The eyes, though.
Fuck, the eyes.
She had the kind of eyes that looked sleepy. Bedroom eyes, if you will. And in an unusual light hazel color with black circles around them, making them pop all the more.
After the initial shock of her beauty wore off, I could see how it was frayed a bit at the edges. Her eyes were bloodshot with dark smudges underneath like she hadn't slept in days. She was sweaty and trembling at the same time. And she looked, well, seconds away from throwing up, to be honest.
It was enough that I was sure she'd been dosed by someone. Girls didn't act like that randomly for no reason.
If she had been dosed, it explained the doe-eyed look she had on her face.
Or, at least, that was what I thought.
Until her arm moved out from behind her back. And there was a gun in her hand.
I'd faced down a gun more than a handful of times in my life. I'd taken bullets, even.
But no amount of experience took away that initial shock at seeing a gun pointed at you. Especially from someone you least expected to pull one on you.
I figured for a short second that maybe she was tripping, or just so fucked up off of whatever someone dosed her with that she was confused and scared that she was being trapped by a guy she didn't know.
Then, well, then she pulled the trigger, and the bullet lodged right in my arm, bringing with it the somewhat familiar burning, tearing pain that came from bullet wounds.
At least it was just the arm.
That was the first rational thought I had cross my mind after a string of colorful curses at the pain.
Then she squeezed off another bullet, though, and my instincts finally kicked in.
See, on the street, it was unlikely that someone—especially an untrained someone—could actually hit you. It was even less likely that they could hit you more than once. But up close and personal in a small space? I didn't really like my chances there.
She hit the wall a second time, but there were several bullets left in that gun. Eventually, another one would tear into me. And I likely wouldn't be lucky enough to have it be something as innocuous as my arm.
I had to move.
Now, maybe it would seem strange—or outright fucking stupid—to charge someone holding up a loaded weapon. But I liked my chances of taking the gun from her better than turning my back and trying to get away.
So rush her was exactly what I did, reaching out with my bad arm to grab both her hand and the gun, slamming them both back against the wall hard enough that her fingers loosened, allowing me to take control of the gun.
"No!" she shrieked, shoving at my chest. "No no no no," she cried, tears welling in her eyes even as I finally heard footsteps tearing up the steps, making their way through the rooms, trying to find the source of the gunshots.
"The fuck?" Seeley asked, rushing in behind me.
"Gun. Take the gun," I demanded, finding it hard to keep control over that and the flailing woman with only one good arm.
Seeley moved forward, taking the gun.
"You're hit," he said.
"Just the arm," I explained as more footsteps moved into my bedroom behind us.
"He's hit in the arm," Seeley explained.
"By who?" Huck's voice boomed.
Huck had always been a good leader with an appropriate level of protectiveness. But since becoming a husband and father, all of that protectiveness ratcheted up.
"Some chick," Seeley said, voice moving backward.
"Please," the woman pleaded as her fists pounded uselessly against my chest.
"Is she fucked up?" Huck asked from behind my shoulder, looking over at the beautiful, but hysterical, woman I was still half pinning to the wall as she cried.
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"Okay," Huck said. "Clear out anyone who is still here," he called toward the others. "Che, Donovan, take a look to see if anyone suspicious is here or hanging around the street. Maybe she's with someone."
"Hey, what's going—" Eddie started, coming in. "Aw, man, not the pretty chick. Mami, I was picturing rings and trips to white sand beaches and shit," he added.
"You met her?" Huck asked.
"In the kitchen a little bit ago."
"Did she say anything?" Huck asked.
"About wanting to put a plug in one of you all? Nah, man. I'd have remembered that. She just said she didn't want a drink. And she drives a beater. I gave her a card for The Shop. That's the extent of it."
"And yet you were picturing rings and honeymoon trips," Huck said, voice dry.
"What? I want me a sweet honey to make a dozen babies with. And this honey couldn't be sweeter-looking. Shoulda known. The pretty ones are always fucked in the head. It's my type," he added, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
Eddie, a hangaround and employee at our repair shop, was generally unfazed by shit like shootouts and crazy chicks with guns.
We knew him as an old racing buddy of Che's, but there was clearly more to his history than nice cars that went fast if he was so calm in the face of a serious situation.
"Here," Remy said, moving in at my side. "Let me take her," he offered, reaching past me to put his hand on her arm. "Hey, honey, alright," he said, voice soft, coaxing, the same voice we'd all heard him use on wounded or wild animals a thousand times in the past.
"You're gonna soft-voice the chick who put a bullet in your brother?" Huck scoffed.
"She's having a fucking breakdown, boss man," Remy insisted, reaching down to scoop the woman up.
There was no denying his words, of course. She was shaking and sobbing, her whole body racked with the cries.
"I'm not saying we let her have the gun and finish the job. I'm saying we need to calm her down if we are going to get anything out of her," he added, carrying her past me and into my bedroom where he put her down on the bed.
"Here, sit," Seeley demanded, putting the lid to the toilet down and gesturing toward it. As soon as I did, he yanked up my sleeve, inspecting the wound. "Eh, you'll live," he declared. "Alaric, grab the first aid kit from the downstairs bathroom," he demanded, talking to the tall, blond, green-eyed, ex-stripper brother to Che's woman, Saskia.
Unlike the rest of us, Alaric hadn't been in the criminal world for long. Mine was probably his first look at a real-life gunshot wound.
We'd taken him on not only because of his connection to Sass, but because he was the best fucking shot any of us had ever seen. The rest of it, that shit would come with time and experience.
He paused for a minute before turning and running to grab the kit.
"Alright. What happened?" Huck asked as he rifled through my medicine cabinet, finding some old pills I had from getting an impacted wisdom tooth pulled, and shaking one into my hand.
"I came up here to try to get some sleep. She was in the bathroom already. I figured she wandered up here, so I told her it was off-limits. But then I noticed she seemed off."
"Off?" Huck clarified as Seeley took the plastic container from Alaric, rifling through to find tweezers, alcohol, and a suture kit.
"Yeah. Sweaty and shaking. I thought she was fucked up. Or that someone slipped her something. I was just trying to ask her what happened when she pulled her arm out from behind her, aimed, and shot me."