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  He could have taken to the man with his bare fists—that would have been easy. But he wanted to inflict pain, damage, and show the man how angry he was at the asshole putting his life, his future with Steph, his reward for escaping this shithole at risk.

  The steel was warm from his pocket as he slipped it over his fingers, and headed for the mess of burly men, rolling around on the floor. Mickey had somehow got Trevor into an arm-bar, and if he didn’t step in soon, the big guys limb would have a new joint in it.

  He drew his fist back, thinking of Colin, of his parents, and the shit he’d been dealt as a kid that led him to this moment. The anger built as his hand pushed forward, and the impact with Mickey’s face dealt a sickening crunch.

  Pistol grinned. He’d fallen back into old habits far too easily. How could he have ever thought he could shirk this side of him forever? The beast lived inside, and like Murray had said, it would find its way out sooner or later.

  Trevor slipped from the man’s hold, and wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He smiled at Pistol, and dove right back in, taking a fistful of Mickey’s short hair, and slamming the guy’s head into the marble floor.

  So much mess, everywhere. But what the blood signified had his heart singing. The carnage showed an end to the hit on his life. It signified to Murray that he was here to finish things, and that they’d mistaken his years under the radar as a weakness.

  He wasn’t weak—he wanted a change. But change didn’t mean the loss of who he was at heart. The thug was bred into him. He couldn’t have escaped it if he tried.

  The fight continued until Mickey’s arms fell lax, his spirit crushed, and his life drained. Trevor let the man’s head fall to the floor, and took a step back to catch his breath.

  The sound of air pooling into heaving lungs filled the eerily quiet space. Each of them stood, lost in their thoughts as they stared at the mangled mess that no more than an hour ago was a living being, a father, a husband.

  Pistol swallowed back the revulsion at what he was, at how fucking good he was at it, and turned from the mess. “Come on, brother. Let’s get cleaned up and have a fuckin’ drink before we start the next round.”

  Trevor rubbed his large hand over the back of his head, and pulled a piece of wood from his hair. “Sounds brill.”

  Steph paused in the front doorway, and eyed the immaculate scene before her. Every little thing in her house sat in order; aligned perfectly, and neat as a pin.

  She’d woken up hours after succumbing to her exhaustion in a hauntingly quiet house. The anxiety took hold within seconds, and before long her hands were full, madly wiping, scrubbing, organizing, and sorting. The house resembled a show home by the time she finished—well after midnight—and dragged herself into bed. The entire place would have been worthy of an inspection, all bar the spare room.

  Her heart hadn’t been up to cleaning that room; the wounds still raw.

  She sighed, and pulled the timber door shut with a thud, turning for the rod as she fished the keys from her bag. Thanks to her temporary dance with insanity, she was still on holiday for the next week, but no way in hell would she be spending the day in that house. Not when the scent, the feel, and the sound of Ivan on her felt as fresh as a daisy.

  Instead, she’d mapped out a day of exploring. So many suburbs in the city, and barely half of them she’d ever visited. A full tank of gas, and some good music would take her a long way. Hopefully, it was far enough that she could forget about life for a while—if only for a second.

  The lights flashed as the alarm disengaged, and she lifted the handle to open the solid door. A shadow cast over her shoulder¸ and her heart went into overdrive.

  Don’t be so fucking paranoid, woman!

  She turned her head to see a skinny cloud glide across the sun, moving out of the way of the bright rays as quickly as it had covered them. Shaky fingers slipped her sunglasses into place, and she dropped into the driver’s seat, ready to start her day out—albeit a little less bravely. The engine turned over with a satisfying grumble, and Steph slotted the shifter into reverse, letting the car coast before she applied the gas.

  Time to forget about all of this for a while, and admire what you can about the world around you.

  Distraction could be a fantastic thing, and certainly a tool she’d used many a time before. If only it was the distraction she now preferred, but he was another world away, doing who knew what.

