Pistol

Chapter Twenty

Happy shoppers mingled with frazzled mothers who towed their demonic spawn through the food court. Steph sat with her hands wrapped about the mochaccino she had ordered, and watched the world go by. Ben's suggestion of shopping hadn't been a bad one; she'd brought two new skirts, a top, and a cute pair of high-waisted sailor-style shorts. Thoughts of Cass, and Pete were harder to ignore. More than once she had caught herself do a double take at a blonde woman with the thought Cass had decided on the same retail therapy. She could text her, tell Cass she wanted to talk, but Steph was afraid. Afraid of another rejection. Afraid that if Cass voiced her discord at Steph's choice again, her resolve to try and patch things up with Pete would be shattered.

Her phone sat dejected on the small table. The object stared at her, taunted her to phone him. What would she say though? Hi. I'm an over-emotional wreck. Want to still hang about? Men loved drama about as much as they loved clothes shopping. There would be no reason to call Pete until she could guarantee to herself that she would be able to present him with a level-headed, confident front. He had to see that she was capable of being sure of herself—capable of her own decisions.

How could she express that though? Without the need to resort to their own style of sex? Confidence ... Steph tapped her fingers on the table-top. How could she show confidence?

A plan started to form. She was slightly frightened at the thought of executing it, but the idea thrilled her none-the-less.

With her coffee, and shopping in hand, she looped her bag over her shoulder and started down one of the wide corridors. Somewhere along there she had spotted a hairdresser in her travels. A dozen shop-fronts down, she found the brightly back-lit sign. Steph stopped before the reception desk, and patiently waited for an attendant. A young girl with bright red highlights in black hair, hop-skipped to the desk.

"How can I help you?" she asked, a little too chipper.

"I wondered if you had any time-slots available for a dye?" Steph shifted her coffee between her hands, and waited as the girl read through the appointment book.

"We should be able to squeeze you in. What did you look to have done?"

"I want to go lighter, then a bright shade over-top."

"Okay." The girl tapped a pencil against her crimson lips. "How long is your hair?"

Steph held her hand about nipple height to indicate. The girl nodded.

"I can squeeze you in about a half hour from now. Will that be okay?"

"Perfect," Steph replied. Butterflies settled in her gut, both from nerves, and anticipation of the new look.

"You're welcome to wait in our lounge if you like." The girl gestured to a couple of two-seaters which faced a coffee table.

"Thank you," Steph replied, and moved to take a seat. She lowered herself into a plush leather sofa, and groaned quietly at how much of a relief it was to take the weight off her feet. She always lost time when shopping, and paid no mind to how long she'd walked around until her feet were fried.

With her bag settled next to her, she pulled her phone out, and flicked to the Facebook app. A dozen notifications filed down as she tapped the icon. The third on the list left her stomach on the ground next to her tired feet.

'Cass Pratt has tagged you in a comment.'

Steph tapped on the link and closed her eyes to will away the tears. Cass had officially severed any hope Steph may have had of reconciliation.

'That moment where you realise your so-called best friend is fucked in the head. – with Stephanie Drake.'

Words flew through her mind; multiple come-backs vied for attention. She wouldn't feed the woman's hate, though. Confidence. She needed to prove she was above petty arguments. As much as Cass would expect it, she wouldn't reply.

Mixed blessing that they now worked in a different office, wasn't it?

Steph shut her phone off, and jammed it back in her bag. Her fingers laced in her lap, and she rested her head on the back of the sofa. Calm breaths. In ... and out.

Time to start again. Time to start with the things she needed in her life.

****

She hadn't tried to call him. Pistol threw his phone across the room; the back cover skittered away from the rest as it impacted with the carpet. Fuck! He wasn't naive enough to assume she would have forgiven him, come to her senses, whatever the fuck it was she needed to do to come back to him, but could she at least pretend to give a shit? This radio-silence didn't do a damn thing for his already filthy mood.

Maybe he should head over to her house, and simply show her who is boss. Show her what 'Sir' thinks of her little tantrum this morning?

Then you'd really be yer father.

He beat his closed fists to the side of his head, and tried to quell the insistent little voice inside. What did it know? He had become his father a long time ago. All he'd done these past weeks was pretend he was what he wasn't.

Pretended he was Pete.

You're Pistol. Pete died off years ago.

Finally. His inner monologue talked sense. Pete fell off the face of the earth the day Colin went in the ground. He fisted his hands into his eye-sockets, and pushed hard to distract from the images of his brother's funeral. He never should have died. He never should have been taken away. That bitch should pay.

She had to feel something? He never quite worked out how his mother—the woman who gave birth to each of them—could stand there, so cold, so remorseless at what she did. How could she not care that her little boy spent the last moments of his life in terror? That the last emotion he knew was betrayal? It made him sick, made him physically ill every time he thought about that day—which was exactly the reason why Pistol buried that part of himself the day he left Ireland.

Exactly why he liked the kinky fucking shit he did to Steph, because he needed to replace his morbid association with pain, with an action more pleasurable. He wanted pain to be good in his mind—not a constant reminder of Colin's distressed expression as he twitched his last breath.

Make the pain good. Make yerself crave it.

Pistol pushed out of the dining room chair he sat in, and collected the parts of his phone. He carefully, and methodically slotted the back cover on, then powered up to check the mobile still worked. Satisfied with the result, he pocketed it, and walked to the deep mahogany side-board. His fingers traced a line over the tacky side of the roll of tape. He picked it up, and slotted his index finger through the cardboard centre to hula-hoop it as he walked to the far side of the table.

The toe of his boots touched the legs of the chair as he stopped before his final house-keeping chore. Wide, terror-filled eyes stared at him, unblinking. Pistol thumbed the end of the tape free, and pulled a fresh length off. He tore the tape with his teeth. Pained whimpers sounded before him, which only served to widen his playful smile. He grasped the ends of the torn length, and carefully held it out before him to make sure it would be one of the last things the guy saw. He pressed the tape tight over top of the previous artwork he had created to shut the man's mouth. Steady thumbs pressed the sticky side into flared nostrils, before he carefully smoothed the ends around the side, and over the guy's ears. Two more lengths of tape finished the final task. He wrapped his fingers over the back of another chair, and tugged it across the carpet to straddle the seat for the show.

Richard struggled for the briefest of moments, before a lack of oxygen shut his body down into critical survival mode. Barely a dozen more breaths, and the guy was toast.

That'll teach the fucker for turnin' on me.

Nobody got away with putting Pistol, or anything he cared for in harm's way.