Give Me Hell

  “I’m fucking sorry!” he yelled back, rising from the bed. “I didn’t know!” His voice cracked, like he couldn’t bear knowing what I’d been forced to do. “I didn’t know.”

  Standing still, I stared at him, my eyes burning, and I believed him. He was my best mate and I trusted him with my life. Luke wouldn’t have lied. Not about that.

  “Leander says Boyd must have loaded the gun when he got it from the car. After you left he tried finding you. He drove around for an hour. Then he came home and he’s been yelling into the phone ever since. He’s pissed.”

  I didn’t give a shit about Leander at that point. He could go get fucked for all I cared. “How do I live with myself?”

  Luke shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Neither did I, but somehow I did. The first few days after were a bad dream, one I prayed to wake up from. They had me do small jobs at first that grew to bigger ones. I hated it. I hated the gang. I hated being trapped. But like I told them, I was no one’s bitch. My rule was no more guns. They relented. I was given the least violent jobs. But it was a waste, Ross told me, eyeing my size.

  I still played school football. It was an outlet. A stress release. But then I was introduced to Rowan, who played in a band at The Bar—an original name for a huge tavern by the beach. It was a hopping place and when they needed a drummer, I stepped in. I’d found my happy place there and a small measure of peace. It was there I’d found a way to live with myself.

  “I’ll talk to Ross,” Leander says, dragging me from the past. “If you want out, I’ll find a way. We’ll make this work.”

  I give him a short nod. “Good.” As I start to walk away, I turn and narrow my gaze. “By the way, you owe me ten thousand dollars, asshole.”

  Leander laughs. It’s a rare sound. I don’t know what happened to the Fox brothers. They don’t talk about it. But with the way Leander is, I know it was bad. Real bad. “Is she eighteen?”

  “Not yet,” I concede.

  “Then hold your horses, mate.”

  “What are you going to do?” Luke asks him. “Set Rowan loose on her?”

  Rowan can talk a nun out of her underwear, but his charms washed right over Mac. My smile is smug. “He already tried that. Didn’t work.”

  “I could set Luke on her. He’s always had a thing for Mac.”

  I look at Luke, my glare promising death.

  He holds up his hands. “Fuck that, Lee. I prefer my balls attached. You both keep me out of your stupid ass bet.”

  “What bet?”

  We all turn. Mac is standing in the doorway. She’s wearing the same pale lemon dress she wore the day she arrived. Her hair hangs in a wet curtain down her back.

  “Just some bet on the horses,” I say in an offhand voice.

  Luke snorts in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Horses? Damn, you are so dead if she finds out.”

  “What do you want to do today?” I ask, knowing Mac hasn’t overhead us. If she had, she’d be setting fire to the house and watching us burn.

  “I want to get my hair cut,” she announces, moving into the kitchen. Checking the water level in the kettle, she flicks it on and turns around, leaning against the counter. “I wasn’t allowed to cut it before. You can’t ‘artfully arrange’ short blonde hair at Fucking Dick Head school,” she air-quotes.

  Leander and Luke know all about FDH. Mac is bitter. And she showed them the website. It looked like a pretty prison for Barbie dolls. If she’d gone there, she would have snapped eventually and slashed everyone’s clothes with a machete in the dead of night. No dress would be spared. Every female in the college would wake to a wardrobe of ribbons. I know this because she told me exactly that with very solemn eyes.

  “Alright,” I tell her. “I’ll go shower.”

  “I’ll make you a coffee,” she yells behind me as I climb the stairs.

  “Make me one too,” I hear Luke say.

  “Get stuffed, Little Fox,” she replies, turning his favourite phrase against him. Mac already has his number, and it makes me chuckle as I walk to my room.

  MAC

  It’s Saturday night and summer holidays. Jake and I are at The Bar where his band is playing tonight. It’s my first time here and watching Jake play is more fun than a trip to Disneyland. Humidity is high and his shirt came off an hour ago. It’s tucked into the back of a worn pair of jeans. Drumming is a physical activity. Sweat beads on his chest and muscles ripple as he hammers the drums with his sticks. His rhythm gives life to the song.