  Her stomach soured, and she swallowed back the lump of emotion that threatened to ruin her escapade from the get-go.

  Not today.

  ***

  The joints in her neck cricked as she rolled her head side-to-side. The diner she’d found looked cosy, and homely. The perfect place to stop for lunch. Steph pulled the keys from the ignition, and got out of the car into the warm midday sun.

  The heat on her face felt glorious and the smell of new growth in the cottage garden across the road invaded her nose, bringing back memories of a time when she would play in the back yard while her mother weeded.

  Yeah. Where did those days go?

  A bell jingled on entry, alerting the curvy waitress to her presence. The lady looked up from the order she took, and gave Steph a welcoming smile, gesturing to a table.

  She edged onto a seat at a small two-seater by the front window, and ran her eye over the menu, which had been perched between the salt and pepper shakers. Classic favourites like burgers, pizza, and soup of the day amplified the homely feel of the place.

  Warm honey tones decorated the walls, complementing the darker timber of the floor. The tables were Formica topped, with red padded seats around them, giving the diner a semi rock and roll theme. Steph returned her gaze to the menu as the waitress approached.

  “Morning, Darling. Oh, in fact, afternoon. My, where did that go?” The lady laughed; a rich, deep rumble. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll take the lamb burger, and mushroom as an extra. Thanks.”

  “Coming right up.” She scrawled the list on her note-pad. “Can I ask where you got your car done, honey? My husband’s right into that kind of thing, and I’d love to let him know.”

  Steph glanced out the window at the rod, sitting obvious between a couple of Japanese imports. “I don’t know sorry. It’s not mine.” She gave the lady a small smile.

  “Boyfriend?” the waitress asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Yeah. I guess he is.”

  “Honey—” She slapped Steph on the shoulder. “—If he lets you drive his car then you’re something special, all right?”

  She nodded, smiling at the humour in the woman’s response.

  “Anyway, I’ll go get that order in for you. If you need anything, say.”

  “Will do. Thank you.”

  The woman swished away, curling her hips around the tables in a well-practiced manner.

  Was that what they were—boyfriend, and girlfriend. It sounded so … childlike, but maybe they could classify themselves as dating. She held no doubt that they were ‘together’ in the greater sense of the word, but she’d never really classified it as a proper, progressing relationship.

  Did Pete think of it that way? Did he see them having a future beyond the next few months, the next few years? Sure, he said he’d be back for her, and her gut told her he meant it. Yet, at the same time, did that ensure he wouldn’t ever tire of her? Hardly.

  Why did she always worry that those she cared about would abandon her? Perhaps some of the paranoia could be attributed to the shit she’d gone through at the hands of Derek’s boys, but again, those few bad apples shouldn’t ruin the whole cart. Right? Derek loved her, so did Martha. Her mother—as snide as she was—still loved her, and her dad had never let her down. And then Ben—who could ask for a better brother?

  Not forgetting Cass. The two of them had gone through some heavy stuff, and come out the other side stronger than she’d probably admit face-to-face. A little part of her hoped that she’d found a kindred spi
rit, a person who understood the complexities of trying to forge a future with a guy like Pete. But then, after their falling out, the seed of doubt had been planted, and would she ever trust Cass fully again?

  Countless times, with too many counsellors, she’d been grilled as to what her biggest fear was. Aside from abandonment, it had been, and would always remain, failure. The thought she could let down those who loved her hurt like a bitch. When people cared enough for her to be there in her darkest days, they didn’t deserve her failures. They didn’t deserve her dragging them down, and raining on everyone’s parade.

  Case and point as to why she cooked up some strange idea about riding off into the sunset to ‘save’ Pete from some well-known hit man.

  Her shoulders fell, and the diner suddenly appeared too open. Steph’s anxiety sat at the next table, waiting for an opening in the rant that filled her inner monologue so it could say its piece. She still had enough resolve not to let it in. So what if she probably resembled some crazy professor, off in her own little world, holding conversations with herself. A busy mind was a happy mind, right?

