Page 178 of American Hellhound
“Thought you wanted me to shut up,” he drawled.
If nothing else, this was stalling for time.
“I’m the one with the gun,” she said. “Answer the damn question.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He looked bored. “They’re fine. ‘Course, the longer this takes me, the more impatient Craig’s gonna get.”
As if to prove his point, his friend hollered from downstairs: “What’s takin’ so long?”
Maggie waggled the gun at him.Don’t answer.
“He’s gonna come up here.” His smile returned. “That what you want, little girl?”
“I want you toshut the fuck up,” she growled.
“Aw, come on. You’re not gonna shoot me.”
She certainly didn’twantto. What would Ghost have done by now? Killed him? Knocked him out? She didn’t have the physical strength to tackle him. She had a feeling the bed between them was all that had saved her thus far.
Downstairs, footfalls crossed the hardwood floors, moving toward the base of the stairs. “Chuck!” the friend – Craig – called up. “What’s the hold up?”
Her arms were getting tired. She adjusted her grip on the gun.
“Gimme a minute!” Chuck shouted, and she saw him tense before he lunged across the bed toward her.
He was betting on the fact that she wouldn’t shoot, thinking he could get to her and disarm her.
She pulled the trigger.
Several things happened at once, then:
The gun kicked, a violent buck that almost sent it flying out of her hands.
She gasped, or screamed. Something. She was aware of violent sound clawing its way out of her throat.
Chuck collapsed face-down across her bed with anoof.
She’d shot someone.
She’d shot someone.
She stood staring, trembling, knees water-weak.
Chuck groaned – he wasn’t dead, then – and rolled onto his side, leaving behind a crimson smear on the bedspread.
She’d hit him in the belly, his shirt a bloody mess.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted, palming the wound. He stared at his bloody hand in horror. “Oh my God, you shot me!” His indignant howl tapered off into a loud, pained moan. “Oh Jesus, ohChrist.”
I told you, she thought, but didn’t say. Her voice wouldn’t work.
“Chuck!” the friend yelled.
She heard her mother’s voice, faintly: “Oh God.”
And then she heard the sweetest sound of all: a motorcycle.
~*~
