Page 36 of Trigger Happy Ending

Even if I wanted to, she wouldn’t believe me. Still, it’s a bold move to ask something so personal as to how someone got their scars. Ironically, my worst scars aren’t even ones you can see. The worst ones are hidden; forever, away from prying eyes. But I feel them. The invisible lashes all over my heart—I feel them all the time.

“So, your psycho ex,” I change the subject back to Cherry. “Is he stalking you?”

“Not yet, but he will once he’s out of prison.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Cherry swirls around her drink before taking another deep sip, slurping the last few drips through the straw. “Because I’m the one who put him there.”

***

It’s strange how fate works. Sliding doors and all that crap. I’ve never believed in it—too much of my life has been brutalized to think anything’s random. But being here with Cherry is like looking into a mirror. She talks about starting over like it’s a right we all should have. I think about what it would look like for me for the billionth time.

Two vodka sodas in, and I begin to quietly mourn what my life might have been.

Three, and I start to believe maybe I could take control back. The Agency has been brainwashing me since I was an orphaned teen, ensuring I drank their fucking poisoned Kool-Aid.

Four drinks in, and I really start to believe I could let it go.

All of it.

But letting it go means letting go of my mom.

Letting go of answers. Of revenge.

I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. But maybe one day, I might be.

I listen intently as Cherry tells me all the things she wants to do. Immediately, I can tell she’s too trusting of people. Too much of an open book. I mean, she’s only just met me, and here she is, spilling her life story and describing her plans to start a new one. She’s too bright, too optimistic … Too hopeful.

She’s everything I’m not.

She’s a ray of fucking sunshine, and I’m a hurricane.

I shouldn’t be here with Cherry.

But my selfishness keeps me rooted to the booth, because for the first time in my adult life, I think I’m having fun? Cherry makes me laugh. She tells stupid customer stories that have us both crying with laughter.

When was the last time I laughed? I can’t remember. Isn’t that tragic? I might have giggled my way through a few movies, and produced a faked laugh in certain situations that called for it, but to belly laugh for real? This is new. And unexpected. And, dare I say it, natural.

The thing about Cherry is she feels safe.

Which, ironically, makes her the most dangerous person in this room to me.

Chapter 18

Raine

The next afternoon, I finally got a chance to listen to the recording of Carson and the Senator. The good news? They spoke about PARM-17. The bad news? Carson plans on shopping it around to the highest bidder. The Senator asked Carson who he had in mind, with Carson responding by saying he’ll host a night at the club and invite the two contacts he deems wealthy enough to offer the deal to. It’s decent intel, information Soren can use to his advantage when he meets with Carson. Things have been cordial between us lately. We’re actually acknowledging each other’s existence now, which is growth. The pounding sound of death metal emits from the basement-level gym as I push open the door and nearly eat shit on the threshold.

What sort of Viking fuckery is this?

Soren’s shirtless. Because of course he is. He’s in the center of the gym, hunched over a set of dumbbells, every inch of him slick with sweat.

He is ripped. Like, sculpted in a lab ripped.

My body temperature rises at the same time my mouth waters. As I’m swimming in a pool of deeply inappropriate, pervy thoughts, Soren lifts his gaze.

Sweat slides from his hairline down over his cheek, throat, chest, and I follow the trail like I’ve been hypnotized. Tattooed muscles upon muscles snake across his body. My eyes snag onto two guns inked on each side of his hips. In between the firearms, the grim reaper stands among three headstones, each bearing a different name. Kade, Brock, and James. There are other symbols too: a crow and a vulture, each plucking an eye out of a skull (ew, gross), a pentagram (knew he was a Satanist). The images all seemingly merge with one another, connected by a black mist.