Pistol

Chapter Twenty-Two

Her eyes dimmed with the sadness he had created. What kind of fuckin' monster was he? All he knew when he went to her work was that he wanted her for the afternoon. But why, if all he was going to do was hurt her? Hurt her? She's hurtin' you, asshole.

And she had. The way she casually labelled him as purely after her for sexual pay-off had cut into him like a white-hot knife. How could she think that all he wanted from her was sex? Why not? All you've done is pin her down and have yer way. He frowned at the foreign sensation of nausea in his gut as he thought it through. Wasn't that a fine turn of events? The thought that all he had done was use, and hurt her actually made him ill. There's always room for a new first...

"I don't know what I can do to show ya it's more," he uttered.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed back more tears. Her hands wrung in her lap. "Show me I mean more to you than a hooker would."

He sighed. How the fuck did she expect him to behave? "Ya said ya didn't want roses, and that kind of romantic bollocks from me. So what do ya want me to do?"

Steph shook her head. "I don't know—care?" She shifted in the seat so that she faced him. "I used to think that the thrill of what you do to me; the way you use me, and demand things from me I don't know I like, was enough. But the last guy I dated wasn't romantic either, and maybe, I do miss that?" She shook her head again, and brought her hands up to cover her face. "I don't know."

"Do you want it? Or do ya think ya do, because it's what yer friends expect ya to look for in a fella?" His thoughts flitted to his altercation with Cassie earlier. The woman was lucky he had this conversation with Steph now, otherwise he may have actually throttled the blonde on the spot.

Steph's grey eyes dug into him, her brow furrowed in the cutest look of intense concentration. "Maybe it is?" she said. "Maybe that's why I'm so confused about it?"

"If I brought ya flowers and a teddy right now, what would ya do?"

Her lip curled at one corner, and she shrugged. "I don't know."

"Would ya like it? Or would ya take it to be polite?"

"I guess ... I don't know. I think I'd like it. But then again, it doesn't seem like you."

Pistol exhaled heavily, and twisted in his seat to open the door. He stepped out into the street, shut the door, and leant his elbows on the roof as he surveyed the street. He located what he needed, and strode to her side of the car to open the door. "Come on."

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"Buy ya flowers."

Her eyebrows drew close, then apart, and then close again. Her poor brain sure got a workout today.

"Well," he said as he threw his arms out wide. "We don't know if you'll like them until we buy them."

She laughed, and the sweet sound made his heart soar. Fuck, that music was exactly what he'd missed. "Okay," she ceded. "Let's do it."

He shut her door, locked the car, and then held out a hand. Her eyes went between it, and his face, before she carefully laced her fingers with his. They started down the street toward the small corner-shop he had spotted. Steph walked in silence. He didn't try to fight the grin that found its way to his face, and stayed.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked.

He glanced at her, and drank in her vibrant hair; the way it made the colour of her ink pop. "I'm happy," he said.

She smiled coyly, and watched her feet as they walked. Pistol gave her hand a gentle tug, and pulled her into his side. He threw his arm around her shoulders.