Page 89 of Trigger Happy

“Good,” I say. “I don’t either.”

That seems to stun her. She blinks, then narrows her eyes. “You don’t what?”

I rake a hand through my hair. I can do this. I can just… say it. “Katya was the last woman I’ve been with. I haven’t touched anyone since Walker died. Until you.”

A beat.

There. Now it’s out in the wild.

“Oh.” She blinks. “Why not?”

I bark a laugh. “We’re just going straight for the third-degree?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to tell me. I get it. With all our family drama.”

“Family drama?” I say. “That’s a nice way of phrasing it.”

“Eternal rivalry sounded too melodramatic.”

I chuckle. That’s been happening a lot with her lately. She’s quiet, watching me, so I say, “It felt wrong to feel anything good after Walker was gone. So I didn’t.”

She stares at me, and it feels like she’s shaving off layers of my skin. I’ve never met anyone who can go that long without blinking. “Do you feel guilty for what happened between us?”

“No,” I admit. “Maybe I should, but I don’t. I think I got used to throwing Walker’s death in your face ’cause I wanted you to feel like shit for what your mom did, but it made me remember him. It kept him real. Kind of fucked up, right?”

She gazes out at the mountains. A bird taps on the window, then knock, knock, knock.

“Sophie? Luke? Are you in there?” Bobbi’s voice floats through the barn door. “I brought extra blankets.”

That would’ve been helpful last night.

Sabrina does a silent scream. My hair, she mouths.

“It takes me a second to catch up. “What?”

“My hair. She can’t see me like this.” She points frantically to the floor, where the bleached mess of fabric sits in a heap. “Shit, and the bullets. Hide that magazine. You locked the door, right?”

There’s another knock. We can’t risk her coming in here, so I step away from the wall. “I’ll handle it.”

“What are you going to tell her?” Sabrina demands.

“Don’t know yet.”

“How do you not know?” she whisper-shouts.

“ ’Cause I don’t plan out my next hundred moves like you, but I’ll figure it out. I’m good on my feet.”

I make my way to the front door, rubbing my shoulders. It really is cold as shit in here. I jerk it open to find Bobbi holding a stack of mismatched crocheted blankets, wearing a matching jean shirt and pants, and an oversized smile on her face. If she’s surprised that I’m shirtless, she doesn’t show it.

She sure doesn’t look like a serial-killing wig hoarder, but I don’t trust people who wear matching clothing, including matching socks. Who has the time to sort that shit after laundry? Every psychopath has matching socks, but not every person with matching socks is a psychopath.

It’s a rectangle-square situation.

I glance down at her Birkenstocks. In this weather? “No socks, huh?”

Bobbi blinks. “Um, no?”

I lean against the doorframe. “Are you a matching-sock kind of person or do you just grab what’s closest?”