Pistol

Chapter Twenty-Three

Pistol woke up with a consistent headache—the kind that made a person want to travel back in time and beat themselves stupid for being drunk. He pushed the empty bourbon bottle from the side of his bed, and cringed as it hit the floor with a definite whump. He'd spent the whole afternoon on the piss, and smokes—sure he would drink his way to a certain death. Yet he'd woken up in purgatory instead.

He drew his feet to the floor, and took a moment to clear his head. His eyes tried to focus on a central point to stop the swimming sensation that accompanied such a hangover. No light crept about the black curtains of his room, so it had to be early. Too early. He rubbed his eyes with closed fists, and picked up his mobile from the nightstand. One-thirty ... in the morning. Damn. He hadn't been asleep long enough. No wonder his head thumped like the chopping block at a woodcutter's competition.

What a way to start the day yer mother arrives.

Purgatory, hell, his actual life—he couldn't tell where one stopped, and the rest started.

Steph.

How was she today? He'd left her with some pretty awkward news that people—unsurprisingly—didn't react well to. What did she think of him now? Even more of a monster, because he held a gun to his mother's head? Without a doubt, ya fuckwit. He rolled his mobile between his fingers, unsure if a text would be too impersonal, or if he should bother to make contact. Fuck it. He swiped open a new message, and typed.

Cutie, are you okay?

Sure he wouldn't garner any response, Pistol stumbled to the door, and dragged himself along the hallway wall to the kitchen. He brewed a cup of coffee, and soured at the memory of it being the last thing Steph did for him. He retched at the smell as he poured a mug. With the toxic liquid cradled in his hands, he wandered slowly and carefully back to the bedroom, and sipped at the mug. As much as his stomach roiled at the drink, he needed to break the ice if he wanted a chance to keep food down. He glanced about the room as he supped, and stilled on the blue light which flashed atop his phone. The white backlight stung his eyes when he opened the reply.

What do you think? Of course I'm not okay.

He smiled. There she was. There was his little spitfire. More at ease with the knowledge she at least wanted to speak to him, he tossed the phone aside and drew his focus back to the real task for the day.

His mother.

Her plane arrived in approximately an hour, being an international. Maybe that was why he was awake; he could sense the bitch coming. He absently rubbed the back of his head as he played about with what he would say when he saw her. Did he give a standard 'It's good to see you'? Or a more heartfelt 'Fuck off back to where ya came from'? Most of all, he wondered how long it would be until she showed her face. He wouldn't meet her at the airport—no fucking way. No. Derek had already informed him that his mother knew where he lived. How she knew, he didn't have to speculate anymore. At first he'd been concerned that the old man had turned on him, and Derek now worked with the devil. But 'conversations' with Richard had shown that wasn't the case.

Because that's how serious ya are about killin' those who threaten the ones ya love.

If only Steph knew what he had already done—before and after he'd met her. Jesus, the woman wouldn't stop running until she came full-circle around the globe. There-in lay the problem however. If he couldn't be certain she would ever accept him for who he was—the animal he was—then how on earth did he expect to rectify things with her? Oh, Stephy-love. What am I to do with you?

Pistol snatched the phone from the bed, and swiped her message open to reply. He hesitated, and drew his lip ring between his teeth while he thought.