Recoil Read online

  “You’ve gotta have a rest.” Trevor sighed. “When the shit hits the fan, it ain’t gonna stop raining until you’ve been well and truly showered in it. So rest up, and fucking look bright eyed when you take them on.”

  The more experienced of the girls bounced over to where they sat, and launched her huge chest onto the counter as she swamped Trevor with a hug. “Hey, you!”

  “Charlie! Great to see you girl.” Trevor thumbed at the beaming blonde. “My cousin.”

  “Nice to meet ya.” Pistol extended his hand, and noted the way her smile faded as she shook it. Good.

  “This over here—“ she pointed to the other blonde, who served a grease-faced, overall clad local, “—is Suzie.”

  “Heya!” Suzie waved. Her dark-lined eyes slid slowly over Trevor, then Pistol. He raised a hand to his face to block her view.

  “Just get me a bourbon, love.”

  Charlie nodded, and raised her brows at Trevor.

  “Same,” he nodded.

  She moved away to prepare the drinks, and Trevor turned on his stool to face him. “Mickey first, then?”

  “Aye.”

  “Plan?”

  “Smash, and grab.”

  “Simple.”

  “That’s how I like it.”

  Charlie returned with the bourbons, and some dark shot in two small glasses. “A wee extra from Suzie.”

  Pistol pushed the shot toward Trevor who downed both before raising the glasses at the smiling girl. She finished up her order, and made no bones about getting her ass down to their end.

  “You—” she raked her gaze over Trevor. “—Must be Trevor from what Charlie’s told me of you.”

  “And what’s that cheeky wench been saying?”

  “Well, she did say if ya weren’t her cousin she’d do ya. I can see why.” The girls tongue slid over her bottom lip before she sucked the plump flesh between her teeth.

  Pistol shook his head, and moved to another stool. The night was far too young to be on the sideline for that the whole time.

  “Yeah, not my scene either,” Charlie joked as she wiped the surfaces down. “You got someone?”

  “That obvious, eh?”

  She chuckled. “Yeah. The boys don’t usually do everything they can to avoid Suzie.”

  “Aye, well she’s not me type.”

  “And who would be then?”

  “Something a lot more respectful than that.” He nodded toward the spectacle Suzie made of Trevor, leaning across the bar and fondling his muscles.

  “At least he’s havin’ some fun, yeah?”

  “At least.”

  Charlie walked away to serve another customer, smacking Suzie on the ass as she passed by. The girl giggled, and promptly locked lips with Trevor. He couldn’t complain—the guy needed a break in his dry spell, and if this was the girl willing to quench his thirst, then so be it.

  Pistol pulled his phone from his pocket, and opened up the Google app. He searched through to the world clock, and did a quick calculation. A little after 8p.m. their time, so a little after 5a.m. for Steph. Not too early, but still, if she was resting, he didn’t want to disturb her.

  He pocketed his phone, and nursed the short glass of bourbon between his inked hands. Trevor had been right with his analogy about the rain. Nothing about this homecoming would go easy on him … hell, either of them. The guys they went up against were serious, career best. And what was he? A lost boy pretending he could push it with the big guns?

  Was this the step too far? Would he find himself lying in a pool of his blood, or staring down the barrel of his maker tomorrow? Would it be so bad to step out now, and find another way?

  But what else was there to do? Murray had said himself the motives for the hit were based on a shit-load of money, and that was one thing he didn’t have to offer. Hundreds of thousands. Fuck. What would it take to buy Murray off, and call an end to this stupid masquerade?

  No point straining his brain over it—not when it wasn’t anywhere near being on the cards.

  He glanced over to Trevor, who was mostly obscured by the curvy blonde who had made her way out from the bar, and now sat perched on his lap. What he would do to have Cutie in his hands, just like that. Fuck, he grew hard at the thought of her soft ass in his palms, pushing her harder into him.

