Page 102 of Double Bucked

“How’s Claire?” I ask.

“Down for the count. She’s taking a nap. Think she wore herself out.”

There’s wrapping tape in the cabinet as well. Ransom takes it out and binds it around my hand, snaking the tape through my finger and thumb and around again.

His hands are calloused and rough, but he works with a surprisingly gentle touch.

Against my better instincts, I find myself letting him.

“Just…gonna say this out loud,” Ransom says. “Claire’s in danger. The way I see it, we’re the only two looking out for her right now. So as far as I’m concerned, between you and me, there’s no bad blood.”

He snaps off the tape. I touch it.

“How’s that feel?” he asks.

The cut throbs, but it’s contained. “Fine. Thank you.”

“So.” Those brown eyes lift to meet my gaze. “What’re you thinking?”

“Don’t worry, Ransom,” I tell him. “You’re a semicolon.”

He blinks at that. “Thanks. I think. A semicolon. That’s good, right?”

I leave him guessing and exit the bathroom.

Claire is asleep. Ransom is lingering. I give myself a task. Because Ransom is right about one thing—Claire is in danger, and we need to be prepared.

Operation: How Many Guns Do We Have In This House?

The answer is: many, but not many that are worth a damn.

Much of the late Mr. Preacher’s collection is for show. For example, the double-barreled shotguns hanging above the mantlepiece are covered in dust and rusted. Collector’s items, but more likely to blow the user’s hands off than reach their target.

So I keep searching, until I reach the basement.

And this is where it gets very exciting because I find his hunting locker.

It’s locked, but the lock comes apart easily with a little muscled encouragement. He owns hunting rifles. Shotguns. Pistols.

The Smith & Wesson revolver is a comfortable classic. Not too heavy in my hand. I open the chamber. It’ll give me seven shots, so I’ll need to make them count.

And then—bless Mr. Preacher—I find a SIG Sauer.

Not unlike what we carried in the Navy. 10mm auto cartridge. Accurate in close range. Good for hog hunting—or, in my case, Oculus hunting.

I carry both guns, a shotgun and a long-range rifle, upstairs with me. I set them out on the dining room table and begin taking them apart to clean and grease them. I enjoy taking them apart. Knowing each piece intimately. Understanding it.

I have to run through these details in my head because I don’t have my headphones, and the silence in this house gives me the same sensation of having a thousand needles poking through my skin. Every time there’s a new sound—a dog barking in the distance or a clock ticking—the needles tremble and shudder.

I am an exposed nerve.

I stop greasing the weapon when I hear a creak coming from the stairs. I glance up from my spot. Claire is in a soft, pale nightgown. It clings to the small roundness of her breasts and flows along her legs. Her bare feet thump lightly on each step before rounding into the dining room. I watch as she pulls out the chair, takes a seat, and folds her hands in front of her.

I’m glad she sat across from me, not next to me. I need the distance. I need to put a leash on the temptation to reach under her nightgown and feel her soft skin prickle to my touch.

I temper my hands by locking them around the wooden knobs of the chair. “Do you need something?”

Her gaze flickers briefly over the guns. Her eyes are glassy. Her nose is red. She sniffles. “What’s all this?”

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