“Yup, that's me,” Rafe intoned. “I'm an educational motherfucker.”
“Jesus, it's so loud,” I added. “Isn't there anything I can do about the noise?”
“Yeah,” Rafe said. “You can fire it enough times to get used to it. Now try again.”
I aimed and fired eight more times. By the third shot, I was able to hit the bottles I was aiming at. When the sun finally went down and I couldn't see the bottles anymore, we walked back to the Saab and drove off in search of a motel to spend the night. I kept the gun Rafe gave me tucked into the back of my leggings with the safety on.
It felt good, knowing I had a gun and knew how to use it.
Looking back, I wish I'd known how little that would help me in the end.
Chapter 21
Rafe
I drove the old Saab up the back roads, keeping both windows wide open to help with the smell of the paint fumes. Even with the paint dry, the odor was enough to make me a little dizzy. I knew it'd seem pretty suspicious if anyone got close enough to sniff it out, but I figured it probably wouldn't come to that. As long as we parked far enough away from other cars, it'd be enough to keep us from being noticed.
If we were really lucky, the owner of the other car may not have even noticed its plates were gone. It's not like people usually notice their own plates.
I glanced over at Jewel. She had the gun in her lap with the safety on. She was staring at it and running her fingers over it, but I could tell her mind was miles away. For a first-timer, she'd done a damn fine job of hitting her targets.
I'd never have admitted it out loud, but she'd actually done a lot better than I had the first time I'd been handed a gun. I was just glad the asshole in the outlet parking lot had been carrying a .22. The small, lightweight pistol was perfect for beginners in general and women in particular.
I hoped she wouldn't need to use it. But I was glad she had it, just in case.
Unfortunately, the dickhead I'd taken the gun from hadn't been carrying a spare clip. The magazine capacity on a .22 was fifteen rounds and she'd fired nine. If she was really going to be any use to me in a firefight, we'd need to grab more ammo.
But that would have to happen the next day. That night, we needed a motel to crash in. I'd have preferred to hunker down in the old farmhouse since it was more low-profile. But without any running water, it would have been almost impossible to dye our hair properly. Even though the thought of bleaching and coloring my hair made me feel like a lame-ass, I knew we couldn't take any chances.
Plus, even though Jewel had been able to loosen up and laugh a bit during target practice, I knew she was probably still fighting a lot of anxiety. A motel would provide a more normal set of surroundings for her to try to relax and overcome her fear. Maybe some fast food and bad TV would help her feel like she was on more solid ground.
The truth was, I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone through anything like the emotional shitstorm she was probably experiencing. When I searched my memory, the only thing I could come up with was my parents dying in the fire. My whole world had been reduced to ashes in a single fucking night, and ever since then, I embraced the fact that any of us could end up kissing the dust at any time, regardless of how safe we thought we were.
The lesson had been painful, but it had made me free. Living, dying, killing—ever since then, they'd all seemed the same to me.
But Jewel had mentioned that her outfit was a gift from her parents, which probably meant they were still alive. From the way she talked about her job, it sounded like that meant a lot to her, too. She had plenty to lose, including her mind. And if she gave in to her shock and horror, she'd be no good to me.
Is that really what's bugging you? I asked myself. Are you just worrying about her safety and comfort because you think she's still got information you need? That seems pretty fucking unlikely, doesn't it? So what, then? If you were really all about fucking her, you'd have done it last night when she gave you an opening. Are you catching feelings for her? Is that it?
I shook my head to clear these nagging thoughts away and switched on the radio, flipping through the stations. I was looking for heavy metal or even some classic rock, but every station seemed to be playing either obnoxious commercials or drippy love songs that didn't exactly stifle the questions I was asking myself.
I could feel Jewel looking at me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead until I saw a sign for a Comfy Nest Motel and pulled in. It was a cheap national motel chain that dotted just about every highway in America, and better still, it was away from the highway. I figured it'd serve our purposes pretty well, all in all.
