Page 28 of Trigger Happy

I rush toward the bathroom, shoulders-squared, trying to look dignified despite the embarrassing pulse throbbing between my thighs.

“Let me guess,” he calls out behind me. “It’s battery-operated?”

“Even better,” I shout back, glancing over my shoulder to find his eyes already on me. “USB-C-chargeable.”

14Lawton

All right, I can admit when I’m wrong.

The fake marriage plan? Not my best idea. It’s right up there with condom croissants, or that time Walker zip-tied a feral cat, so I zip-tied his hands and feet together to teach him a lesson. All the cat did was eat his leftover chicken, and Walker chose that day to put on his asshole cap.

I didn’t think I’d have to lie awake all night, listening to Chastain’s soft breathing until it lulled me to sleep. Or feel the heat of her next to me through the goddamn pillow wall. If Walker knew I was sleeping next to her, his ghost would resurrect himself to kill me, and Ma’s promise of disownment is still banging through my thoughts. She’s been through enough, and I’m not about to pile more shit on her life.

So I blurted out that I’d rather fuck a cactus—line drawn.

Assassin Barbie does a great job reinforcing that line when she hauls me around all week like a drill sergeant, constantly grating out commands like make sure the screws are loose in the air vent in case we need a quick escape. And fine, maybe it’s the first time since my brother died where I don’t have to make a thousand decisions, unlike at home where Ma keeps asking things like, Should we throw out his chainsaw? Remember when he used it on his first body?

Doesn’t mean I like it.

Or her.

“THERE’S STAN’S DOPE Goat Soaps,” Sabrina says as we pass a white tent at the farmers market. “Let’s go say hi and see what we can find out. There’s nothing small towners love more than gossip.”

We walk past table after table, tents full of pumpkin bullshit. Pumpkin muffins, pumpkin pretzels, pumpkin lotion, even pumpkin pickles. I order a pumpkin spice latte at the Catz Coffee Corner booth while Sabrina scans the crowd of cowboy hats for threats. I’m on guard too, but she’s acting like there’s going to be a shootout at a farmers market.

“The woman next to us is pushing a stroller. You can stop scanning the exit routes, you know,” I say, taking a sip of the sweet cinnamon pumpkin milk. Damn, who needs limoncello when you’ve got this?

“Never,” she says, still keeping her eyes out.

A guitarist starts strumming under a gazebo, and people slow their strolls to listen, clutching their hot ciders over the easy twang. No one suspects us. The best thing about the Wild West is they don’t even glance twice at the leather holster on my hip.

I bend toward Sabrina’s ear. “Am I allowed to touch you now that we’re out in public, Mrs. Montoya?”

“Missing your cactus?” she throws back.

I almost laugh. Where’d that come from? “Just making sure I’m following orders. I know how much rules turn you on.”

“I don’t care what you do,” she says. “It’s all fake anyway.”

I know it’s fake. I don’t need her throwing it in my face. I especially don’t need her looking happy about it. “Good. We wouldn’t want you catching feelings,” I say, eyeing her clipped-back hair. I’d bet my Lucchese boots that clip’s doubling as a weapon. “You never know when someone’s going to stab you in the back.”

She hitches her purse up her shoulder. “Why do you think I packed a hairpin dagger, my poisoned nail polish, and a pocket pistol?”

“In that outfit?”

It warmed up this afternoon, so she’s tied her sweater around her waist and now she’s in a long jean skirt and shirt with the tiniest straps I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t have guessed she could bury a man alive unless I’d seen it myself.

She looks…

Those straps. One tug and I could rip her shirt right off.

“Want my jacket?” I say, looking away. “It’s sixty-five degrees outside. That’s basically winter back in Texas.”

She rubs her goose-bump-dotted arms. “I’d rather get hypothermia than wear something of yours, and I have my sweater, anyway.”

One of those stupid straps falls down her shoulder. I clench my fist to keep from sliding it back up.

“Here,” I grunt. “Just take it. I don’t want you getting cold.”