Fatale

A Shot

"This is all too much." Fiona says, waving her hands over her head as I finish explaining what happened today. She's out of the hospital bed, now set up in one of the many open guest rooms of the mansion. The doctors assured her that she wouldn't have scarring, after she finally let them examine her without threatening to kill them. 

"You're telling me." I lean back against the pillows of an armchair across from her as she sprawls out on the bed. 

For someone who was shot two days ago, she certainly has a lot of energy. 

"Not that I'm complaining about the rooms, but seriously, if we're going to be staying here, I need my clothes and my jewelry." She huffs. 

I convinced Hector to allow Fiona to stay in the mansion until everything died down, since Damon knows where we live, it's no safe to go back to our apartment. 

The thought saddens me slightly. I love my room with its fluffy pillows and high ceilings, the window that overlooks the city. 

And I'll agree with Fiona, I'm tired of wearing the same sweatpants all day. 

"I'll talk to Marco, see if we can send someone to get our stuff."

"You better, I have several pairs of red-bottom shoes I desperately want to keep." She yawns, her energy finally leaving her slightly. 

"I'll leave you to rest." I whisper to her as I give her a quick hug and walk out the door. I'll be honest, if it weren't for all the twists and turns recently, I'd be tired too. But I'm too confused to sleep, too wired. 

I move back towards Marco's room, knocking on the door lightly.

"Come in." He calls, and I push the door open. I don't see him immediately, but I hear can feel condensation from the shower clinging to the air. 

I turn to the side to see Marco standing, wrapped in only a towel, shaving in front of the mirror. Shaving cream clings to his face, the scent of his soap drowning my senses momentarily. 

"Sorry, but Fiona really wants to get some of her things, and so do I." I pace slightly from foot to foot, his shirtless torso creating that same knot of nerves and heat in my cheeks. He takes a towel, rinsing off the cream from his face, and raking a hand through his still wet hair, droplets hanging from a few select tendrils. 

One drop falls, trailing its way down his chest, around the slalom of his stomach, dipping lower and lower, falling under the towel and out of sight.

"Eyes, Angel." Marco's laugh fills the room as heat fills my face in embarrassment. 

"Anyway." I cough slightly. "I have a lot of things left in my apartment, and I want to figure out how I can get back to wo-"

"You won't be needed to work anymore, Charlotte." His face goes stoic for a moment, his brows dipping low. 

"Marco, I need money, I'm not going to just sit here and do nothing." I place a hand on each hip. "I know it's dangerous, but-"

"No, you don't get it." He takes a step closer, the heat of his body radiating like a damn furnace. "I'm not going to let you get hurt, and lurking in the secrets of the city isn't exactly the safe route." 

I know he's right, but the stubborn, stir-crazy part of me disagrees whole heartedly. 

"I'll have a few men sent to the apartment, they'll get anything you need." 

I nod, looking down at my feet. 

His hands reach out to mine, engulfing my fingers in his. 

"Don't worry, you won't be here twiddling your little thumbs." His pointer finger traces a path along my palm, spreading goosebumps over my arm. 

"Then what?" I ask, smiling at him. "What did you have in mind?"

An hour later, we're standing in an empty room, linoleum lining the floor, mirrors all around, and several targets spread, in the shapes of circles and fake men. 

Lines of weapons, guns, knives, and even a damn crossbow line one wall, like the basement of a survivalist uncle. 

"Jesus." I breath, tracing my fingers over a set of impossibly small but deadly sharp knives. 

"Welcome to the Arsenal." Marco flings his arms out to indicate the whole room. 

"So...?" I ask when he doesn't continue. 

"It's time for target practice." A devilish grin crosses over his face, his teeth flashing slightly. A lump grows in my throat, but not of fear. Of worry that I'm going to enjoy this way too much. Marco follows me to the wall, grasping a small handgun in his hand and passing it to me. It feels heavier than the pistol in my hand, my hands cooling from the metal touch. 

"Start with this, I know you know how to use it. So let me see." He crosses his arms across his chest, nodding over at a circular target across the room. 

"Yessir." I give a mock salute, and cock the gun, removing the safety. A surge fills my veins, the same one that had at the club. It's pure, unadulterated power. 

I move to the center of the room, my eyes fixed on the target ten yards away. 

"Come on, Angel." I can feel his presence a few feet behind me and I grit my teeth. Like a machine, my arm goes up, elbow slightly bending, and I fire. Once, twice, three times. All three hit the target, but miss center. 

I frown slightly, rubbing at my wrist. 

"Here." I feel his chest against my back suddenly, his fingers dragging down my arm, holding the hand that holds the gun in his. He's fully pressed against me, his chin resting on the top of my head, tilting slightly to whisper in my ear. 

"I want you to close your eyes." His voice is hoarse and husky in my ear. 

"Why-"

"Just close them, stubborn." I can feel an exhale of breath as he chuckles. 

I do as he says, slowly fluttering my eyes closed. I feel my hand move up in his, and he aligns my hips forward. 

"I want you to imagine the target across the room, without looking. Just imagine it in front of you, and picture the bullet hitting the center. Stop, don't open your eyes."

I huff, but obey. 

I picture the wooden board, with that one red dot in the middle, so small. 

"Now breath, and I want you to open your eyes, but shoot as soon as you do. Don't hesitate." 

I nod my head. 

"1...2...3." On three, my finger is already clenching against the trigger as I open my eyes, and I don't even see the bullet flying. It's already in the center of the target. 

I smile wide, that powerful surge filling me again. I step forward, shooting again and again until the clip is empty, each target hitting around center. 

I hear slight clapping behind me and turn to face Marco. 

"You're a natural." He whispers, that slight grin stretching across his face. 

"What can I say? I guess I'm good at everything." I shrug. 

He rolls his eyes, and I want to feel happy. But then when I look back at the riddled board, I can't help my mind from flashing back to that night, four years ago, and the lump on the ground, bleeding red and black. A real person, not so real anymore.