“You've got credit cards, I'm guessing, right?” I asked Jewel.
“Sure,” she replied. “There's not much money on any of them, though. Probably not even enough for a room for the night.”
“That's cool,” I said. “They don't need to charge the card, they just need it on file.” I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket. Most of it had come from the guy in the outlet parking lot. “You can use this to pay for it. You should definitely tell them you're here alone, though. Just to be on the safe side, in case anyone comes in asking about us. They probably won't, but still.”
Jewel paused. “But if I tell them I'm alone, I can't ask for a room with two beds, can I? That would be kind of weird.”
I hadn't thought of it. “No biggie,” I said. “I'll take the floor.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I wasn't sure whether she was asking if I was sure about her asking for a room with one bed, or if I was sure about sleeping on the floor. Either way...“Yeah, I'm sure,” I said.
Jewel nodded and got out of the car. I spotted a liquor store across the street from the motel and got an idea. “Hey, do you drink?” I called after her.
She stopped, and it looked like she was thinking it over. After a moment, she said, “Well, not usually. But then, I'm not usually shot at much, either. So I can probably make an exception, right?”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” I agreed. “What's your poison?”
“I like white wine,” Jewel said.
I tried not to roll my eyes, wondering why I'd even bothered to ask. But hey, if that's what it took to help her relax...
“You got it,” I said. Jewel smiled and continued toward the front office to check in.
I thought about how funny it was that just yesterday, I would have worried that as soon as she was out of my sight, she would bolt on me and run to the nearest person in uniform. Now I was certain she wouldn't.
Was that because she was convinced I could protect her? Had she believed my half-truths about the cops being in on this?
I knew I didn't have time to think about stuff like this. Just like I knew I couldn't seem to think of anything else but her.
I got out of the car and strolled across the street. As I walked into the shop, I was hit by the strangely universal liquor store smell of dusty glass and alcohol. The clerk was a morbidly obese man in his sixties with a long white beard with dirty gray streaks and a t-shirt that said “Madder Than a Bobcat in a Piss Fire.” I didn't know what that meant, but I sure wasn't in a hurry to ask.
I browsed the wine section, but I had never been partial to the stuff and I had no idea what I was looking for. I saw that there was a big box of white wine that appeared to be the least expensive option, so I grabbed that and a bottle of cheap whiskey and walked up to the counter.
“Oh, and a pack of cigarettes,” I said, pointing to the brand I wanted.
The clerk grabbed the cigarettes and rang up my purchase, looking at me dolefully. “Circus in town?” he drawled.
I looked down and realized I'd already forgotten what I was wearing. Jesus, if the other Reapers saw me right now they'd never let me live it down, I thought. Especially Sperm.
“Laundry day,” I answered, shooting a glance at the clerk's t-shirt. “You can probably relate, huh?”
The clerk raised his bushy white eyebrows for a second, then rasped with laughter, slapping his knee. “Laundry day! That's a good'n!” he wheezed, nodding.
I smirked, handing over the money for the wine, booze, and smokes. As I did, my eye fell on a small handgun behind the counter. “Nice .22,” I commented. “Most liquor store clerks I've known were more of the shotgun-toting type.”
“Ahh, yeah, this fuckin' faggy-lookin' thing,” the clerk sneered, waving a hand at the pistol. “Looks like it oughtta be in a goddamn purse, right? 'Cept my shoulders an' knees are all fucked up from when I worked construction, so I'm stuck with this pea-shooter if I wanna actually hit anythin' when I shoot.”
I got an idea. It was a little risky, but if it worked, it could do a lot to save us some travel time the next day.
“You wouldn't happen to have any extra ammo for that sucker, would you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
I expected the clerk to react with surprise or suspicion, but he just shrugged. “Sure I do,” he said, reaching under the counter and producing a dusty box of .22 bullets. “May as well sell the fuckin' things. Been sittin' on the shelf down here for goin' on three years.”
“Thanks, man,” I said. “How much?”