Dangerous

Chapter Fifteen

A/N: He has a Wattpad account now... help...

And bubblegum did I buy. I came back home with a gallon fuckin' bucket of the stuff. Dubble Bubble brand, just like the buckets they have in the dugouts in professional baseball. I never quite liked the stuff. Sure, I chewed it once in a blue fuckin' moon like everyone else on the Goddamn planet, but I was never an avid gum chewer -- I had other things to keep my mouth busy, but I had a piece'a gum in my mouth right now and I was contently smacking it and blowing bubbles as I tromped up the steps of my apartment building.

Why'd I pick bubblegum of all the things in the fucking universe?

No bloody idea.

But I do wish I'd taken up bubblegum chewing sooner. It's fun to make finger guns and pop a cap at someone with the sound effect from a nice bubble pop as the supposed gunshot -- really, it was a nice contrast to the constant gunshots I heard ringing in my ears.

Though, anything was better than the tinnitus ringing.

Anyhoe, I shouldered open the front door and kicked it shut behind me, "Hey, Frankie."

"Hey, kid," he was still on the couch, almost exactly how I'd left him a half hour ago, only he was regarding me with a gaze that was ever-so-slightly worried, "Where'd you go?" I waved the gallon of bubblegum at him and he seemed to relax a bit, "I thought you were lyin'."

"Why would you care, anyway?" I went farther inside, going to set the bucket on the counter by my toaster. Now that was I back, though, my irritation was returning. It's not that I really cared that all my... drugs... were gone, it's that he didn't tell me and he didn't ask to go in my room.

It happened this morning, already. Morning has come and gone, I can't change it. It should be water under the bridge, but my bridge in particular likes to close the floodgates and hold the water for a while.

"Look," and suddenly, there was Frank, taking up my entire line of vision. Granted, he stood with the counter between us, but that's beside the point; there was a lotta Frank there, "It was for your own good, I think."

"You think?" I quirked an irritated eyebrow at him. If he wasn't one-fucking-hundred percent sure of something, why would he violate my personal business? What I do with my body isn't any of his fucking concern.

"I only think because it took you two months to realize that shit was gone," he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, "You sure you had real-"

"Yes, I'm sure," I huffed, my irritation growing.

Y'know, for the first time since I'd first seen the man, I was actually kind of wishing he'd butt outta my life a bit. He doesn't need to be governing what I do in my free time or what I keep in my apartment.

I could tell he was still trying to figure out if I was a addict or not, and to tell you the truth, I was trying to figure it out, too, now. He had a point; it took me almost two months to realize everything was AWOL, and now that I knew it was gone, my irritation stemmed from him invading my personal shit, not withdrawal symptoms that should have popped up the first day and a half I went without it.

And, now I wasn't wondering what was wrong with him.

I was wondering what's wrong with me.

"I gotta get ready," I shook my head and headed to the back room -- my room -- and shoved open the door, "Ey!" I barked gently at Fred and George, who'd taken up residence on my bed in place of Chewy, "Y'all know y'ain't s'posed to be in here."

Nonetheless, I swung the door back shut with my foot and began stripping. Off with the booties and off with the sweats. It would have been off with the hoodie, too, but it was comfy and I wasn't quite ready to give that up, yet.

So I slid on some ankle socks, then squeezed myself into my black leggings -- they fit just fine, don't worry, but have you ever tried to get into a pair of leggings? You have to try really hard -- and then proceeded to seek out a clean-ish bra to put on.

Clean-ish because I was going to get all sweaty and bloodied up tonight, anyway, so why waste a clean bra?

But anyway. Black tank top with a -- you guessed it -- black tailcoat vest... thingy -- it looked awesome, that's all y'gotta worry about -- was what I had on for the top-half'a my body. Then I got the bandana and the leggings, with my boots and my staff...

I guess I really was a ghost.

When I went back into the living room, I was in the middle of brushing my hair, pulling it up into a high ponytail. Frank was giving me a weird look, "Goin' somewhere?"

"Out."

Like he needs to know my whereabouts 24/7.

"Don't tell me you're goin'-"

I finished tying off my hair and adjusted my bangs with one hand while cutting him off with the other, "Uh-uh-uh. I am in fact telling you. Not asking for permission. I wanna go out, I will. End of story."

Frank looked very disapproving, "Two to four months. Not seven weeks."

I tied the bandana off and wrinkled my nose at him, "My leg. I can walk almost halfway to kind've fine. Chill."

He watched as I grabbed my guns and placed them in the holsters that were sewed into the inside-lining of my vest...coat...thing, then hooked my knife sheaths onto my waist like a belt, "You're gonna get your ass kicked and hurt yourself even more."

I swept my bamboo into my right hand, walking towards the door -- almost tripping on a dog or two on the way, since the majority of the house lights were off and the light from the windows was dim as all hell, "I'll be fine."

A/N: Don't ya just love disobedient vigilantes?