Page 43 of Carter

My hands shake. My gut turns. I know what’s next.

We kill the man who killed our father. Avenging the lives of both our parents.

John’s eyes cut to mine. He speaks softly as he drives. “You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want to. You were just a kid when it happened.”

“There’s no way you’re going without me. Just tell me, one more time, why he needs to die.”

John sighs, leaning back in his seat. His fingers wrap so tightly around the steering wheel, his knuckles go white. When he speaks, his tone is murderous. “I got word that he’s up to his old tricks. Another good man voted against him. And as a result, another son lost a father.” His eyes cut to mine and what I see in them wrenches my gut. Then he says, “An eight-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl.”

Ice forms in my heart. My hand goes to his glovebox, extracting what I’ll need to do what I have to do. “Let’s go.” I turn my gaze to the road before us.

My jaw clenches, my palms sweat. The weight of the gun is heavy against my hands. It isn’t always easy being a Bachman.

11

Sasha

Carter said no.

The heads have denied my request to go on a mission.

Even though I could kick most of their asses.

My mind wanders to that punishment fuck Carter gave me, and how he can hold both my wrists between only two of his fingers.

I swallow hard. So… I can’t kick their asses, but still… I could have been there with Carter last night. John would have been free to go to the hospital and be with Brett as he took his last breaths. I totally could have handled that mission. Carter knows it. John knows it. And I know it. But because I have a vagina and tits, I’m not going to be having any exciting changes in careers.

I guess I’ll stick with teaching classes.

Oh, and my latest domestic experiment. Cooking.

I remain deeply suspicious of it.

Poor Tess lost Brett. Massive heart attack. She’s beside herself with grief. We’ve all tried to reach out to her—I even baked her a casserole that looked almost edible—but she’s become a recluse. Bronson’s called Rockland, asking him to pay a visit and check on our residing widow.

John’s moved into Brett’s slot, Joshua has moved up to John’s position, and Carter to Joshua’s.

Which means he’s working longer hours. He’s grown tired of takeout. Since he’s busy with family stuff, I don’t see him as much at the gym. But every night at seven o’clock, whether he has to go back out afterwards or not, he comes home for dinner.

And he has become stubborn about one thing: dinner together at seven whenever he is in the city.

Not because he thinks I need to become somebody’s perfect little housewife. He says he is tired of us eating from cartons between meetings and classes. He wants one hour a day when neither the Brotherhood nor Barbells gets us. His only irritating addendum: “And food should occasionally come from our kitchen.”

Mary volunteered to teach me. It turns out Mary is a better baker than cook, Carter is annoyingly competent with a skillet, and I suck at both.

So far, after a week of failed attempts, save the casserole, I have found a loophole. I buy takeout from little places farther from the Village, plate it on our dishes, light candles, and call the ritual homemade-adjacent.

Carter has been either none the wiser or kind enough to let me enjoy the illusion.

Tonight, we’re having a delicious chicken and asparagus pasta. It’s light, fresh, and will pair nicely with the bottle of white wine I’ve chilled. And the bread Mary baked this morning.

I’ve laid it all out on the table, fine china and all. Now, I’m just waiting for Carter.

Six fifty-five and the door opens. I jump up from my chair to greet him. He looks worn out but happy to see me. I can’t imagine the stress he’s under with moving up and I wrap my arms around his neck, kissing him.

“Mmm, smells delicious,” he says, eyeing the table.

“Sit, sit,” I say, ushering him to the table. “We don’t want it to get cold.”