Page 17 of Conflicted Lies

He seems to pick up on some of the tension. “I’m surprised your father hasn’t already taught you. Since he’s a murderer and all.”

“Those are some very damning accusations.” I tsk.

“Why don’t I show you how to shoot? You know, as I’m an upstanding citizen and all, wouldn’t your parents approve of someone as skilled as me to teach their daughter how to handle a weapon?”

“Often, when a man guarantees me about their skills, I later discover they’relying.So, no, thank you.”

I go to step past him, but he blocks my path.

“Come on, it could be fun. I can teach you.”

How funny it is that the person I want to kill is offering to train me to take him out?

If only he knew I had every intention of killing him. And I was right to assume I will have to take him out because I was certain Braxton will only escalate his appearances, and he’s doing exactly that. It’ll only get worse over time, of that much I’m certain. The longer I let him sniff around, the more likely my father will find out, which I absolutely cannot let happen—not before I’ve dealt with the situation myself. My freedom hangs on the line here.

I offer another sickly-sweet smile. “No, thank you.”

I can’t wait to turn the tables on him.

“Why not?” he asks. I don’t have to answer, so this time, I manage to step around him and head toward the door.

“Oh, I just thought I should make a point that it’s not only my father who’s protective of me. So if I were you, I’d leave me alone.”

“Is that a threat?” he all but growls.

With a wink, I simply say, “Goodnight, detective,” before calling my driver.

I’m still not entirely sure what Braxton wants with me, but the more time I spend with him, the more I want to fuck him as much as I want to kill him. Because, damn, he has no right looking like that when he’s a fucking cop.

CHAPTER10

Hope

“Fuck, little red. I hate to tell you this, but you suck.” Hawke takes the gun from my hand as if it’s contaminated by my efforts of shooting. We’ve been practicing aiming and shooting at an old car for close to an hour. Hawke’s enthusiasm went from “no one gets it right on their first shot” to “not everyone is a natural” to “how the fuck do the bullets keep curving? Do you have a repellent aim?”

I sigh.

We’re both defeated today, not that Hawke will talk about his situation but I found out from Ivy. Only a few weeks ago, Ford almost died from being poisoned. Apparently, he and Billie, who is one of my best friends, have been hooking up for over a year behind everyone’s backs, and they got into a sticky situation. He drank the poison to save her, survived, and now they’re “official” or whatever. It’s strange to see them together. Not that it looks wrong in any way.

They’re complete opposites, but I think someone as calm as Ford would be good for my best friend Billie, with a short fuse. I hadn’t seen her until after missing her brother, Dutton Taylors wedding due to having an international engagement myself.

Whatever happened that day, Hawke seems off since. Most likely sulking because his brother, his ride or die, is now paired up, and he can’t spend all of his waking time with him. But I suspect it’s something past that. He’s still carefree, but at times, it almost feels forced. Or maybe I’m reading into it too much, considering how intense the situation is. Billie didn’t want to talk about it too much, either. We had a girls’ movie night after the wedding with Ivy as well and she was satisfied to simply cuddle up together. If she doesn’t want to talk, I’m not going to force her. Besides I’m not the best when it comes to those kinds of conversations.

I’m not too good with a gun either, apparently.

“Maybe you should try something else that doesn’t involve aiming?” he suggests.

I glance back to the car, where he drew a huge bullseye on the side, and bite my lip. I missed it every time. In fact, I think I hit the car itself only a handful of times.

“I’m sure I’m a late bloomer,” I say, rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants. I hate not being good at something. It’s been so long since I’ve failed at something that it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Show me again.”

Hawke raises a brow. “I don’t want to shit on your hopes and dreams, little red, but some people just don’t have a killer instinct.” He lifts the gun with one hand, maintaining eye contact as the arrogance oozes off him in waves. “I’m gifted.” He winks as he pulls the trigger without looking. When I turn to check the target I’ve been missing miserably this whole time, I see he’s hit the dead center of the bullseye.

“Why can’t I do that!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. It really shouldn’t be this hard to try to kill someone with a gun.

“Talent,” he says cockily, with a shrug that’s anything but humble. He’s self-assured, upfront, and, for the most part, easy to get along with. It makes it difficult to see him as a killer when he’s always been like an older brother to me, especially in situations like now.

I grab a bottle of water and sip from it. How many times am I going to have to do this? Sure, there are other ways to kill Braxton, but I’m not going to resort to brute strength since I’m self-aware enough to know I’m tiny compared to him, and it also seems like a lot of effort. My mind starts whirring.

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