these boys were going to be seriously mistaken. And I was about to show them just why they didn’t need to play any more games to figure out what kind of girl I was.
“Do you have a 9mm on you?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at Huntsman whose eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Back home, the boys had gotten used to me borrowing the odd gun or two when I had the itch to practice. Hadley wasn’t always around, but the guys had all done their part, offering their advice on techniques and stances until I found one that worked for me, and worked pretty damn well.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Meyah,” he growled, his tone turning severe and gruff.
I pointed out across the yard to where I spotted a line of beaten up cans sitting on top of a fence. There was a purpose-built wall behind it made out of what looked like a mixture of materials and which appeared as if it had taken a pretty good beating over its lifetime.
He looked apprehensive enough already, but then Brewer stepped out from behind Huntsman, and my gut tightened just a little. His glare wasn’t as harsh as it had been the last time we met when I held my gun against his chest and threatened to pull the trigger.
He reached into his club cut, and my body tightened a little as he pulled out a black pistol, 9mm, and held it out to me.
Huntsman was quick to turn to his club brother. “Brew,” he scolded, but he was ignored.
Brewer stepped forward, waiting for me to take the gun from his hand. “You told me you were a good shot,” he drawled as I plucked it from his hand and felt the weight of it in my palm. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Dakota stood off to the side, her eyes moving from one person to another nervously chewing her lip. I swallowed the now nervous lump in my throat. I didn’t know why it was there. I was a good shot, I knew I was. But I did it for fun, to help calm my nerves, or more importantly, to make myself feel that little bit more like I had control in a world that was uncontrollable.
Now, though, I could feel the eyes on me.
Not just Huntsman and Brewer, but the boys in the garage had stopped, and a handful of men inside were watching from the bar and sofas.
I wasn’t so cocky anymore. I walked forward, stepping down onto the grass and brushing my hair back from my face before I took my stance. I’d done this before. A million times.
Hell, I’d even outshot half the members of the club back home, including Ham.
Not that he cared.
He was proud as hell of me, and I think the fact that I could handle a gun made him feel a little better about me being able to keep myself safe.
Inhaling deeply, I pulled back the chamber, loading the gun and lining up my shot.
Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.
Line up your sights.
Take a deep breath.
Breathe out.
Ting. One can.
Ting. Two cans.
Three, four, and five followed in quick succession, and I lowered the gun with a smile.
“Well, fucking shit,” Huntsman muttered in quiet awe.
Despite the way Brewer initially made me feel when I looked over my shoulder and found him grinning and scratching his beard, I couldn’t help but smile back. “Think she’ll fit right in.”
Huntsman nodded. “Think she might.”