  Pistol downed the last of the bourbon, and waved Charlie off when she gestured for another. He rearranged the problem in his jeans, slid off the stool, and made his way through the pub to the restrooms at the back. No shame in sorting the problem the best he could given the distance between them.

  An older gentleman gave him a curt nod as they passed in the doorway to the men’s, and he dropped a relieved sigh at the empty room before him. Nothing like company to ruin the mood. Picking the cleanest stall, he shut the door, put the lid down, and took a seat. Somewhere in the album on his phone were a few sneaky shots he’d taken of Steph while she had been sleeping.

  He brought an image of her up to full screen, and closed his eyes. In a way, reducing her memory to a basic wank in the bathroom seemed so degrading toward her. But at the same time, he needed to ease the ache in his balls, or sure as fuck, he’d slip up at the wrong moment because his mind lay elsewhere.

  Pistol propped the phone on top of the paper holder, and flicked the catch on his belt. He eased the zipper down, and pulled his still semi-erect fella out for a play. Steph’s milky skin, contrasted against the beautiful colour of her ink, shone from the illuminated display as he stroked himself to life.

  He pushed the image into the forefront of his mind, and closed his eyes, still rapidly pumping his hand in a steady beat. What had the woman done to him? She could twist his mind around in a singular heartbeat without being there. Nobody had ever affected him to the same degree, and sure as shit, nobody had ever made him want to burn the world down to give her paradise.

  The door to the bathroom slammed against the wall, and two noisy men came laughing, and joking into the area. Pistol looked down at his hard, but unsatisfied member, and sighed. He stuffed the dejected little guy away, and zipped himself up. Everything in order, and phone back in his pocket, he drew a deep breath and opened the stall. The two guys paid no mind whatsoever to him as he rounded them to leave the men’s room.

  Trevor remained in the same place as he’d left the big guy; glued to the stool by a blonde firecracker. He caught his eye as he returned to the bar, and Trevor’s face fell a fraction.

  Suzie looked over to where he’d settled on a stool, and smiled as Trevor spoke.

  “What’s up, son?”

  “Not in for it tonight.”

  “Perfect, because we were talking of getting out of here.”

  He looked over to the sexed up couple, and inwardly groaned. “I’m sure ya don’t need a chaperone.”

  “No, that’s true.” Trevor grinned. “But we only got the one motel key, and I can’t promise I’ll hear you knocking.”

  Suzie giggled, and placed both palms over Trevor’s chest, giving him a not so subtle rub.

  “Fuckin’ grand.” He met the apologetic, yet amused eye of Charlie, and shook his head. “Let’s go then.” He could let the pair in, and leave them be. No harm in that.

  Suzie slid from Trevor’s lap, and whispered in his ear before ducking out the back. She returned a short time later with her jacket, and bag. The big guy scooped her into his side, and led the three of them from the place.

  Fuckin’ cut me wrists now.

  Nothing gave a lonely heart pure Chinese water torture like having to escort a horny couple back to a motel room.

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and shrugged it higher as the night air bit in. Trevor, and Suzie walked at an unsurprisingly brisk pace ahead of him. He grinned, and headed after them at an idling speed.

  If the fuckers wanted to mock him with turning the only place he had to sleep into a fucking boudoir, he’d bloody well torture them right back by taking forever to get to the motel.
/>   Pistol wound his fingers around the room key, and chuckled.

  Maybe he could have fun after all?

  For the twentieth time that night Steph opened her eyes into black, and groaned. Why did she keep waking up? Wasn’t as though she hadn’t been exhausted when she hit the pillow the night before. She rolled to her side, and checked the time on her phone.

  5.10a.m.

  The sun would rise soon—doing nothing to warm the shittiest day of her life so far. Well, at least that was how it felt. Richard’s funeral. What a fake fucking affair that would be.

  She closed her eyes, and tossed about for a while, doing what she could to push her mind back to sleep. No such luck. Thoughts of Pete, of what he was up to, of who he was with, where he was right at that moment, all assailed her.

