Target 84 (20 page)

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful.
”―
Amy Bloom
She is tucked under my arm. We’ve been lazily conversing for the last hour. My fingers are rubbing back and forth across the skin of her wrist. She drives me crazy. I can see clearly how riddled with indecision she is. I can also see how much she wants me. I wish there was a magic combination of words that would unlock all the insecurities she
thinks
she has surrounding a relationship. I bite my tongue, though, and settle for worshipping her lithe figure.

“It’s been a long time since someone looked at me the way you do. Maybe never. It’s like you know me and all the things I can’t say,” she says. I revel in her words. Knowing I’m making her feel just how I
want
her to feel makes me feel ten feet tall. Knowing that she’s unsure of it shrinks me back down.

“I don’t need you to speak. I can feel all the things you’ve felt before just by looking in your eyes,” I tell her.

“It’s more than I thought could exist, Bentley, and it’s terrifying to me. So many variables,” she says quietly, shaking her head, calculating those variables, trying to make sense of them.

“Every day I learn about you. All the things that no one else sees.”

“Like what?” she scoffs.

“Like your determination. The way your face contorts when you’re deep in concentration. The cluster of freckles on the back of your thigh. The mole on your bottom. The way you run your hand through your hair when you’re unsure of something. The way your eyes light up when you talk about crappy romantic comedies or your friends. There is so much to you.”

She sits upright and stares down at me, her breasts swaying with the movement. “I need you to stop.”

“No,” I state.

“Bentley. It’s too much. It overwhelms me. I don’t like the feeling,” she admonishes.

“You need to learn how to deal with feelings, bird. You can’t avoid them. You can't run from them.”

“I’m not,” she states defiantly.

“You are,” I state, gruffly tugging her roughly to my chest. She wiggles from my embrace, swinging her legs off the bed and glaring at me.

“I’m not a project,” she snaps.

“I didn’t say you were,” I defend, trying to shove my irritation down.

“You’re making me feel like one, though. I don’t do love. Feelings and relationships are...are...”

“Things you have no experience with. I know, bird, remember?” Her glare fades to a smolder before turning into a pout.

“If you know, then why try to change me? Why push me?” she questions.

“I want you. I won't beat around the bush, bird. I want to be with you. You deserve to be
able
to feel, to experience all the emotions that human nature has to offer. You’ve stayed with me all this time. It means something. You can do it safely. I won't hurt you,” I tell her. My chest burns at the honesty of my words.

“Hurt me?” she huffs. “I’m not worried about being hurt.” Her arms cross over her chest. God, she’s stubborn. She’s pushing and I know it. My temper is flaring. I don’t like these games.

“I’m not talking about physical pain. That kind of pain isn't the worst the world has to offer, you know,” I bark at her. I’m frustrated. I’m so goddamned frustrated with her walls, her fortress of solitude, of self-preservation. She doesn’t know what she’s missing in life. The joys, the heartbreaks. It’s all part of normality. Why can’t she just
try
?

“What do you know about pain? You
left
!” she spits. I can feel my temper breaking the surface.

“Yes! I left! You’re angry, bird, I understand, I hurt you, let you down. Feel it. Use it. Anger and love aren’t so different, you know. Indifference is the real killer,” I bark at her.

“Bentley. You’re infuriating!” she yells, storming from the bedroom. I grab my boxers from the floor, juggling one leg in while hopping on the other, trying to follow her out.

My shoulder connects with the door frame painfully as I yank my boxers into place. She’s sitting at her small kitchen table staring out the window. I pull out the chair opposite her and sit. My temper is fueled by her refusal to give in to me, her refusal to believe she can love.

“All I’m asking you to do is
try
,
bird.” I try to hide the anger and frustration I’m feeling from my voice.

“When a monster stopped behaving like a monster, did it stop being a monster? Did it become something else?
”―
Kristin Cashore
I can’t do this. I can’t
do
this. The thought plays on repeat in my mind.

Run.

You don’t belong.

Push.

Love is weakness.

“I want more than to just
try
and love you,” I finally answer. I don’t think I can love. Trying seems like a half-assed attempt at the concept. If I could do it, I’d want to do it to perfection, but I think love is something I’m not capable of. His expression plummets. We have no relationship. Romance is better found in books than applied in actual life. We’ve had sex.

Rough, wild, chaotic sex.

It’s been fantastic but...

"Shut up," he hisses, shoving his chair back and slapping his hand on the table in anger. He breathes in through his nostrils, teeth gritted, staring at me.

Here it is.

I push, push, pushed.

He break, break, breaks.

Hearts remains intact. Weakness spared.

All’s right in my world again.

Simplicity. Order. Control.

“You know what?! Fuck you, Greta, you’re a fine piece of ass but not
that
fine,” he finishes with menace.

I lean back in my chair, feeling triumphant. He stomps to my room, making a show of pulling his clothes back on before storming past me. He slams the door with such a bang that Stray leaps a solid foot straight up into the air. I settle deeper in my chair while Stray rubs up against my ankles. A hollow feeling descends over me.

It was the right thing to do.

He couldn’t stay.

