Reckless Girls(41)
Raising an eyebrow at Jake, I point. “You doing that frat guy thing of collecting empties?”
He laughs. “Not exactly.”
There’s a plain black box made of heavy plastic or maybe metal sitting next to the stack of books, and he goes over to it now, flipping it open.
Nestled inside is a gun.
My mouth goes dry.
I’ve never actually seen a gun up close before. Nico has a flare gun of course, locked in a bright orange-and-white box back in the cabin, but this is the real deal, a sleek, lethal thing of dark metal, and when Jake sees my face, he laughs again.
“Trust me, petal, you don’t want to be out in the middle of nowhere and not have one of these things. Although I am not using it for anything more interesting than shooting bottles.”
He holds it up to me.
“Wanna try?”
I don’t like guns, have never seen the need for one, but I look over into the darkness of the trees, remembering what Robbie said about someone living here.
“I guess?” I say. The next thing I know, it’s in my hand, warm and heavy, and Jake is standing behind me, showing me how high to lift my arms, how to widen my stance.
“It has a hell of a kickback if you’re not ready for it,” he says, “so be sure you’re as steady as you can be. Eyes on the target, elbows loose. There’s a girl.”
He’s right there at my back, his skin warm against mine, and I’m suddenly very aware that he’s shirtless and I’m just wearing a one-piece. But there’s nothing creepy in how he stands, and he keeps a respectful distance as he helps me position my arms.
“Aim,” he says, and I pick one of the biggest bottles, a bright blue one I remember was filled with Riesling just a day or so ago.
I slide back the hammer, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Now picture it’s someone you really hate, and fire,” he says.
I laugh, but even as he says it, I suddenly see Robbie’s face in front of me, calling me girlie, that fucking blueberry in his teeth.
I pull the trigger.
BEFORE
They don’t go home after Rome after all. Instead, they move on to London, where the weather is cooler, the nights out are more raucous, and Brittany wonders why she ever thought she wanted to end this trip early.
Chloe had asked if it was cool if she came, too, as Brittany had hoped she would. Amma agreed—though Brittany saw the way her eyes hardened and her jaw tightened as she replied flatly, “That’s a great idea.”
They kick off their first night in London at a pub, of course. It has some stupid name—something clichéd and obvious like the Crowned Stag—and the walls are dark, covered in paintings of men in nice coats killing perfectly innocent animals. While Amma is at the bar, ordering more drinks, Chloe slips her hand into some guy’s jacket, pulls out a wad of bills, and hands it to Brittany.
For a moment, Brittany is stunned.
You can’t just rob people. This is pickpocketing, like they’re orphans in Charles Dickens or some shit, but Chloe just winks at her, and before she can stop herself, Brittany stuffs the cash into her purse.
She lies awake in the hostel that night, waiting—for sirens or men with flashlights to burst in, to turn her purse upside down until the money falls out. She’ll confess everything, she’ll tell them she was stupid and made a huge mistake.
But it never happens. And the next morning, she treats Chloe and Amma both to a full English breakfast with those stolen pounds, and no one says shit to her, no one looks twice, and it feels … good. Harmless.
It’s strange to have a secret with Chloe, instead of with Amma, but Amma wouldn’t understand. Amma had lost her boyfriend, which hurt, Brittany knew, but it wasn’t the same thing as having your whole family wiped out.
She’d never told Amma the full story. How some guy with the ridiculous name of Sterling Northcutt had had too much to drink on spring break, got behind the wheel of a massive Suburban he’d rented, and crossed the double line, plowing into the sensible Prius Brittany’s father had bought the year before.
Someone had taken Brittany’s family from her with their stupid, reckless choices. Someone who’d looked a lot like that USC asshole sitting at that bar in Trastevere, and the idea that Chloe might’ve hurt him, even a little bit, had filled her with a fierce sense of satisfaction.
Fuck those guys, she’d thought. All of them. With too much money and too few responsibilities and no fucking conscience.
The world gave those guys enough. What was the harm in taking some back?
Besides, if she could keep doing this, she might never have to go home. Never have to figure out how to live in the after.
* * *
AFTER JUST A FEW DAYS in the UK, Chloe has a new plan.
“Australia?”
Brittany is sitting with Chloe in their room at the hostel. Amma has gone to use the little internet café near the train station, saying she had some emails to send, but Brittany knows she could’ve done that on her phone, and she wonders if her friend just needed a break.
Sometimes Brittany feels she needs a break from Amma. The longer this trip stretches on, the more she’s reminded that Amma is not a beloved bestie from college like they’ve tried to pretend. Amma is just a person who also had a terrible thing happen to her, and now they’re stuck together, even though they have nothing else in common.