Page 22 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
Clearly though, my reaction to these guys says I’m insane. I shouldn't be checking out dangerous, unpredictable men when what I really need to do is figure out how to start a new life with nobody and nothing.
I should've taken money when I ran.
I’m only now realizing that for the first time in my life … I'm poor. I've never wanted for anything except love. My dad gave me everything and then some—besides his affection.
We head to a drive-thru, and when I tell Mace what I want, he orders me an extra-large version with a pound of fries, a burger with a triple patty, and a massive chocolate milkshake. I'm not exactly complaining, but I'm full after about ten fries and three bites.
My stomach is shrunk, and I've been through some serious shit in the last few days. Mace raises an eyebrow, but he's a smart man and doesn't say anything. It's only after we've been driving for a bit that I realize we're heading in the opposite direction from the church and out towards the country.
My blood goes cold and gooseflesh prickles across my skin.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask, glancing over at the big man and his handsome face. Why does it look so sinister all of a sudden? And why is my breathing so frantic and wild? Because I don't want to die today, and I have the feeling that if Mace wanted to get rid of me right now, he could?
"You'll see," he grumbles, flicking on his turn signal as I press myself into the passenger side door and reach for the handle. If I have to, I'll throw myself out and onto the road. It'll hurt, but it's better than being dragged out to the middle of the country and strangled or shot or—
"A shooting range?" I ask as we turn down a gravel drive and park in a lot filled with trucks and SUVs. "Oh, thank God." My heart thundering, I close my eyes and throw up a prayer. I'm not even sure if I'm doing it right, but whatever. It's the thought that counts, right?
"Why not?" he asks with a loose shrug, a smile hiding in that thick dark stubble on his handsome jaw. "We've needed a woman on our team for years."
"And why is that?" I ask coolly. I always expect the worst in people. Old habits and all that. Mace turns the engine off and leans over, his huge, muscular arm diving between my thighs and pulling out a black case from under my seat.
"New perspective on things," he explains as I sit there gaping and wondering why I'm so disappointed that he didn't do anything else when he was between my legs. "Better for undercover. Fresh blood in the mix. And maybe then if we find a good, solid new member, Hawke'll finally put that bullet in Arsen's head that he's so long deserved."
Mace opens the driver's side door and climbs out. I follow after, slamming my own door behind me. I'm wearing a bra that's about two sizes too small, my boobs muffining up and over the tops, creating these weird little bulges that are beyond obvious, especially with the sweetheart neckline I'm wearing. Mace, perhaps, doesn’t seem to think it looks so weird, based on the way his eyes linger before he tears himself away.
Still, I follow him into the building and take pleasure in the fact that there's a woman working the counter. She's wearing baggy camo pants and gives my small frame a look, but it's better than getting that same sort of look from a man.
As soon as I get out there on the range though, I'll show them all how a mobster's daughter can shoot.
Grinning to myself, I watch as Mace pays the fees, grabs some new ammo, and hands me a pair of earmuffs. He takes me down to the farthest lane, past a couple of stone-faced dudes firing at paper targets.
"Alright," Mace says, his voice loud and gruff enough to penetrate the big orange muffs over my ears. He snaps the black case open and shows me a Browning Hi-Power Practical, this gorgeous .40 caliber semi-auto of black and shiny steel. As soon as I see it, I'm just itching to get my fingers around the grip. I decide to have a little fun and wait patiently as Mace hefts the weapon into his hand and starts explaining things I learned about when I was five years old: how to load the magazine, how to switch off the safety, how to hold and aim.
When he finally hands the gun over to me, I grip it awkwardly and bite my lip, fanning my lashes as I step up to the range and eye the big red and white target at the end of it. With a deep inhale, I lift the gun up in both hands, just the way my daddy taught me, take aim, and then fire off three shots.
