Page 123 of Trigger Happy

I walk up the gravel path to Lawton’s ranch, juggling the pumpkin spice latte and beef jerky I brought as a peace offering. Though, now that I’m here, this feels like a watered-down apology. What was I thinking, bringing him a latte? Hey, sorry baby bro’s a murderer, but here’s some pumpkin spice to cheer you up. Enjoy!

I should toss them.

“You can do this,” I repeat.

I pluck my phone out of my pocket and click Bobbi’s name. She picks up on the first ring. “I can’t do this,” I say, staring up at the bright Texas sun. It’s fall, but a heat wave came up from Mexico, so sweat beads on my forehead.

“You tied a gang leader to a cement block and dropped him in the ocean. Alive. Stop being a little bitch and tell Lawton the truth,” she says. “I’m hanging up now and the next time you call, it better be to tell me about the incredible make-up sex you had.”

Despite the gut-wrenching guilt in my chest, I laugh.

She’s growing on me.

Lawton’s yellow ranch is nothing like Bobbi’s sprawling fortress, but it’s cute. There are flowers planted around the porch and two rocking chairs creaking in the breeze. Every time the wind blows, windchimes dangle, and I can see why Lawton likes it here. It’s a real home, and I’m suddenly achingly jealous that he got to grow up here and didn’t have to move apartments every month.

As I walk up the porch steps, my heart rate increases while my mind plays out every worst-case scenario. What if he doesn’t forgive me? What if he kills me on-site?

What if he can’t even look at me?

I push all those what-ifs down, suck in a deep breath, and knock on the front door.

It opens.

But it’s not Lawton standing there—it’s Mrs. Montoya.

I barely have time to get out a hi before the world goes dark.

61Lawton

We need two rolls of duct tape, a pack of zip ties, and some lighter fluid,” Arch says to the shell-shocked teenager behind the counter of Hill Country Hardware. “And do you have any Jolly Ranchers?”

“Uh…” she says, eyes wide. My guy, Reggie, isn’t working today, so instead we get Abigail, the sixteen-year-old girl who called duct tape, duck tape.

“The Jolly Ranchers are on aisle three. I know where the rest is,” I say, smacking the counter.

I steer Arch through Hill Country Hardware, past a row of John Deere riding mowers. I wouldn’t have put on pants if Arch hadn’t tracked me down at the ranch.

I really wanted to shoot him when he dragged me to some new bean-to-brew coffee shop in town—his fucking words—but I reined it in. Then Ma called, needing more zip ties for some reason, so now I’m running fucking errands with the man.

“You need to talk to Sabrina,” Arch says as we pass the wrenches hanging in aisle six. “It’s been over a week.”

“Actually…” I check my phone, juggling my black to-go coffee in the other hand. “It’s been one week, two days, ten hours, and seven, no, eight minutes.”

A week of pretending I don’t miss the way things were with Sabrina, hoping she’s more miserable than me. Of not being able to fall asleep because she isn’t right there next to me. A week of doing double takes of every woman with brown-blond hair I pass.

There are too damn many brondes in this town.

Fuck, do I miss her.

I hate it.

“I’ll talk to her at her funeral,” I say, eyeing the duct tape hanging on the shelf.

“Still making inappropriate jokes, I see,” Arch says, pushing up his glasses. “Nice to know the past thirty minutes I spent trying to talk you off a ledge helped.”

Arch is a good guy, I’m realizing. Give him a fishing pole, and he’s down for anything. If I look past the fact that he lied to me for weeks and tried to get me to turn on the woman I love—no, fuck, hate—I almost like him. He’s quieter than he lets on, but he’s steady too. He doesn’t need to talk just to hear himself speak. I can tell he turned up the charm for us on the job, but today he’s just been sitting here, letting me rant about Sabrina.

I take a sip of my black coffee and gag. Tastes like piss-infused gasoline. How does Sabrina drink this?