CHAPTER 12

I Can't Avoid the Lightning

B eth is currently sitting next to me on the couch, where the two of us are eating oatmeal and watching the Downton Abbey season five Christmas special. As invested as I am with this show, I can hardly pay any attention. My eyes are glued to Beth—to the way her blonde curls frame her face, to the way her lips close over her spoon, to the way her lashes flutter as she blinks. The moans she gave me as she came on my hand play through my mind as if they were still happening. I can feel the way her pussy contracted around my fingers and how her body responded to my touch.

"Staring is considered rude, you know." She gives me a sly smile, never looking away from the screen.

"Do you honestly think I care about being rude?"

She chuckles, leaning her side against mine. "No. You're edgy like that."

I cringe, wrapping an arm around her neck. "You make me sound like a high school boy."

She shakes her head, taking another bite of oatmeal. "Not a high school boy. More like a bad boy in an enemies-to-lovers fanfic."

Oddly specific. "Read a lot of those kinds of fanfictions?"

"Not as much as I did as a teenager. Now I read AU fanfics and reader inserts."

I have no clue what any of that means, so I don't bother questioning it. "I find it hard to believe teenagers swoon over glorified serial killers like me."

She sighs, just like she always does when I don't understand something relating to media or pop culture. "First of all, you're not a glorified serial killer. Second, those fics aren't targeted towards teenagers, that's just who primarily reads them. Third, those characters are swooned over because straight women love a man who would kill for them."

Is that so? "Do you group yourself amongst those women?"

"I think that answer is pretty obvious," she says, a little haughtily.

"I have to read one of these fanfictions," I decide.

She huffs out a laugh at that, kissing the side of my hand. "I think reading one of those books would give you a stroke. They're very explicit."

"I have had sex before, Beth, I don't think anything would surprise me."

Her head turns towards me at that, her expression bewildered. "You have?"

I don't know how to take her reaction. "Did you think I've been celibate for the past thirty-six years?"

She shrugs, placing her bowl down on the coffee table. "Kinda, yeah. You're not exactly a people person. I can't imagine you dating, nor do I believe you'd have enough time, with your schedule."

"I never said I've dated, I said I've had sex. Women typically don't respond well to me once they get to know me. Neither do men. They find me cold and sociopathic. But no one has to get to know me if I meet someone for a one-night stand. I've been told I'm attractive."

She rolls her eyes and smacks my chest. "You know you are, you goober, don't try to sound humble."

I laugh gently, kissing her temple. "You're right about not having time for relationships, even short-lived ones. I haven't been with anyone in years. Not since I left the CIA."

She shakes her head, linking her hand with the one draped over her shoulder. "Here I thought I knew all your secrets, but you keep proving me wrong."

"If it makes you feel better, I didn't keep any of this from you on purpose. I just have a lifelong habit of not talking about myself."

She sneaks a peek at me, squinting. "Anything else I should know about?"

"I hate peas."

Now she glares. "I'm serious! If you and I are going to be anything, I don't want there to be secrets between us, especially given our circumstances. We are living in a bunker twenty feet below surface on an uninhabited island in the Caribbean; it's pointless to keep anything from each other. I want to know every aspect of you, and vice versa."

I can see where she's coming from, but like I said before, I'm not good at talking about myself, and it can be really hard to do so. I don't want her to think I'm not committed to our budding relationship though, and I oddly do want her to know all facets of my being, and I certainly want to know all of hers.

An idea comes to mind, and I grab on to the remote to pause the episode. "Okay, how about we play a little game. For every mark you make on the target today, I'll tell you a secret. If you miss, you tell me a secret."

She gives me a challenging grin, nodding enthusiastically. "Let's do it. I'm going to kick your ass."

"I won't be shooting today, it will just be you."

"Well then I'll definitely kick your ass."

I roll my eyes, placing another kiss on her head of curls. The two of us finish up breakfast and watch the last part of the episode, then we make our way towards the gym. Since we first arrived here, I have made her practice the defense techniques so many times she could do them in her sleep. Despite having never been an agent in the CIA, Beth has the same drive and tenacity that everyone has drilled into them through training. She's a natural with learning new skills and committing them to memory; she never complains about the strict training schedule or how hard I push her; she just rolls with the punches.

I have no doubt she'll be the same way with shooting.

Within our bunker's gym is a target practice station, equipped with target sheets and a working track on the ceiling that moves it back and forth. Beth and I are twenty feet away from the target, where she eyes it warily.

"What if I fuck up? I could shoot you!" she exclaims, worrying her bottom lip.