  Cass’s words joined the parade, reminding her to think hard about what it was she was scared of most. Why did it worry her so badly how he would fit in with her family? Did she think that poorly of her father, and Ben, that she thought they’d abandon her if they ever found out the truth about Pete’s past?

  Was that what she was freaking out about the most? If they ever knew it was him that took out Richard, and that it wasn’t his first kill, either?

  So what? He’d never shown an ounce of anger toward her that left her feeling scared, but no matter how many times she found herself in this same situation, thinking the same thoughts, she still worried too much.

  She’d said herself that a person's past didn’t define who they were today, but here she was, worrying the exact thing about Pete. So, why not turn it to a positive? Maybe it was a good thing that he was so dedicated to those he loved. She’d be certain that if the day came they had a family together, he would be the ultimate protector for them. But would she need to worry about him feeling the need to protect her if none of his past came with him?

  Hello pot? This is kettle.

  Look at her history. The things she fretted about were brought on by her past. Richard was part of the current problem, and whose history had he surfaced from—hers.

  Steph ceded to the insomnia, and opened her eyes yet again. She stared into the inky darkness at the ceiling for a while, and then committed herself fully to giving in.

  Her legs flopped from the bed with resignation, and she tugged her jeans back on—still where they’d been discarded on her floor. Leaving laundry lying about was completely out of character, but she couldn’t shirk the reason why she’d done it was because it would be something he did.

  She tugged a jumper over her head, and wandered through the house, collecting the set of keys from the hooks next to the fridge as she went. The front door opened silently, and her shoulders shuddered with the cold early-morning air as she closed the door, and turned for the driveway.

  There it sat, in eerily dark glory—the fading moonlight highlighting the few chrome parts on the otherwise hauntingly black body. Steph pressed the button on the key, and watched the flash of red. She placed her fingers on the handle, and stalled. Electricity fired through her at the thought that everything about Pete was real. Her mind had played the past month over and over to the point she had been left wondering if the good she saw in him was nothing but a delusional fantasy. But being outside, in the cool air, with her hand poised to open the door of the rod cemented the facts.

  Pete was as real as could get.

  Which meant his crazily obsessed love for her was real.

  And that in turn meant the intense cramping in her chest had a reason for being. Her love for him was real.

  They were like fucking Bonnie and Clyde.

  No matter where he went, what he did, she would stay by his side.

  In an instant, the worry she had fraught herself with over the entire night, had lost sleep over, had commiserated over, vanished. She had solved the problem, by simply looking at the rat-rod, and reminding herself how badly her chest ached at the thought of losing him.

  Steph inched the door open, and slipped into the car. She pulled it shut softly behind her, and tucked her feet up onto the driver’s seat. With her arms banded tightly around her legs, she looked over the details of the interior. He kept the panels immaculate. She could have applied her make-up in the glass over the instruments. Her finger ran a lazy line around the shape of the steering wheel. She clutched it in her fist, placing her hand exactly where she’d seen him have his the times they drove together.

  Was this how war-widows had felt when their men marched off to war? Dreading the thought that the memories of Pete she had now would possibly be the only ones she was afforded? Why did she still sully them with ridiculous worries about what her family thought of the man? Who gave a rat’s ass if they didn’t like him? He was everything to her. He made her happy. He showed her love that didn’t require anything in return. He was everything she needed, and just enough else to push her to be better as well.

  Steph dipped her head, and drew a lungful of his musky scent. How could she think like that, though? Compare men sacrificing themselves in the name of freedom, to what Pete did out of cold-blooded vengeance.

  Yet it was his freedom he fought for, wasn’t it? Finishing this mess with his mother, his father would make him free.

  She shuddered a sigh, and withdrew her hand from the steering wheel to turn and look in the back seat. Not much lay there except for the T-shirt she’d commandeered the night before, a pair of boots in the foot well, and a length of rope. Nothing marred the beautifully restored seat.

  Everything in his life was in order, and she couldn’t help but wonder if that was a spin-off from a life of chaos as a child. Did order relax him? Did order bring him peace? So much she still didn’t know about the man.

