Page 104 of That Girl is Trouble

Blood. Blood floods my mind. Red pooling across those white marble floors. Like before. There’d be too much blood. Too much for Axe to be okay. Cold skin. Vacant eyes staring but not seeing.

My hands don’t really feel like my own. I grab my gun from the bottom of my bag and press it to Rossi’s head. “That’s enough!”

The big bouncer in the suit, who’s got Preacher in a choke hold, freezes. As does Rossi. But he doesn’t lower his gun. It’s pointing right at Axe’s head. “Put it down,” I say, my voice eerily steady despite the thrum of adrenaline thrashing through my veins.

Rossi chuckles. “You’re a little biker whore, aren’t you, Katherine?”

I tighten my hold on the grip, a shiver rippling through me. I could do it. Without hesitation this time. Because it’s him or Axe. Him or Preacher. Him or me. If blood spills tonight, it won’t be ours. I’ll make sure of that.

“I said put it down.”

Rossi doesn’t move. “You ever shot someone before, sweet Katherine? You know what it’s like to see the light drain from a person’s eyes? To watch them take their last breath?”

I bring my other hand to the gun, steadying my hold. And when I cock it, that click, the sound it makes as it readies a bullet, is near deafening in Rossi’s stone-silent entrance. “I know exactly what that looks like,” I whisper. “You hurt him, and I will blow your fucking head off. Now put the gun down,” I say as I jam the barrel harder into his temple. “I won’t ask again.”

This time, he forfeits his weapon, placing it on the ground slowly. I kick it towards Axe, who grabs it before pushing up from the marble floor. I don’t let my eyes drift from Rossi.

“Kat,” Axe says.

I swallow, the gun still ready. My hands tingle. My finger twitches on the trigger.

I could do it.

I could kill him.

It would only take a second.

Unlike Jesse, who lived for minutes as he bled out. Just long enough so we could find him. Rossi would die instantly. One bullet in his head instead of three in the chest. No one would find him struggling to breathe. No one would watch the light drain from his eyes.

My heart hammers in my chest. My lungs constrict, and a weight crushes against my ribcage. I can’t take in air.

But then there’s a warm hand on my waist, a large body pressing against my back.

“Deep breath, Kat,” Axe whispers in my ear.

I obey. I take a deep breath while everyone’s frozen. Gun heavy in my hand, with Axe’s body pressed tight against mine, I breathe.

I lower the gun and step away, and Axe ushers me out the door.

“I’ll be seeing you, Donovan,” Rossi yells, still on his knees, blood pouring from his face.

“Be seeing you too, Rossi,” Axe says back. “Real soon.”

The gun is still hot in my hand when the cold air hits me. I don’t let it go, even when I’m safely in Preacher’s truck and we’re making our way back down Rossi’s never-ending driveway.

28

The drive back to South Bay is silent, and the roads are dark and deserted. Preacher follows behind us in my car. The headlights blind me every time I glance at the side mirror to check that his are the only pair of lights out there.

Similarly, what feels like every thirty seconds, Axe switches back and forth between the road and his rear-view, his focus on the drive rather than his anger. It’s not written on his face, which he’s pulled into a cold, impassive, emotionless mask, but it clings to the muscles of his shoulders, the cords flexing in his neck, the grip of his bloody knuckles around the steering wheel.

I watch him unabashedly. I study the way his chest slowly expands, holds, and then contracts. Over and over. Five deep breaths.

When he lets out the last one, his shoulders relax, just a little, and his hands on the steering wheel shift. The leather squeaks as he flexes his fingers and repositions, once again choking back his anger. The breaths start again.

“Put your seat belt on,” he says, not looking at me.

“You’re angry.”

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