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But Oscar barked at me in his deep, raspy voice before I could make a run for it. “What the fuck took you so long, girly? I’ve been waitin’ ages for ya.”
Old, grizzly, and used to getting his way, Oscar didn’t give me a chance to escape. The man literally bullied me into staying.
The first thing he made me do was sit down and have lunch with him. Glaring at me and practically daring me to complain that his homemade chili was too spicy.
I knew it was the first test, and I almost failed it.
Maybe if it had been anyone else, I would have said fuck this and walked away.
It’s not like I ever asked for any of this.
Whatever this truly is…
But there was something about the challenge in Oscar’s faded blue eyes that struck a nerve inside me. Stubbornly, I forced myself to finish his bowl. Refusing to let him get the best of me.
He didn’t seem to mind that I gulped down three glasses of water. Nor did he care that I had to keep blowing my nose, my eyes watering so bad I was practically crying.
He probed at my background, wanting to know everything about me. Neither impressed or unimpressed by my privileged upbringing.
When I glossed over how I came to know James, he simply grunted and let it go. Accepting what I told him with a nod of his head.
There wasn’t a flash of pity in his eyes or an awkward, uncomfortable silence.
Either he didn’t know what happened to me or he did and he didn’t care. It didn’t bother him.
And I think that’s when I truly started to feel comfortable with him.
Ever since Beth, Sophia, and I were rescued from the Russians, people look at me differently.
Like I’m a fucking freak or something.
Most of the time they don’t know how to treat me. They’re either too soft, handling me with kid gloves, like Beth’s husband, Johnathan. Or they’re so cold and polite they’re downright rude, like my own mother.
You’d think after all we’ve been through that Beth and Sophia would be the exception. They’re my best friends. We’ve known each other since we were in preschool. We know each other’s deepest, darkest secrets.
We went through the trauma together. They know exactly what happened to me.
But even they treat me different now. Treat me like they can never fully relax in my company.
I put them on edge.
They’re afraid I’m going to snap at any second.
And I’m fucking sick of it.
Firing my fourteenth shot into a milk jug full of water, I drop my mag and slap a new one in. The action so instinctual now after Oscar made me practice it for days on end I don’t even have to think about it.
“Way to go, girly,” Oscar grunts in approval, happy I performed the quick reload flawlessly.
Pushing forward, I walk deeper into the woods, determined to finally knock down every target that pops up around me.
I’ll give it to Oscar, he’s a mad genius.
He’s rigged these woods around his house as a training ground for all kinds of stuff.
So far, he’s kept me glued to the shooting trail he’s designed, but I know he has an entire area dedicated to explosives.
And I can’t wait to play in it.
Just the thought of blowing stuff up fills me with buzzing excitement.
I want to destroy something. Bad.
It’s a need that slithers under my skin, hungry and restless.
When a target pops up to my left, springing out of a bed of leaves, I promptly slap two bullets into it.
Getting a little carried away.
“What did I tell you ‘bout wastin’ ammo?!” Oscar barks roughly behind me.
I know he’s right, but it doesn’t stop me from clenching my teeth as I put one shot into the next target. Forcing myself to get a grip.
In the beginning, Oscar indulged me and let me shoot at targets until they splintered into pieces.
But it was never enough.
I wanted to shoot at every target until there was nothing left of it.
There’s just something extremely cathartic about blasting shit out of existence.
Something extremely satisfying about having that kind of power.
Oscar gave me three days of giving into the impulse then he forced me to stop, complaining that I was creating too much work for him.
Leaves and twigs snapping beneath my boots, I mentally count how many rounds I have left as I drop target after target.
If I fail to pull off the next quick reload, I won’t have enough time to hit the last two targets.
I’m so focused on counting, I tune everything else out.
Like before, when I fire my fourteenth shot I drop my mag and slap a new one in.
But just as I’m about to shoot at the second to last target, a pair of hands grab me by the hips.
If there’s one thing I absolutely hate and loathe in this world, it’s being touched without permission.