  What she would do to spend the rest of her life continually being amazed by him, loving every new detail she unearthed about him. What if it wore off though? What if he lost his appeal, or she hers? Where would that leave her?

  Steph smacked the side of her head, and gritted her teeth against the poisonous train of thought. Why did she have to always do that? Degrade everything down until she was certain all the good in her life came with a catch? What if, heaven forbid, he was simply the best thing that had happened to her? Was that so hard to believe?

  God, she needed him there so bad. Every inch of her ached with the need to talk it through with Pete, to hold him—fuck that, to push him up against the car and ravage him. She burned with the desire to be on him, in him, over him, mixed with him.

  Five more days.

  That was all she had to wait.

  Five more eternally long, soul-sucking, hour-by-hour, torture ridden days.

  “Where are you going?” Trevor pushed Suzie inside with a slap to the ass, and turned back to face him.

  He shrugged. “Leavin’ you two love-birds to it.”

  “You ain’t fucking going anywhere.” Trevor pointed a finger in his face.

  “Excuse me?”

  “In case you’d forgotten, you’ve got a few people out there wanting to take your last breath for a few quid. You aren’t. Going. Anywhere.”

  “So what,” Pistol scowled. “I’m supposed to hang about while you and ya girl get ya freak on?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Sick bastard.”

  Trevor smiled—the tension of the moment eased. “Takes one to know one.”

  He sighed, and shook his head at the big guy. He couldn’t deny him this. “Fine. But let me get to fuckin’ sleep first.”

  “Hurry the hell up, then.” Trevor tipped his head toward the door. Sounds of Suzie singing to herself drifted out to them.

  “I bet ya twenty she’s a screamer.”

  “You’re on.” Trevor laughed, shaking his head as he followed Pistol inside.

  “What?”

  “They always are with me, Son.”

  ***

  Asleep.

  Yeah, right.

  Pistol lay with his back to the ruckus that had been bouncing around on the bed for the pas
t half hour. Trevor gave him ten minutes—ten fucking minutes—before he recognised the first un-conversation related moan come from their direction.

  He’d spent the next while with his eyes screwed shut, counting sheep, reciting the alphabet backwards in his head, and singing one of his favourite rock anthems five times over. Nothing worked. There he lay, wide-awake, listening to two people fuck the living daylights out of each other.

  Pistol tossed the blanket off, and rolled off the couch. The pair didn’t slow in their pace as Trevor threw a question his way. “Thought you were asleep,” he grunted.

  “A fuckin’ deaf person would have trouble sleepin’ through that.” His point was punctuated by squeal, and a moan from Suzie.

  He wandered over to the small bench top, and picked his wallet, and phone up. With them stuffed in his pockets, he shrugged his jacket on, and stopped by the side of the bed Suzie’s head currently hung off.

  She looked up at him, her expression blissful.

  “Lovely to meet ya, Suzie.”

  Trevor laughed, and hoisted the girl further toward where he knelt in the centre of the bed.

  “You … too … oh.”

  “Don’t you fucking go far.” Trevor strained through gritted teeth.

  “Talkin’ to me, or the girl?” Pistol chuckled.

  He turned, and gladly left the room. Their cries lasted five doors down before he couldn’t hear the mauling that had kept him awake for so long. A few lights were on in the adjacent rooms, but the majority of the motel seemed to be lost to sleep. Lucky fuckers.

  An itch he’d been able to ignore for a good while came at him like a slap to the face. At a loss of what to do with his hands, and with fuck knows how long to kill, the need for a smoke grated on his flesh. He walked out to the roadside, and swept his gaze both directions. The left seemed more likely to harbour late-night shops, so he turned and walked in that direction.

  A short time later, he exited a corner store with a fresh pack of lung-darts, and a new lighter. Immediate relief swamped him at the simple touch of the cellophane wrapper. He tore it open, discarding the flimsy seal into a nearby rubbish bin.