Pistol

Chapter Twenty-Five

Steph checked the time on the microwave as she entered the kitchen. "I'm damn lucky I didn't miss the morning in the office. I'm not sure how that would have gone down."

"Fine, I imagine," Pete assured. He leant a hip into the counter and watched as she made coffee.

"What did you say yesterday?"

"That we had somethin' to celebrate."

Steph flicked an eyebrow up. "Did we?"

"We're talkin' again, aren't we?" He shrugged.

Steph crossed to where he stood as the jug boiled. "We are." Her palms lay flat on his chest as she pushed to her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. She moved back to finish the coffee's, and posed the question. "What about your mother?"

"What about her?"

"When does she arrive?"

He sighed, and drew his arms across his chest. "Today." The spite in his word left no illusions on his distaste at the idea. He took the coffee she offered.

"Do you want me with you?"

Pete shook his head so hard the coffee sloshed over the lip of the mug. He cursed, and changed hands so he could wipe the hot liquid from his arm. "No, Love. I'd rather ya never met her."

"Fair enough." Steph sipped at her cup, lost on where to take the conversation next. She couldn't blame him for the need to shield her from his mother. As best she knew, she'd do the same if that was the kind of thing her mother had done. "You're incredibly brave for seeing her, anyway."

"I'm not gonna seek her out—she can fuckin' well come to me." He sipped at his brew as he scowled. "Ya want a lift to work?"

"That'd be great." Steph smiled. He'd made the choice to change the conversation, and she was more than okay to run with it. The topic of his mother was an awkward one, and the kind of subject you can't find your way out of once you start. "I'll go finish getting ready." He hummed into his mug, his eyes hooded, and she shook her head. "No coming in my room unless I say so, otherwise we'll get nowhere today."

His hand shot out and slapped her on the ass as she passed by. Steph squeaked in surprise, and giggled the rest of the way to her room. She couldn't deny the sticky subject of his opinion on murder would remain a chink in his armour, but for now it was a subject she could happily turn a blind eye to.

As long as he never did it again, what did she have to worry about anyway?

****

Pistol finished the coffee, hot or not, and dropped the mug into the sink. He wandered about Steph's place, and checked out the various pictures on the walls. A stab of unfairness goaded him each time he looked over yet another happy scene, but soon subsided with the sheer curiosity he found looking at pictures of Steph in her youth—before she changed to the woman he knew her as. In every photo, an attractive young girl stared back. Her sandy locks seemed to have natural sun-kissed high-lights, and the warm colour of her skin said she spent a lot of time outdoors. Then overnight, the woman in the photos changed into a colourful butterfly. The change so sudden that the rest of her family members didn't look a day older, yet Steph—she changed monumentally.

What had happened to catalyst the change?

Pistol failed to shake the notion there was more to his princess than she let on, but he also knew how paranoid he could be. He pulled the slider open, and stepped into the back yard. He shut the door behind him, and drew a deep lungful of fresh air, then drew his smokes from his pocket. The packet faired reasonably well given he rested on it all night. He sparked a stick, and stood with his eyes closed as he worked the ember down to his finger, and thumb. The morning played out in his mind. First he would drop Steph off, then duck home for a shower, and change of clothes.