Staring at the door I find myself wishing he’d stomp back in. I have a feeling I’ve done something terrible. I’ve made a mistake, I think. My chest burns. I can't understand why my heart aches from rejecting his request for love.
Kneeling down with broken prayers, I push my fist to my chest to staunch the burn taking over.

“
There is no right way to do this.
”―
Charlotte Eriksson
She needs time.

I need to control my temper.

My words as I left were meant to wound. It’s not the most promising way to attempt to start a relationship. I sped back to the hotel and drank myself into a coma. My gut twists, knowing she calculated her words, their delivery, and execution.

All for maximum impact.

All to push me away.

Send me running out the door.

It worked.

I’ve been played. She wants more than to try. Meaning, she wants love. Why, then, does that make me angry? Because, because she believes she
can’t
love. That she isn’t capable, therefore trying is a useless endeavor in her world. Her words were the final push my frustration and anger needed to snap, and snap I did. My pride is so damaged at the moment that I don’t care if not calling her is disastrous.

I’ve long known Ravenbrook soils everything that touches it. I don’t care if I should be the bigger person and fight for what I want. I want her to feel the loss of me. I want it to sting. I want it to burn.

I. Don’t. Care.

“I'm a completely worthless woman and no man should risk his life for me.
”―
Greta Garbo
I won’t do this.

I can’t do this.

I don’t belong here anymore.

Staying here is torture. Never before have I
craved
someone before. Bentley, in thirty days, became someone I feel I
need
now. We’ve not had any contact since he stormed out one week ago.

A silent alarm has gone off, signaling my time to depart. I must leave. It’s time to regroup. Alone.

I pack my bags and Stray before loading both into the car. Christiansburg has run its course. It served me well but now there is too much chaos here. Too many emotions, ties, loose ends.

Pepper. She seemed like the only reasonable person to reach out to at this point. I step onto her porch, feeling the rays of the afternoon’s sun soak into my skin. The sound of trickling water flows from the gutters. The blades of bright green scattered throughout the yard show signs of a fresh mowing. I knock on the door. It swings wide open moments later, a smiling Pepper behind it.

“Can I talk to you? I won't keep you long,” I say.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“I have to go somewhere and I don't think I can come back. But I just wanted you to know that getting to be around you was the best thing that ever happened to me,” I admit.

“That sounds like a goodbye. What’s going on, Greta?” Pepper’s whiskey-hued eyes bore into mine, waiting for an answer. She’s so damn intuitive.

“Nothing.”

“It sounds like a hell of a lot more than nothing. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” she grits out, her caramel eyes darkening.

“Pepper, the proverbial hourglass has run out of sand for me. There’s something I need to do and I’m not sure what the success of it will be.”

“Stop talking in riddles, Greta. You’re scaring me. Please, just tell me what the hell is going on,” she pleads. I contemplate her request for a moment. Could she handle it? The truth? No, Pepper Philips has finally found her little slice of peace and happiness, I’m not willing to be a part of taking that away from her. I sigh heavily.

“It’s
work
. I’m just extra stressed.” Understatement of the year unless work equals six feet under in an unmarked grave. That would be work stress.

“Work?” she hems, eyes narrowing on me.

“Work.” The lie slips off my tongue easily.

“Jesus,” she breathes. “When do you leave?”

“I expect in the next few days,” I tell her. Pepper takes my hand in hers. The contact is strangely welcomed. I will genuinely miss Pepper and crew.

“I really hope you don’t disappear. Who will help me kick the boys’ asses at the gym?” she whines playfully.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be an ass, Greta. I know more than you think.” At her words, a lump forms in my throat. She only knows what she thinks Bentley told her, I remind myself.

“Well, regardless, we need one last girls’ night before I go,” I say, changing the subject.

“Drinks tonight then! Well, for you...not so much me.” She laughs and pulls her hand from mine to rest on her small baby bump. It feels like a loss. I never anticipated feeling such a connection to her. I never anticipated having a true friend. Her swollen belly is adorable. I find myself wishing I could be here to meet the infant.

“Yes. Drinks,” I agree, slapping a smile on my face.

“No matter, what you’ll come to the baby shower, though, right?”

“When is it? Who else is coming?” I ask.

“Um, we’re doing this Jack-and-Jill thing since Sawyer hovers over me nearly every damn second of every damn day, so it will end up being at the house, but club members will be there and Clara, Allie, and, well...you. It’s not like I have family or friends outside of you all anyhow.”

“Pepper, please, everyone loves you. That’s plenty of people. When is it?”

“November fifth. Two o’clock,” she says.

“I'll do my best to make it,” I tell her. And I will. “One more thing, Stray needs a home now.”

“Oh hell no! Sawyer will swell up, puff out, and die. He’s so allergic,” Pepper says and chuckles.

“Come on. He likes being outside, just let him in at night. Allie will be so happy,” I say.

“He’s in the damn car, isn't he?” Pepper says. I nod, trying not to look guilty.

“Fine, asshole. Bring him in,” she says. I trot to the car and grab Stray’s carry case from the backseat. He meows at me angrily.