  Who thinks up these bullshit clichés?

  The pathetic part of the whole predicament was she could see the paranoia that she wouldn’t be enough for Pete for what it was—a mere misplaced thought. But at the same time she couldn’t shake it. Given time, he’d get frustrated with her problems. Reverse the roles, and she’d probably grow weary of a personality as changeable as hers. Why would he stick about when there were probably a million women more mentally stable than her out there?

  Steph lifted an arm to the table, and rested her chin on the back of her hand as she watched people drive by. Life could be so beautiful when she broke it down into its simplicities. A whole world of living beings: lives, troubles, and successes, all working together. If every one of those strangers out the window could get up and face the new day with a positive outlook, then so could she. Right?

  What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

  Shit, after everything she’d been through, she wasn’t dead yet. Surely that made her some fucking ninja warrior by now.

  How could she be strong, though, when it still seemed as though she clung on to the ledge of life with broken fingernails? She could talk up her successes, her strong points, and her achievements until the cows came home. Butter herself up until she was sure she was ten foot tall and bulletproof. But yet, the dark cloud of uncertainty shadowed her every move. The fear of what-if always tainted any joy she might feel at the realization she’d made it this far.

  The thought that everything she loved, and any chance she might have at a happy ending would be ripped from her held strong.

  She remained her own worst enemy.

  If you can see your faults, then why can’t you fix them?

  Why? What stopped her from dismissing the self-depreciating thoughts that brought her down? If only she knew the answer to that. God, she could package that shit and be a millionaire. The only way she could describe her inability to change was like knowing the answer to her salvation lay to her side, but being unable to move her arm to take hold and stop from burning alive in the fires of her personal hell. Instead she endured the pain, and the suffering. The answers to her problems were so close, but she couldn’t bring herself to reach them. She tortured herself every day, knowing she was the one who could stop the spiral, her cycle of depression, but still not doing a damned thing about it.

  What a mind-fuck.

  Why would any sane person do this to themself? Why did she?

  Question of the century right there, darlin’.

  “Eh, it’s not too bad.”

  Trevor patted Pistol’s shirt back into place, and balled up the wad of bloodied tissues that lay scattered over the end of the bed. They’d been back at the motel long enough for Trevor to check the bullet-wound, and already, he was gagging for another smoke and a taste of something bitter.

  “When did you start smoking?” Trevor called from the bathroom. “I didn’t realize you did.”

  “I quit for a bit,” he called back, turning the packet in his hand.

  “Jeese, son. Don’t let this shit start you up again.”

  “Too late.” He chuckled. “Beside, gotta keep me hands busy.”

  “Or what?” Trevor walked back into the room, drying his hands on a towel.

  “Or I’d have one hand stuck to my old fella’ until we got back to Aussie.”

  The big guy smiled, and tossed the towel into the bathroom. “Got it bad, huh?”

  “Terminal.”

  Loud thumps at the door spun the ease of the moment one-eighty. He looked to Trevor, who inched back with his hand outstretched behind him, searching for the gun that sat on the cabinets.

  Pistol held a finger to his lips, garnering a roll of the eyes in return. He edged off the bed, and stepped to the door. With his back to the wood, he reached for the handle, and turned it slowly, then pulled the door until the chain caught.

  “Settle down, boy. If I wanted to kill ya right away, I would ‘ave.”

  He slammed the door shut, and unhitched the chain before opening it wide, and facing Murray square in the eye.

  “What do ya want?”

  The click of a magazine engaging with a Glock filled the pause in conversation.

  Murray slowly turned his head. “’Allo, Trevor.”

  “Murray.” Trevor moved to stand off to the side, gun in hand.

  The old man walked boldly through the door, and perched on the arm of the sofa. “Ya know, I thought I brought you up better than to stay in the same place for more than one night.”

  “I hadn’t planned on being here long enough for anyone to care,” Pistol replied.

