Page 66 of Give Me Peace

I’ve become very interested in studying for my GED. In fact, it took up most of my time yesterday and so far, the majority of today, as well. It has nothing to do with avoiding Havok. Just a coincidence. An added benefit, if you will. When he’d started teasing me at breakfast, I’d been clueless at first. I didn’t even remember how I ended up in Roan’s room. But the more Havok pushed, the more my mind spun through the events of our drunken night. The only explanation for my temporary lapse in sanity is the alcohol. There’s no way in hell I would’ve written that down otherwise. Just thinking about it makes me cringe.

Make myself orgasm.

Even alone, my cheeks heat with embarrassment. It’s mortifying that Havok knows, and worse, the rest of the guys might also if he’s been running his mouth. Since he didn’t earlier, I’m inclined to think he hasn’t. It would’ve been the perfect time to out me. Sighing, I close the notebook I’ve been working through for the past hour or so. History is my weakest link, but today even more so because I can’t focus long enough to retain anything I read.

I keep wondering what Havok is thinking. The assumptions he’s formed over the last twenty-four hours. Honestly, I’m shocked he hasn’t snuck in my room to confront me yet. I’ve had my door locked, but I know it’s just an illusion. If they really wanted to, they’d have no problem getting in. Out of everyone, at least it was Havok who found the list. Kash would’ve been okay, too. There’s a comfortability with those two that make awkward situations easier to face.

The knock at my door sounds like a death knell in the otherwise quiet. I debate feigning sleep, but it’s unlikely to serve as deterrent. With slow, dread-filled steps, I make my way over and twist the knob. I’ve fully accepted it’s time to face Havok, but shockingly, it’s not him I find on the other side. Instead, Roan stands in front of me, arms crossed and a smirk tilting the corner of his mouth. I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye, but on the way up I notice the black tactical pants and fitted t-shirt he’s sporting. It’s strained across his chest, putting every dip and divot on display.

“You busy right now?” he asks, giving me the same once over I’d been caught giving him.

“No, not especially,” I tell him. “Do you need me for something?”

“For something…” he mutters, shifting the weight of his body. “I want to teach you how to shoot. You up for it?” My eyes widen, his unexpected answer leaving me a bit speechless and stumbling for an answer.

“Like…with a real gun?” Brilliant, Saylor. You’re an absolute literary goddess. Roan quirks an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his bright green eyes.

“As opposed to…a water gun?” His lips flatten, attempting to bite back a laugh at my expense.

I roll my eyes with a huff. “It’s a valid question, Big Guy. Why would a beginner start with actual bullets instead of pellets or paintballs?” My answer makes perfect sense to me, so I have no idea why he’s looking at me like that.

“Because if the time ever comes when you need to pull the trigger in a real-life situation, it won’t be some bullshit BB or ball of paint that hits your target.” Roan speaks softly but with an edge of firmness, emphasizing the importance of his explanation.

“Okay.” I drop the teasing, sincerely interested in what he’s trying to teach me.

“Let’s go, Little Fighter.” Roan nods, gesturing toward the hallway.

“Am I dressed okay for this?” I close the door behind me, hurrying my steps in order to keep up with his longer strides. He glances back, giving my black leggings and oversized sweatshirt a quick dip of his chin.

“All good.” Roan stops outside the entrance to the lower level, allowing me to go first. I scurry down the steps and wait for him to join me. Despite how nervous I am, a flicker of excitement is beginning to take root. “Beautiful, too.” Roan bends to whisper, the compliment rolling off of his tongue effortlessly. I’ve never seen the firing lane before. Never really thought it was something I needed to see. When Roan opens the door, bright overhead lights come to life, illuminating the entire space.

“This is where we keep the bulk of our weapons,” Roan says, placing his hand on the biometric scanner built into the wall. It’s an exact replica to the one by the staircase. After analyzing Roan’s fingerprints, a second door to the right swings open. I take a cautious step inside, my jaw dropping at the vast amount of firepower that greets me. Various types of guns cover every inch of wall space, and to my left, I find bins of ammunition, meticulously labeled and organized. “We’ll start with a small handgun today. Something with minimal kickback.” I nod, pretending to understand.

