The Scars That Define Us (The Devil's Dust #2)(14)

“Never aim at someone unless you have every intent of killing them,” he says seriously. “I’ll try and get you to the shooting range to shoot sometime.” He sits back down on the floor where I was sitting moments before.

I eye the gun placed in my hand. It makes me nervous holding it, but I feel powerful with it. I hold another’s fate in my hands with this gun.

I put the safety back on and place the pistol on the counter for now.

“I can’t believe you skipped the party to stay and mingle with my lame ass,” I tell him, downing another shot. I wince from its brutal assault in my throat, gaining a laugh from Bobby.

“Gah, I’m going to regret this in the morning,” I say, smacking my lips. I can feel the numbness creeping up the sides of my mouth from the alcohol, letting me know it is taking effect.

“My mom always had a saying: No regret in life, no fear in love.” His face lights up as he speaks. He holds a shot glass in a toast before tossing the amber liquid back.

“Your mom?” I ask.

“Yeah, she and my pops passed away in a car crash a while back,” he says sadly.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Bobby. Were you guys close?”

Bobby nods. “Very. My pops would say, ‘live life to the fullest and never see anything as a regret, but as a lesson. That when you love, love shamelessly and not with fear.’ So eventually, my pops would say, ‘no regret in life,’ and my mom would chime in, ‘no fear in love’,” Bobby says, his lips curved in a smile.

“But we are here to celebrate, Firefly. Now, drink up,” he orders, handing me another shot.

I hold it up. “No regret in life. No fear in love,” I chant as I swish it back and yelp at the burn gliding down my throat. My body is starting to hum, and I feel my body temperature rise. I watch Bobby pull his shirt off as he is starting to feel the alcohol take effect and make him warm, as well. He struts over to the stereo and turns on some music. Justin Timberlake swoons through the speakers as Bobby slides to the left, his hand cupping his jean-clad crotch as he sings with the music. I can’t help but laugh at him. Seeing a man as muscled as Bobby, covered in tattoos, dancing to Justin Timberlake is a sight to be seen, but damn if Bobby doesn’t pull it off, he looks very alluring in my buzzed state of mind.

“Come on, Firefly. Get up and dance with me,” he beckons, holding his hand out. I jump up in my giddiness and start singing with him, but my words are slurred and my feet stumble. His hands claim my hips as we dance to the music.

Four shots and three beers later, I’m smashed. Bobby, who has had way more than me, is even more wasted. He turns and pulls a brown wooden box from under the couch after tossing an empty beer bottle randomly across the floor.

“What’s that?” I slur, my vision starting to blur. Actually, it’s been a little fuzzy for a while, now that I think about it.

“This?” he slurs back.

I nod heavily.

He opens the lid, and I have to stare closely because of my blurry vision. I see a blue and white swirled glass pipe and a baggy containing what I think is weed.

“Ever tried it, Firefly?” he asks, packing the glass with the green stuff from the baggy.

“No.” I shake my head, making the room spin. I close my eyes hoping when I open them, everything is still.

He lights the little glass and sucks in the smoke from the other end. “Here,” he says, his voice high-pitched from holding the smoke.

“Uh, I’ve never done drugs before. I don’t know,” I hesitate, nibbling on my bottom lip.

“If you don’t want to, I won’t force you,” he says calmly, letting out a puff of smoke.

“What if my job has drug testing?” I slur.

Bobby almost chokes on the smoke he’s holding. “Nah, I doubt it,” he laughs. “Mila dips her fingers in a lot worse than pot.”

I have never tried weed, but I always wanted to. What do I have to lose? I grab the glass pipe and inhale deeply.

“There you go, Firefly. Let your freak flag fly,” he chuckles.

I hold the smoke in my lungs, feeling the burn rise slowly. It’s harsh on my lungs and feels like fire in my throat, making me exhale its earthy smoke. I start choking, the burn in my throat not letting up.

“That was a pretty big hit,” he says, putting the things back in the box.

“Is that bad?” I ask, still coughing.

“Nah, but you’re probably going to be high as a kite,” he slurs.

I sit back, my body feeling light and dizzy. I feel my drunken state rise from the effects of the weed, making it hard not to throw up or pass out. I close my eyes and try to focus on where I’m sitting, mentally telling myself the room isn’t spinning. I drown in the effects of feeling like I’m floating on a pool of clouds and dive into blackness. My numb body falls forward with a hard hit, but I don’t have it in me to give a damn.





I WAKE UP TO the sunlight blaring into the living room. I’m lying on the couch with a blanket thrown over me. I pull myself into a sitting position and moan from the pain riddling through my shoulder. When I look over, I notice a good-sized bruise.

“You did that when you passed out last night,” Bobby says. I peer up and see him leaning against the doorframe. His blond hair is wet and his chest is bare; the only thing he’s wearing is a white towel wrapped around his waist.