Primal Pursuit - Page 168
“The same man who offered to help with the debt. Does some extra work for me on the side, on top of his job. A man with morals.”
“Myuncle?”
Pieces fall into place in my head. I don’t have any proof, but my dad was a good man; he didn’t steal. I have vague memories of Dad driving back to the store to pay for something I accidentally took—I’d been playing with it—when he’d been chatting to the clerk. It didn’t cost much, and when I saw I had it in my hand as we pulled up at home, I burst into tears.
Mom said to let it go, but Dad just said no, and we drove back. All Dad did was pay for it. Explain the situation to the clerk who told me to keep it. But Dad paid anyway. He wasn’t mad.
It was just Dad.
A good man.
One who didn’t steal.
Didn’t let me steal, even by accident.
He’d never embezzle. Ever.
But my uncle. Devious, rotten, a man who bounced around shady jobs from what my mom once said, and she told Dad not to take the job at Fowler.
It all rushes me. Memories that never floated up because they didn’t seem to have significance, but those little fragments of a past that made up my life.
But now, things make horrible sense.
My uncle got him the job. Dad took it because the money was good, and when the heat started coming down, Uncle Frank set him up.
I know it.
I don’t have proof, but I know it in my bones.
“Uncle Frank works for you?”
“Yes.”
“Davian…” I turn and meet his intense green gaze. “My uncle set Dad up.”
“Here.” Davian hands me the gun. “Get what you’re here for. Finish him.”
I wrap my fingers around the weapon and point it at Antonio. But my hand starts to shake.
“I can do it.”
“No…I just…I…”
Davian comes up behind me, his body hot, pressing against mine, strong and beating with life, and he surrounds me with his scent, the dark Havana speakeasy of rum and tobacco, spice, roses, honey, and bad decisions. Of sex and thereness. Of love and blood. And he wraps his hands around mine.
“Rabbit,” he says against my ear, “I’ll guide you. Hold you steady.”
He does, his finger coming down on mine.
“Breathe, rabbit.”
He doesn’t pressure me, just keeps the gun at the right angle, steady. And when I breathe out, I pull the trigger, his finger coming with mine. And the kickback ricochets me into him.
“Again.”
I shoot again, and he doesn’t let me go. This one he aims higher, a headshot.
And when it’s done, he lowers the gun and kisses my neck, sucking on my pulse until it throbs in his mouth. Then he brings his mouth to my ear. “Your first kill.”