  “Cheap bastard,” I bitch to the bartender when he hands over my drink. It’s supposed to be juice, but all I see is ice and a dribble of pale, orange liquid. His response is to snatch the glass back, tip out two cubes, and add a squirt more juice.

  I exercise considerable restraint in not leaping the bar, grabbing the squirty juice gun, and blasting it in his face.

  Instead, I take my drink from the bar and return to my table, running fingers through my hair. It was freshly shorn this morning, cut in a short, choppy style just below my ears. It feels fun and light. And my outfit is inspired. I’m in short, ripped denim shorts, knee-length brown boots, and a tee shirt with Miss Piggy printed on the front. Unfortunately for Jake’s band, I’m still calling them The Muppets and it’s begun to stick.

  My stomach rolls as I sip at my drink. I’ve barely eaten a bite all day. Jake keeps throwing me concerned looks from his perch behind the drums. Each time I wave and smile, and I swallow the bile climbing my throat. It must be a virus but in this humidity, it’s hard to tell if I’m fevered or slowly dying from heatstroke.

  When they begin a cover version of “Drive By” by Train, Jake chimes in with back-up vocals. My ears perk up. I haven’t heard him sing before. His voice is deep and strong.

  I stand from the table, needing to be closer to the stage. My eyes watch him as I shift through warm, moving bodies. He’s looking at me. Chills ripple my skin as he sings, “I was overwhelmed, and frankly scared as hell, because I really fell for you,” as though it were meant just for me.

  I hold my hands above my head and bop my hips to the beat. He grins, liking it. Moments later, harsh screams tear right through the music.

  Jake’s beat falters.

  I turn.

  Something hot zings by my neck.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, my heart hammering as I hold a hand to the burnt skin.

  The scent of fear permeates the air. Bodies surrounding me push and shove, creating pandemonium. The guy next to me stumbles and falls. People step over him, and on him, booted feet unintentionally kicking him as the crowd rushes the exit. I drop to a crouch beside him and someone’s knee catches me in the head.

  “Hey!” I shout, but they’re long gone, lost in the crush of stampeding bodies.

  I grab the guy’s arm, trying to help him up. By this time the music has died. The only sound I hear is yelling and panicked screams and a sharp whistling ping sound above me. I know that sound. They’re bullets. Oh my god! What the hell is happening?

  “Mac!”

  The shout comes from Jake, his voice loud and frantic.

  “Here!” I yell back as I yank on the bicep in my grip. My shout is cut short as my hand slips. I fall backward, landing on my ass with a thump. Then I notice my hand and stare in shock, paralysed for a single second. My palm is covered in blood. I look back at the guy. He’s staring at my palm too, his eyes glassy and face pale.

  “Those fuckers are shooting at us!” I shout.

  I need my backpack. It’s in the room down the hall behind the stage. All our shit is kept there while the boys play. Important shit. Shifting to my knees, I make another grab for the guy. We get to our feet and I begin dragging him with me. He struggles, trying to run the other way, toward the front exit.

  “Don’t be a dick!” I yell at him and yank on his arm. “That’s where the shooters are. You want them to put another hole in you? Jesus!”

  “Mac!”

  I turn back an
d Jake smacks into me. “Out the back,” he orders and makes a grab for me. Then he pauses, his face blanching as he takes in the smears of blood covering my right arm and coating Miss Piggy’s face.

  “It’s not mine,” I yell, evading him with a quick sideways shuffle. “It’s his.” I shove the guy at him. “He’s been shot.”

  Not turning to see if they follow, I race down the hall, adrenaline firing my blood. Jake’s band is in there grabbing at cables and shoving guitars into cases. “Are you all crazy? There’s no time for that shit!”

  They keep at it, ignoring my shout. I leave them to it and make a beeline for my bag.

  “Mac! Get to the car!” Jake yells behind me.

  Finding what I’m searching for, I load the handgun with steady hands and engage the slide. Straightening, I turn, raise both arms, and aim it toward the hallway door. “I’ll hold them off,” I say, countermanding his order.