I look through the selection of guns, trying to pick one that would be well suited for her hand. "I have faith in you."

She makes an incredulous sound. "Well, I don't, and neither should you."

I pull out my nine milliliter Glock, one of two guns I carry on me at all times, and begin explaining the basics. "You see this little latch on the trigger? That has to be pushed to fire the weapon. There is no real safety. Down here in the handle is where the magazine is. You click this button here, near the trigger, and it comes out, allowing you to reload it. Never shoot a gun without loading a full mag and loading the chamber, by pulling back the top slide."

She nods along. "Okay, that's not too hard."

"Once you have the mag in and a bullet in the chamber, all you gotta do is aim and pull. This gun won't have the kind of recoil others will, and it's nowhere near as heavy. It will be easy for a beginner to use."

She takes the gun from my hand, then she loads in the magazine and readies the weapon to shoot, just as I instructed.

I gesture to the target, then step back to give her some space. "Now, usually if you're beginning to use a gun, you'd wear headphones to protect your ears, but given our dire circumstances, you need to get used to the sound. If your ears ring for a while after we practice, just know that's totally normal."

She gets into a wide-legged stance. "Thanks."

She aims at the paper target and fires, letting out a little squeak of shock when the bang sounds through the room. She places her free hand on her chest and takes a few deep breaths.

Oh, to be a rooky.

I pull the target towards us and see a hole just to the right of the target's shoulder.

She does a cute little growl in frustration. "I was pointing it at his head!"

"I know. You owe me a secret."

"I've never killed someone before," she admits, and I can't gauge from her tone how she feels.

"Does the idea of killing someone bother you?" I ask.

She bites her lip, looking back and forth between me and the target. "I don't know. I guess when I'm doing research on your targets or talking to you in your ear while you are on a job, I know how awful the person you're killing is. I know what they've done, and I know that the world would be better without them. But I don't know any of these mercenaries. What if they're just doing a job, like us? What if they think they're doing the right thing?"

I move closer towards her, adjusting her head to face the target and positioning her arms and shoulders so that they're more aligned. I then move behind her, grabbing on to her hips to position her posture and legs. "‘Mercenary' is just a fancy word for what I am. These people are killers, make no mistake. Whatever their intentions or justifications, they will capture, hurt, or kill you without hesitation. They're all ex-military, many have been through war, some have worked in the CIA or MI6. You are trained to offer your enemies no hesitation, no mercy, and no thought. If you hesitate, they won't."

I step back from her once again and push the target back. I watch her reload her gun, making no mistakes, then she shoots again. She doesn't react as intensely to the noise as before, but she still flinches. I bring the target forward. She's still way off.

"How the fuck do you make this look so easy?" she demands.

I shrug, pushing the target back. "Years of practice."

"Any way we can condense years of practice into weeks of practice?"

I chuckle at that, shaking my head. "I don't need you to be an expert sniper in a few weeks. I just need you to know what you're doing and be able to fend off a merc if they come for you. You don't have to hit their head or chest, at least not at first. Hitting any part of the body is helpful, especially the arms. Making their arms immobile increases your chances of getting away. But if you can get a quick shot to the head or chest, it would ensure your safety more."

She nods, looking a little uneasy. She fires again, barely grazing the target's shoulder. I watch her stew in anger for a moment or two, then I remind her of our deal. "Your turn again."

She huffs, swallowing down her pride, then she says to me matter-of-factly, "Your harsh and violent existence should be a turnoff but it's the complete opposite. Thinking about the power you wield as judge, jury, and executioner to evil people in the world is stupidly hot."

I grin at her, pushing the paper target back. "Stupidly hot, huh?"

She nods, aiming her gun once more. "You may think you're fucked up, H, but I'm in the same boat as you."

She fires again, and this time it's better. She barely hits the arm of the target, but I'll give it to her. Before she has a chance to gloat, I unveil a secret of my own. "Even though I consider myself a devout Catholic, I have not stepped foot in a church since my mother's funeral, but not for that reason. Knowing that churches in the faith aim to harm others, I could not stomach being inside them. Especially as a bisexual man."

She gives me a sympathetic nod. "Same here. I mean I'm not bi, but I hate how harmful organized religion can be and I don't want any part of it."

She fires again and it hits inches away from the target's head. She growls, aggressively reloading her gun. "I've only slept with one man in my life. It was another analyst at the CIA that I went on a few dates with. When he saw me naked, he grimaced at my stretch marks and made comments about going to the gym together."

I see red at her words, and it doesn't escape my notice that she hasn't revealed the name of this weasel of a man. I may be on an abandoned island in hiding, but I could still eliminate that motherfucker. And she knows it.

