Rough Edge (The Edge #1)(15)

As if he was trying to get back into my good graces.

For the pain. For the roughness. For the use of my body.

There’s a name for this.



* * *



We took a cab to the totally normal thing that normal cities have. Chelsea Piers members had priority entry before four o’clock, so we got in before it got too crowded.

I’d done some classes at the Piers. The sports facility was literally built on three piers that had fallen into disuse when New York was bankrupt. Now it was gorgeous. The warehouse-style buildings had an ice skating rink, a place for all kinds of sports, public spaces, and a driving range, which I’d never bothered with until that day.

We got to the water side of the facility and exited into the bright afternoon sun. The fairway usually had nets on either side to catch golf balls, but they’d been lowered. A Ferris wheel rotated against the blue sky, a band played light rock, and the smell of buttery popcorn filled the air. Yellow-and-blue-striped tents lined each side of the fairway, with hawkers promising more prizes than they would ever deliver.

I heard gunshots and the whee of mortar fire.

My bloodstream flooded with the desire to run, pushing every coherent thought right out of my head. I ducked in time for the explosion, which came canned for civilian ears.

Caden pulled me up and held still as if he wanted to shield me with his body.

The whee resumed, but without the surprise, it sounded as canned as the explosion, coming from a single point on the left instead of moving through space. Caden’s hold on me relaxed.

The explosion came with another whee. I followed his gaze to a pellet gun game. The mortar fire was just for effect, so the players could feel as if they were on the front lines.

“It’s a game.” He brushed hair off my face. “Let’s get away from it.”

He tried to guide me to the other side of the fairway, but I wouldn’t budge. “No. They need to tell people.”

I walked right up to the booth with my fists in a bunch. The squealing of little bombs and snapping of pellets sent shockwaves through a brain stem already firing on all cylinders. When I got there, a white kid of about sixteen, with red bumps all over his cheeks, was making change out of the leather apron.

I wasn’t going to yell at him. It wasn’t his fault I was afraid. It wasn’t mine either, but that wasn’t the point. I hated it. I hated being at the mercy of a noise. I hated that I couldn’t do something because of my own limitations. That was crap. I didn’t believe in limitations. I didn’t believe in self-imposed redlines.

I was going to break this shit into a million pieces, right there, right then.

I dug into my pocket and found a few dollars. I was about to slap them on the counter when Caden pushed my hand down and laid two twenties on the wood, tapping it.

“You sure?” he asked.

He knew what I was doing. He didn’t have to ask and I didn’t need to explain. He knew I needed to smash a boundary.

“Are you?”

“You’re the one with the scar.” His gaze toward my chest wasn’t sexual. The wound I’d sustained when a mortar arced over the wire had left a scar under my shirt and, unexpectedly, in my mind.

“I’m just jumpy. It’s not a big deal.”

“Welcome,” the kid said. “Shoot out the star and win a prize.”

“She’s going to shoot until she says she’s done.”

“Yes, sir.” He took a twenty and made change. “Prize is for the entire star. No red—”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, lifting the rifle in front of me. “We got it.”

Whee.

In the first burst, I missed the target entirely because my adrenal glands were pumping pure fire through my veins. I wiped my palm on my jeans.

“You all right?” Caden asked.

I put my eye in the sight. “Yeah.”

“You can’t win once you miss. You need every pellet,” the kid said.

“I’m not here to win a giant stuffed dog.”

As long as my finger was on the trigger, the sound of whistling and exploding bombs continued. I squeezed off the rest of the pellets. Pop-pop-pop, then the click of an empty magazine ended the bombs. I shook out my wrist. Caden called over the kid in the leather vest, and he reloaded. I was sweating, tingling, jumping out of my skin. I didn’t have a drop of spit in my mouth.

“You’re white as a sheet,” Caden said with true concern. “All the blood’s rushed to your extremities.”

“Yeah.”

I picked up the rifle and did it again. This time, Caden had the kid set up the rifle next to me so I didn’t have to wait for a reload. I shot at stars until my hand hurt and the sound of mortar fire was background noise. My husband took out more money, and I pumped a bunch of lead at nothing until my body couldn’t maintain the adrenaline dump anymore and the pain in my wrist had gone from a dull ache to a numb tingle.

I held up my hands. “I’m done.”

Caden took my wrist and checked my pulse. “Ninety-two.” He held me, kissing my temple. I was shaking. “You’re amazing.”

“I am!”

“Ah, the endorphins.” He was laughing, and I laughed with him.

“Hey! Lady!” the kid in the leather vest called. “You can pick one of these.” He pointed at a low shelf of prizes. “A snake or a dog.”