“Hey!” I yell as he walks around to the back of my trailer. “What are you doing?”
He’s already got the back doors open by the time I catch up with him, and he’s just about to step inside when I pull my gun.
“Step away from the trailer, dirtbag.” I growl it out and he stops mid-stride, chances a look over his shoulder, and grins. “I’m not going to tell you again. Step away—”
“Are you Wild Will?”
“Do I look like Wild Will?”
“No, but you’re pulling a trailer with his name painted on it in bright orange—”
“Look, I’m sorry I stopped, OK? I can see you’re fine. So number one, you’re gonna back away. Number two, I’m gonna get in my truck, and number three, we’re gonna forget that you made an ass of yourself—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, holding his gloved hands up in the air as he slowly turns around. “Easy, gun girl.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m not your girl.”
“I’m just trying to keep you calm, that’s all. You’re waving a gun in my face.”
“I’m not waving! I’m carefully aiming—” I take a deep breath. Because he’s pressing my buttons on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of me for some reason.
He shoots me a pathetic look, complete with pouty lips and droopy eyes. “I just need a ride, OK? Help a guy out. You’ve got Wild Will’s trailer and I’ve got a downed bike. If you don’t help me I’ll be out here for hours waiting for a friend to come save me.” He smiles, releasing some hidden dimples. “Save me, gun girl. Please.”
I have just enough time to blink twice before he doubles over laughing, grabbing his stomach. “What’s so funny?” Jerk. He’s making fun of me!
He stands up straight, still chuckling. “That look on your face. Hahaha. It was priceless.”
That’s it for me. I’m outta here. I put my gun away, push him aside, and close the trailer back up.
“Hey, wait,” he says, grabbing my arm.
I whirl around, grab the collar of his jacket, swing my legs up, twirl my body around his neck, and drop him in a puddle on the road. “Don’t,” I seethe, “touch me. And don’t call me gun girl. I don’t need that gun, asshole. And if you think I do, then you’re gonna be sorry when I beat your ass with my bare hands. The gun isn’t the weapon, bike boy. I am.”
I push myself up with a hand on his back, stand up, and wait for a response. He looks over his shoulder again, grinning. I’m fighting the urge to kick him in the teeth when his hand sweeps out, grabs my ankle, and pulls. I tip back, instinctively reaching to break my fall, and feel the sting when my palms crash against the asphalt. “You fucker.”
And then he’s on top of me, pulling my gun out of my pants, throwing it so it goes skidding under the trailer, and sits all his weight down on my stomach as he pins my hands to the road. “I said easy, girl,” he growls. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Right.” I laugh. “We’ll just forget I took you down in two seconds and pretend that I’m not the one who’ll hurt you.”