  “Boy, I’ve had eyes on you since ya plane touched down.”

  Fucking knew it.

  The feeling of being watched wasn’t the kind that you paid no mind to. He’d bloody well known they’d had a tail.

  “Stop the dancing, Murray. What’s your plan? Do ya want me to run away crying after you push me around? Like we used to? Once more for old times sake? Or do you want to fight like a man for a change?”

  “I’m too old for the fight.” Murray pulled a pouch of tobacco from his coat pocket, and set it on his knee to roll a smoke. “I had a call from Calla." Tobacco fell from the paper as he flicked the end under, and rolled it between his fingers. "She said she'd had a visitor. Apparently, they made quite the mess while they were there."

  "Aye." Pistols fingers drummed the top of his pack. He'd never thought he be grateful for a thing Murray did, let alone the fact that he smoked.

  "So, naturally, things fall back to me. Once again, this shite is mine to sort out. Peanuts, monkeys, and all that."

  Murray gestured to the door, and Pistol nodded. The old guy exited first, followed by Trevor, checking they weren't set for an ambush. The big guy nodded, and Pistol followed them out into the cool breeze.

  "Any half-wit could figure out what you'd be up to next," Murray continued. "So, I thought I'd save ya the journey to see me."

  He scoffed at the man. "Yeah, right. So I'm meant to believe that ya'd come an volunteer yerself to me?" He shielded his tip from the wind, and lit the ember, sucking greedily on the acrid smoke. Stress busters my ass. Still, it kept his hands busy, or he might take the gun from Trevor and save the conversation.

  Murray snarled an icy smile, and took a drag of his cigarette. "I ain't that daft. I'm here to cut ya a deal. I can understand ya animosity towards ya mother, boy. You never met ya grandma, but she was equally as hard to love. So I offer you this; you an' me go after Sharon, and we split the folding between us."

  "Why? Why not end me yerself, and take it all?"

  "Call me daft, but I’m impressed with the balls ya showed goin’ after Mickey. Why waste the talent when I could put it to use?"

  Pistol snorted, and promptly coughed on the smoke that was stuck between his lungs, and mouth. "You're fuckin' senile already, old man."

&nbs
p; "Why shouldn't I save us the trouble, and pop one in that swede of yours here, and now?" Trevor asked.

  Murray glared at the guy, despite the fact Trevor stood an easy two feet taller, and one wider than the man. "How’s about you go lie down at ya master's feet, eh? There's a good dog."

  Trevor grumbled, and fidgeted with the Glock. The metallic click of his finger toying with the trigger echoed around the enclosed car park. He could only hope the big guy had the safety on, although he highly doubted it.

  Pistol rubbed the bridge of his nose, and sucked his lip ring between his teeth. He worried the metal to the point of pain, and growled. "This is how it 'tis, okay? As far as I'm concerned, none of that dosh belongs to you. You fuckers took me brother from my life, and left a fucking cold void in me heart. You fucked up my life from day one. Instead of being selfless, and admitting you weren't cut out to be parents, you stumbled along, ripping any hope I had from my heart. You fuckin' made me this, and you fuckers at least owe me the inheritance I've been left from me true father as compensation.

  "The cash doesn't start to cover what you've done, but for fucks sake, old man, let me be. I left this place for a bloody reason; I'm sick of this shite. I was born into it, but it ain't me. I want a life less complicated than the hell I live in being around you lot.

  “So, I guess the answer to ya question is ‘no’.”

  Murray sneered, and dipped his chin to glare at Pistol from under his brows. "Don't fuckin' kid yourself, boy. You may not 'ave been born into it, but this is your life. It's in ya heart. Run as far as ya like, but you’ll never be free of us. We’re in here—“ He prodded his chest. “—And here.” Murray tapped his temple as he glared deep into Pistol’s eyes. “I can fuckin’ see it in yer eyes. You want to kill me; not just quick and easy, but slow, and painful.