"A man like that doesn't deserve to be in your presence," I say through gritted teeth. "Your body is one of my favorite parts of you, and that includes your stretch marks."

She smiles, taking aim again. "He wasn't very good in bed either. Had no idea where the clit was."

I roll my eyes at that. "Men who don't know how to please their partner are either too stupid to learn basic anatomy or couldn't be bothered to care about anyone other than themselves. Either way, they're not real men."

"Even before last night I knew you weren't grouped amongst men like that. You've always struck me as someone that gets off from the pleasure of his partner."

I wink at her, biting back a smile. "I'll show you how correct your assumption was tonight."

With a large, triumphant smile, she fires again, this time hitting the target's bellybutton. She turns to me with a smug grin, and I give her a defeated nod. "I've had sex with ten people, six women and four men. But I haven't been with someone since we started working together. Meaningless nights of passion lost their appeal when you came into my life."

Her cheeks blush a bright pink, and I don't miss the little smile on her lips as she fires again. Her bullet hits a fraction of an inch away from the target's head. She reloads her gun, and without looking at me, she says, "I told you that music was a big part of how I coped with my childhood, but the other way was through being as positive as possible. I never really knew my parents, my grandparents were old and didn't really know what to do with me, and school was really difficult for me as a diabetic. Convincing myself I was happy and looking for any silver lining I could find helped me get through all that."

"You've mentioned having problems in school a couple times. What happened?" I ask.

She stares down at her feet, her expression the most guarded and cold I've ever seen it. "At my middle and high school, I wasn't allowed to carry my insulin on me or administer shots myself, so I had to leave class a lot. And you know how I get when my blood sugar is low or high: I have to pee, drink tons of fluids, and eat half the pantry. Everyone thought of me as a distraction and a troublemaker. I was harassed and bullied by a lot of teachers, staff, and students. I was blamed for having to take care of a condition I never asked for. My grandparents would get calls from my teachers or the guidance counselor to complain about me, but they told me to ignore them. I tried talking to my teachers, to the principal, I even had a meeting with the superintendent, but nothing helped."

She gives a dark laugh, shaking her head. "The superintendent said that he would back my teachers over me and that he wouldn't punish a teacher over one student's complaints. Turned out he was sexually harassing kids in the school district, but everyone was keeping it quiet because he was so popular."

I stare at her, struck silent by her words. "I'm so sorry, Beth."

She shrugs. "That's why I chose to get into the CIA. I wanted to help people who no one else would help, but I hated how hard the rules and the system itself made that job. So, when you came to me with a job offer, I jumped at the opportunity to do actual good. There are too many people like that superintendent that can do whatever they want because they have power."

"It's bullshit that fully grown adults would punish a little girl for a disease she didn't ask for and make her feel bad for keeping herself alive." My fists clench at my sides as images of a twelve-year-old Beth flood into my mind, her expression frustrated and angry as all the adults around her tell her she's doing something wrong and bullying her for taking care of her health.

She shrugs. "Like I said, I managed to get through it with some forced positivity and a lot of boy bands. Therapy helped too. I was convinced that all of the bad treatment I received was earned, that I deserved it, and it took a couple years to unpack that false thinking. Why do you think I encouraged you to go see Dr. Bennett? I know how helpful therapy can be."

I have nothing to say to that; threats towards those who wronged her won't fix the past, nor the trauma she endured. She shoots again, and finally she clips the target's ear. She turns and gives me another smug smile, her usual perky attitude back in place of the resigned sorrow. Now that she has revealed this part of herself, I will always wonder whether her joyful attitude is real or just a mask. I've always joked we were opposites in terms of how we present ourselves, but maybe I was wrong. Her walls are just made of different material than mine.

"You're turn," she says, still sporting that grin.

I shake my head, pointing at the target. "I'll answer that if you manage to hit the arm or shoulder."

She glares at me. "Fine."

She goes through two rounds of ammo before actually hitting the line of the target's arm. When I bring it forward and she sees the shot, she jumps and squeals with glee, waving her gun around in the air. I rush forward and grab it out of her hand, giving her an exasperated look. "Never do a giddy victory dance with a gun in your hand!"

She laughs, flinging her arms around my neck. "Don't be such a party pooper."

I laugh at how ridiculous that statement is. "I'm a party pooper for making sure you don't fire an accidental shot?"

"My finger wasn't even on the trigger. I'm not that stupid."

I hug her back with one arm, holding the gun at my side. "Maybe leave the dancing for outside of training, that's all I ask."

She pulls back from me and gives me a little pout. "I guess that's fair."