Page 52 of I’m The Worst

“I mean it, Wolff.” I push off the bed and walk toward him. “What if something goes wrong? What if⁠—”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“What if something happens to you? You don’t even trust the men we’re traveling with, so what if⁠—”

His hand snaps out.

I flinch back.

But he isn’t reaching for me.

His fingers close around a gun, lift it, flip it once in his palm, then eject the magazine with a sharp click. He checks it, screws a long black can onto the muzzle, and holds the gun out to me.

“Fine.”

Reaching out, I take it. The grip is heavier and colder than I expected.

He crosses to the window and yanks it open. The old frame groans. Cold night air rushes in, carrying snow that drifts across the floorboards.

Then he steps in behind me. Really close.

“Keep the muzzle pointed away from anything you don’t want dead.”

His large hand slides over mine, rough and warm. He adjusts my grip, angles the barrel upward until I’m staring down the sights into the dark trees outside. With his chest inches from my back, I can feel the heat rolling off him.

“Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to kill.”

He releases my hand almost immediately, like touching me burns him, and grabs his own gun.

“What’s that silver part?” I ask as he screws another can onto the gun.

“Suppressor.”

Raising his weapon, he fires. The shot is a muted thud, but it still makes me jump. A tree trunk splinters in the distance, wood cracking in the quiet night.

He lowers the gun and steps behind me again.

“Line it up. Don’t overthink it.”

My arms shake as I raise the gun. I exhale, try to steady myself, and squeeze the trigger. The recoil punches into my wrists. His hand is already there, bracing mine, steadying the gun before I can drop it. The bullet hits the side of a tree, its bark exploding outward.

“Fuck,” I breathe, voice shaky. “I’ve never shot a gun before.”

His grip tightens. Lifting our joined hands, he corrects the angle until the barrel points exactly where he wants it.

“Again. Same spot.”

I fire. The kick is harder this time. I wobble. His muscular chest presses against my back. He’s so warm. So much bigger than me.

“Again.”

I keep shooting. Each shot lands closer to the last. The tree trunk splinters more with every hit, bark peeling away in chunks. Snow shakes loose from the branches above.

My wrists burn. My breaths come faster.

“What do you think about…” I hesitate, then force the question out anyway. “When you kill someone?”

His grip tightens over my hands as we fire again. The shot hits closer.