“I know, buddy. Sorry,” I whisper through the bars. Setting him inside the house and opening the cage door for him, I watch as he slinks out. Pepper rolls her eyes at me.

“Now where are we going for a drink?”

“How bout shakes at the Ice Cream Parlor?” I offer.

“As if I’m going to turn down ice cream in any form. You’re on. Lemme grab my bag,” she answers, smiling.

Pepper’s favorite waiter seats us when we arrive. I’ve noticed her looks on the drive here. She eyed the packed bag in the backseat with a wariness that shocked me as I ordered our shakes. Pepper stares at me.

“What?” I finally ask.

“You’re so secretive Greta,” she finally huffs.

“My secrecy is as much about protecting you as it is about protecting me," I state.

"See!” Pepper squeals. I stay silent.

“I’m going to ask you a question. You’re going to tell me the truth. Understand?” she says. I rest my elbows on the table and nod at her. “What do you do for a living?” she asks. There is a long pause between us as I realize that I want Pepper Crown to
know
me.

"I kill people for money,” I say. I can envision the look of frustration Pepper’s face will have when I look up at her. The way I said it, though, it wasn’t cold or cruel. It wasn’t anything. It's just the answer.

"How long have you been doing it?"

I snap my eyes to Pepper. She’s leaning back in her seat, unaffected.

"Ten years," I answer. I sit stiffly, back straight, shoulders square. This isn’t the reaction I’d anticipated. I feel like I’m at an interview.

"How do you feel about what you do?" Pepper asks.

I’m amused by the question, giving a small snort. How do I feel? That’s ridiculous, the entire point is that I
don’t
feel.

"Are you suggesting I should feel bad about what I do?" I ask, instead of answering.

"You commit murder for money, Greta," she says in a whisper. The accusation doesn't seem to cause her any discomfort. It makes me wonder how much she suspected over the years. "Do you take any contracts? Is anything off-limits?" Pepper questions.

“Trust me, I've killed plenty of people but I doubt I've ever killed anyone innocent."

Pepper’s jaw goes slack.

“Now you're looking at me like some kind of monster, Pepper. Why? Did you think that killing someone would be more romantic? It's ugly. It's hard. Why do it? Because I like
living
. I don’t know anything else. I like not living on a street. I have
nothing else
. I’m the hero in my story, but that doesn’t mean I’m not the villain in yours, Pepper. I...I never expected to make connections, to care for others. I understand if it’s too much. Knowing. I’m prepared for all your anger.”

There is a drawn-out silence between us. Pepper sighs heavily. She must be going out of her mind right now. I stand, ready to leave.

“Sit down. Is that supposed to terrify my weak little female mind? Because I’m not exactly quaking in my boots,” she whispers.

I sit.

“I...I thought you were going to tell me you were a spy or something,” she says. I groan and roll my eyes.

Bentley
.

“I’ve never told anyone before. This isn't exactly how I imagined anyone receiving the news. Why aren’t you...”

“Freaking the
fuck
out?!” Pepper squeals, cutting me off just as Johnny, our waiter, arrives, eyeing us both before setting our shakes down. I wait for him to leave before speaking. Pepper takes great big gulps of her chocolate-peanut-butter concoction.

“Yes, that,” I finally say. She stares at me intently.

“We all have a past, Greta. I knew you had one. I knew you kept it close to you. I expected it to be shocking, just not...not...”

“Not
that
shocking?” I try.

“I really wish I could consume copious amounts of alcohol right now,” she groans, rubbing her belly.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“I just keep thinking, that’s your
job
, I’ve brought you around Allie, Sawyer, the club, everyone. A killer welcomed into my house.” She shakes her head.

“I’d never
hurt
a child, Pepper,” I practically spit.

“Oh, sorry, am I supposed to know all the rules from the assassin’s handbook?” she snorts derisively.

“Nice,” I say coldly.

“Well, maybe there is one. Or a code? God, Greta, what am I supposed to think?” she says, exasperated.

“Think whatever you want. After I drop you at the house, I’m gone anyways.”

“Rude,” she says after slurping up another bit of shake. “How does someone even
find
that job? I mean it’s not something you go to college for,” she mutters. If she only knew. I
did
go to school for it, just not by choice.

“I didn’t choose this profession, Pepper.”

“Well you didn’t just off someone by accident and say, ‘Damn! That was easy, maybe I’ll do this for a living,’ now did you?” she states dramatically.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not gonna say, huh?” she says.

“Nope,” I reply.

“Fine,” she huffs.

She glares at me for what feels like hours. We finish our shakes silently. I pay the bill. She sulks. The drive back to her house is silent. She reaches for the door handle after unbuckling her seatbelt but pauses.

“I don’t hate you, but I have no idea who you really are. That hurts. You’re my best friend and I don’t know shit about the
real
you.”

I blink once. Twice. I open my mouth to say something,
anything
, but nothing my mind drags up seems worth speaking aloud. It won’t right the wrong. It won't take away from her hurt. I snap my mouth closed instead and simply nod at her. She sighs before shoving the door open and climbing out.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for other people is leave. You need to take care of yourself before you can
hope
to take care of anyone else.