Roan gathers what we need, including safety gear, and leads me back out to the main area. The door closes behind us, the lock reengaging automatically. Now that my eyesight has adjusted, I notice a long, concrete corridor, several targets staggered at different distances towards the end. A waist-high worktable is positioned at the head of the firing lane. Roan spreads everything out and starts giving me a breakdown of what’s what.

“First things first—this is a 9mm, and that’s the magazine.” He points to a slim black rectangle. “This stores the bullets and slides into the handle of the gun, like so. Always—always—keep the safety on until you’re ready to fire.” He tilts the gun, showing me the small switch, and flicks it back and forth. I nod, rubbing my sweaty palms against my thighs. Roan fits me with a pair of safety goggles, followed by some bulky earmuffs. He’s grins, standing back to observe how ridiculous I look.

“No teasing,” I mutter, poking my finger in his chest. He doesn’t even flinch.

“You look adorable.” His dimples pop out, gracing me with their presence. I like to think of them as an indicator for how happy he is. I guess my current get-up really tickles his fancy. Roan spins me around, then tugs my hair into a ponytail. When I turn to face him, I see his is still knotted back, too, so I’m not sure where the elastic came from. Sensing my confusion, he gestures to his wrist. “Started wearing an extra, just in case.” Roan shows me every day how thoughtful and sweet he is, but I’m still floored by the little things. Nuances most wouldn’t think twice about, yet they’re everything to me.

“Now for the fun part.” Roan slips behind me, bracing his palms on my hips, and shifts me forward so we’re facing the targets. Not sure I’d call this fun. I blink and the gun is placed in front of me, Roan’s arm outstretched to spout off more instructions. “Make sure the weapon is pointed down range, then pull the slide to the rear,” he explains, demonstrating each step as he goes. “Now there’s a bullet in the chamber. From here, all that’s left to do is flick off the safety, aim, and squeeze.” Roan transfers the gun, placing his much steadier hand over mine.

“Breathe, baby girl.” His lips brush my ear, making me shiver. “It’s just practice. There’s no threat you need to neutralize, so take your time and wait until you’re ready. There won’t be much recoil, so don’t be afraid of that. You’ve got this.” Roan nudges the inside of foot, so I widen my stance. “Good. What’s next, Saylor?” I think back on everything we’ve gone over and tap the safety with my finger. “That’s it. Now, point and aim for center mass. When you’re ready, pull the trigger, Little Fighter.”

Dredging up every ounce of bravery I can find, I take a fortifying breath and zero in on the piece of paper that’s closest. I’ll be happy just to clip it. Flicking the safety, I press my finger to the trigger and pull. I squeak, nearly dropping the gun, but Roan’s there to steady me. The noise barely penetrated the thick foam protecting my ears, but the act of actually firing a weapon has me trembling. Roan takes it from me, flipping the safety back on, and pulls the head gear off. His hands frame my cheeks, those green eyes probing mine as he talks me down.

“Hey,” he voices quietly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do this, Saylor.”

“I’m okay,” I insist, flexing my fingers to stimulate some blood flow.

“You’re shaking.” Roan frowns, rubbing his hands up and down my arms.

“It was just…scary,” I admit.

“It is,” Roan agrees. “Firearms are dangerous, especially when they aren’t given the respect they deserve. Your reaction is good. You understand the power you’re wielding, the damage that can be done, and that’s important. You should never be flippant or cocky, but you need to be comfortable and sure of yourself if you plan to fire a gun. That’s why we’re here. It’ll take time, but with enough practice you’ll gain confidence.”

“Is…is there a reason you want me to learn? Do I need to be worried about something?” I question, curious as to why he brought me down here. I pray they aren’t about to be sent out on a case, leaving me here to fend for myself. A wave of panic washes over me. “Are you guys leaving?!”