Page 79 of Slay Ride

The sleigh pulls up beside the shooting range, and I hand the coachman a walkie-talkie as Bennett gathers our supplies—and Cattle—from the rear.

“We’ll call when we’re almost done,” I say to the coachman, a squat little man with a scar running over the bridge of his nose. “That should give you enough time to hook up the horses.”

The man nods down at me, then jingle-jangles his way back through the forest as I stand and watch him disappear.

A few grunts come from behind me, and I turn to see Bennett struggling with one of the Cattle we brought. The man in the red jumpsuit thrashes against Bennett, throwing his weight to try to knock him off balance, but Bennett is too powerful for him. He sets the red jumpsuit on his feet and glares at him.

“Couldn’t we have practiced with normal targets like normal people?” I ask.

Bennett swings on the bound man and catches him in the jaw with a solid right hook. The man drops into the snow with a muted thud. After shaking out his gloved hand, Bennett turns to face me.

“If you aren’t ready for the big leagues, we don’t have to swing for the fences, but it’s better to be prepared than to be caught lacking.” He kicks the man in the gut. “This one is yours. If you don’t want to kill him, don’t kill him.”

With a grunt, he bends at the waist and hoists the man over his shoulder. The action proves too much for the strained snow gear covering his muscled frame, however, and some inner seam rips with audible power.

“I’ll buy a new jacket for Maverick,” Bennett says. He carries the man toward the hay-bale targets at the end of the range, thendrops him in front of the last one. Another rip breaks the forest’s silence.

“And some pants,” I mutter, though he’s too far away to hear me.

He repeats the process with the second target we brought along, carrying the man down to the end of the lane, then plopping him in front of a hay bale. He doesn’t have to knock that one out. His Cattle just whimpers and shivers. He has no fight left.

Bennett returns to my side, and I hold out my hand for the crossbow in his grip. He looks down at me, a smug smile in his eyes, which is all I can see. I made him promise to wear a mask the entire time so that the cameras—and any prying eyes—can’t see his face.

“Not so fast, kitten. Before you can use a weapon, you must first learn the proper?—”

I snatch the crossbow from his hand, aim it down range, flick off the safety, and fire a bolt into a distant hay bale. It doesn’t strike center, but it’s close enough.

“I grew up on a farm, city boy. I know how to use a crossbow.” I lower the weapon and slide my hands back into my gloves. “Fuck, why is it so cold?”

Bennett just stands there and blinks.

“Load another one,” I say. “I’m too cold to do it.”

Regaining his composure, he begins loading another bolt. “You grew up on a farm, huh?”

“Yeah. Chickens and horses. A few goats when I was younger. Daddy had dreams of being a rancher, but he never made it big.”

“Did you guys ever eat the chickens you raised?”

“All the time,” I say. “I had a really fun Carrie situation at school because of it, too. My mother never told me that raising our food would be seen as taboo by some people, so I didn’t keep it a secret. Girls who I thought were my friends dumped a bottleof red finger paint over my head when we were dressing out for gym class. They called me a murderer.”

He hands the loaded crossbow to me and steps behind me. “Kids are fucking cruel.”

“Yeah, they are.” I raise the bow and fire. The bolt flies wide this time, and I miss the hay bale completely.

Bennett takes the bow and loads it again. He steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my body and helping me hold the weapon steady.

“What are you thinking about when you shoot?” he asks. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re angry.”

I laugh and turn in his hold. “No I’m not. I’m pretty sure I’d know what my own emotions are.”

But he doesn’t laugh with me. There’s no glint of humor in his blue eyes, and thanks to the stadium lighting surrounding the shooting lanes, I can see them quite clearly. Feeling mildly uncomfy, I struggle in his hold, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, he spins me around and raises the bow in my hands.

Warm breath filters through my hood as he says, “Remember how you felt when those kids dumped that paint on your head? I want you to feel that right now. Then I want you to push all of that pain into the bolt and send it.”

---