Page 68 of Proof Of Life
Raising my pistol, I square my shoulders and choose my target, a pinecone, high up in a tree about a hundred yards away. “My father will smile politely and walk out of the room to avoid a discussion. God only knows what will follow my mother’s crying.”
“At this point, you’re never going to stop owing me.”
I can think of a few ways I’d like to owe him. Squeezing the trigger, I absorb the kick from the gun throughout my arm and shoulder.
“I know. I just…” It’s ridiculous that at almost thirty-five years old, I’m afraid of my parents. Afraid to tell them something they don’t know about me. “Thank you for doing this for me.”
West lowers his gun and turns to me. “I’m always going to show up for you, Reaper. Always.”
“I know. That’s why I love you.” And I know he loves me too, which is the only reason he agreed to come with me.
We finish off two more clips each before holstering our guns. I sit down on my ass, leaning my back against a thick pine trunk, and uncap the tube on my hydration pack, taking a long swig of water.
“Does this make us geardos?”
His question catches me off guard. “What, having your own gun range?”
West laughs. “No, that’s just fucking awesome. All this gear we ordered. Getting excited about it, like we’re gearing up to play scout camp.”
I snort a laugh, shaking my head as I wipe sweat from my brow. “By definition, a geardo is someone who is obsessed with having the best military gear, and is usually someone who doesn’t need it. Does that fit us?”
“To a fucking T,” he snickers. “Except we kind of need it because of our camp.”
“Not gonna lie,” I admit with a smirk. “I would have bought this shit even if we hadn’t started the business.”
“Yeah, we’re fucking geardos. Let’s just lock this away in the vault, along with that granny incident at the track and the fact that we can knit like one.”
“Deal.”
“What was that bullshit with Stiles and McCormick wanting to join our Boot Camp? They act as if they’ve never been in the desert.”
Capping my hydration pack, I can’t help but smile as I wipe my lips dry. “They wanted to support us. You know, whether you want to admit it, you’re still a leader. You just have a new team.”
“Who? The Bitches?” The expression on his face is caught somewhere between horror and surprise.
“I can’t think of a finer team. Experienced, loyal, smart–”
“That part is questionable.”
“On our worst days, through thick and thin, those guys have our backs.”
West looks unconvinced. “I can’t think of a more ragtag bunch of misfits.”
“They are a unit, and they’re our new team. And that means we’re family.”
“Fuuuuuuuck. Lord help us,” he teases, looking heavenward.
“Come on, let’s head back. I’ll make you dinner and we can soak in the hot tub.”
The trek back home is slow and steady, taking almost three times longer than it usually does, back when we had four legs between the two of us. It gives us plenty of time to talk.
“I think this will be good for me. For us, I mean. Getting back to normal. Back to what we’re good at,” West notes.
“So do I.”
“But I need more than this. I think I’m gonna talk to Riggs about volunteering at BALLS. I need to feel like I’m helping someone.”
You mean you need to feel like you’re saving someone.