  “Holy shit.” Rowan pauses in his grab for a bass guitar. He looks from the gun to me, taking in my proficient use of a weapon and cool demeanour. “Who the hell are you?”

  I can’t resist and narrow my eyes. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

  Rowan’s laugh is nothing short of hysterical.

  “She really is,” Jake mutters. “Put the gun away, Mac.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There are bandits on the loose and you’re telling me to holster my weapon?”

  Jake stares me down, eyes hard. “This is not the Wild West.”

  “I wanna see what she can do,” Rowan interjects.

  He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Mac is a shitty shot.”

  I gasp.

  Rowan is standing near my line of fire and cups his junk.

  “That was one time!” I retort, outraged at the reminder of our family trip to the shooting range. I’d been keen to impress Jake with my skills, but when I lifted my arms and took aim, he came up close behind me. His breath had been warm on my ear and the heat of his body set mine alight. For a single second I’d thought my knees would give out beneath me. The shot went wild, and I haven’t lived it down since.

  The guy we dragged to the back room with us begins to moan like an old woman. He weaves unsteadily on his feet. Moments later, the lights go down and booted feet hit the hallway as if a veritable army is coming for us.

  “Go!” Jake bellows.

  “Jake—”

  “I’ll be right behind you!”

  I don’t know what comes over me in that moment, but a shutter slams down. Everything inside me switches off leaving behind cool, clear focus. My body has taken over, and I can’t stop it, not even if I wanted to.

  “You go,” I order. “I’ll cover you.”

  “Mac!”

  My name rips from his lips, wild with panic.

  “Go!” I shout, evading his capture as I run toward the hallway door. Arms raised, I fire blind shots into the inky darkness and pray at least one will find its mark. The scuffling and the cadence of booted feet stop instantly, but there are no shouts of pain.

  “Are you crazy?” Jake grabs my arm. With the injured guy in his other grip, I’m dragged through the back room and out the door into the heat of the night. We’re nearing the van where the band is tossing equipment in the back when I turn my head. My heeled boots catch in the gravel. I curse, stumbling as I catch sight of a gunman right behind us. Jake loses his hold on me.

  He stops, making a grab for me. I shove him forward as I right myself. “Go!”

  But the sound of heavy breathing hits my neck. Whoever it is, I’m about to be caught if I don’t do something quick. He’s too close for me to simply turn and fire my gun. It would be knocked from my hands before I could take aim.

  Reaching the van, I tuck my handgun in the back of my shorts and snatch the nearest guitar case. Spinning, I slam it into the head of my pursuer.

  He goes down like a sack of potatoes. My feet skid on the gravel from the momentum as cheers erupt behind me.

  I pause for a moment, wide eyed as I realise I just felled an attacker with a guitar case. It’s still in my outstretched arms as my chest heaves. I stare at him, wanting to smash his teeth down his throat and leave him to choke on them. He shot at me. At Jake! I take a step toward him and he lets out a moan.

  Jake pulls me away and the case is pried from my white-knuckled fingers. My stomach lurches when I’m launched into the sky, my body airborne. Jake has hauled me up and hefted me over his shoulder, growling, “Have you lost your everloving mind?”

  With adrenaline eclipsing all else, all I can do is grin, breathless, as he runs toward his car. This, right here and right now, is my proof that fate has a way of intervening. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for violence and chaos. It finds me, no matter where I go or what I do. I’m simply following the path created by destiny. I didn’t choose the badass life, the badass life chose me.

  “I do believe I have,” I answer as I’m shoved into the back of Jake’s car. Moments later, the bloodied body of the injured guy is dumped beside me. The very second Jake and Rowan slide in the front, the car careens out of the parking lot behind the van. Dust and gravel fly out behind us as we fishtail out onto the road.

  Leaning forward, I untuck my gun, check the chamber, and rest it on my lap. My gaze slides to the guy beside me. He’s sitting as far from me as possible, eyes shifting like a ping pong ball from my face to the gun and back again. He looks terrified. “Who are you?”

  Rowan hoots from the front. “Don’t you know? She’s your worst nightmare.”

  I hold out a hand toward him. “I’m Mac.”

  He doesn’t take it. We literally just saved his life, and he’s staring at me like I’m about to shoot his face off. “Are you like, the police or something?”

  “Or something,” I snap, my eyes dropping to his wound. “Rowan, give me your shirt.” Moments later, I’m handed a warm bunch of cotton. I shove it toward the guy. “Here. You’re bleeding all over Jake’s car.”

  He takes it and presses it to his wound, hissing.

  Catching a meaningful look between Jake and Rowan, my eyes narrow. “What the hell was that back there? What’s going on?”

  Jake’s eyes fix on the road, his car eating up distance at warp speed. Rowan responds. “A robbery, maybe, I don’t know.”

  I’m sceptical. It felt like we were specific targets. “Jake?”

  “What Rowan said.” His voice is raspy, and he clears his throat. “The Bar does a rocking turnover. Lots of cash in the register.”

  What he says makes sense, yet something feels off. I sit back in my seat, my hands linking together when I realise they’re trembling. Why am I shaking? Why is my stomach still pitching like its adrift at sea? Bile climbs my throat. It rushes upward at a burning pace, faster than I can swallow it back down. “Pull over,” I garble.

  “What?” Jake half turns, taking his eyes from the road and glancing at me.

  “Pull over!” I boom, heaving on the words.

  Jake eases off to the side of the road. Sliding my gun to the seat, I give the injured guy a sharp look. “Touch that and I’ll cut you.” The words are meant to be harsh, but I expel them in a shrill voice with my desperate need to purge everything from my body.

  “Mac? Are you okay?” Jake asks.

  There’s no time to give the obvious answer. Shoving open the door, my legs give out. I drop to my hands and knees and hurl in a violent fashion. Rowan winds down his window and sticks his head out. “No rush, Mac,” he says mildly. “We only happen to have a guy in the back seat who’s been shot. But if you feel the need to puke, take your time. He doesn’t mind bleeding out all over the—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Rowan,” Jake growls from somewhere near my ear. Then his hands are under my armpits and he’s lifting me. “Princess?” he says softly, cradling me against his warm chest as I breathe through another wave of nausea.

  “I’m fine,” I slur, but in the dark recesses of my mind I know I’m not. There’s something wrong with my body
. I’ve been off my game all week.

  My eyes flutter closed and I hand control to Jake. I trust him with my life.

  “Rowan, you drive,” he orders.

  Jake slides into the passenger seat that Rowan quickly vacates. His hold is tight, and we drive to the hospital with me curled in his lap. It feels warm and safe. I drift in and out. When the car comes to a complete stop, my eyes open to mere slits. Headlights shine bright in the darkness, illuminating the side of Jake’s house. They switch off and night surrounds us.

  “We’re home?” I mutter tiredly.

  “We’re home,” Jake answers, his voice choked for reasons I don’t understand. Rowan is already out of the car and a quick glance shows an empty back seat. “What happened to—”

  “He’s fine. He’s at the hospital.”

  I’d slept through all of it. Why am I so tired?

  Opening the car door, Jake slides out managing to hold me tight against him. When he stands, I’m still in his arms, his heart beating a soothing thump against the side of my face.

  “I can walk,” I protest, though I make no move to stand.

  “Let me carry you, Mac.” His grip tightens, and he brushes a kiss against the top of my head. “Please.”

  JAKE

  I’m standing in the living room, having carried Mac upstairs and left her sleeping in bed. When I come down, Rowan is perched on the edge of the armchair, filling Leander and Luke in on the night’s events.

  Besides being a lead singer, Rowan is a friend and knows of our involvement in the King Street Boys. And he really is a stud for hire, just like he told Mac. He escorts his services out to any woman foolish enough to pay for what he gives away free every other night.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asks, dragging fingers through his dark hair when he finishes the recount.

  Leaning back against the wall, I fold my arms and fix my gaze on Leander. He’s watching me, eyes dark and serious. “You spoke to Ross, didn’t you?” I ask him.

  He nods.

  “About what?” Luke interjects.