Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 74315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
We were going shooting today, or had been three days ago.
Now, I was fairly sure I was dehydrated, and I’d need something more than just a beer to help me recover.
Sadly, beer was all we had, and I’d have to wash a dish in the pile at the base of the sink if I wanted water.
So, beer it was.
After my third, I was finally okay enough to regard my two brothers who were staring at me like I was broken.
“What?” I snapped.
They both shook their heads.
A gesture so much alike that it was comical.
We all looked alike. I was the biggest and oldest. Trance was the middle and slightly less muscled than me, but the same height. Foster was the youngest, and the leanest. He wasn’t small by any means, he just didn’t have the bulk like Trance or me.
I sighed and walked to the bedroom, shucking my shirt and pants on the way.
My socks followed as I headed to the closet where I yanked out a fresh t-shirt that smelled like flowers and shit, courtesy, yet again, of the maid.
My jeans were hanging up again, too.
Ugh. I think she starched them as well.
“Look at this shit!” I yelled at my brothers.
Taking the pants, I rounded out the leg holes and set them down on the carpet where they stood on their own.
“Wow, Mandy does a good job at starching your pants,” Foster observed dryly.
Trance’s eyes rounded as he watched my starched jeans stand on their own. They’d probably stand up against a stiff wind, too.
“Are you wearing those?” Trance asked worriedly.
I gave him a look and yanked up all of
41 my starched pants, then walked to the wash room where I threw every one of them in the washer and turned the water on scald…or hot. Whatever.
Then I poured two cups of detergent into the wash with it and put it on its longest cycle before turning around to paw through the dirty clothes.
I unearthed a pair of jeans I’d worn last week, happy to see that only a few stains from, what I suspected was dirt, on the knees.
Slipping into the jeans, I walked back to my bedroom where I slipped my feet back into my boots.
“Did you get a new piece?” Trance asked when I stood up.
I nodded. “Colt .45. Snub nosed. Fits perfectly in my ankle holster. I can even run with it comfortably.”
“Sweet. I just got five boxes of shells for my .45. I want to shoot it,” Trance said as he walked with me out of the house and down the stairs.
Foster and I each had three bags a piece, plus I had two rifles slung over each shoulder.
Trance walked to his own truck and removed his rifle and bags before depositing them in the bed of my truck.
We all piled into my ’87 Chevrolet, sitting three across in the single cab pickup.
The rifles went into the floorboard and behind the seat, all barrels pointed towards the floor.
It was a tight fit, but we made it happen.
Although, if we were pulled over right now, we’d probably be arrested just on general principle.
“Why do we always take your stupid truck? I have a brand new one,” Foster grumbled from his position in the middle seat.
I shifted into reverse, being sure to nearly nail him in the balls, and backed out of the parking lot.
He cursed and covered his dick, causing us to laugh.
“Because I’m the oldest,” I said with wide eyes.
He just shook his head, and I drove to the shooting range where we were members.
“Do you think they think we’re gay?” Foster asked as he eyed a car of chicks to our left at the first stoplight we hit.
I looked over to find them all giggling and tossing glances our way.
“No. We look alike. Unless they think we’re incestuous, that is,” I offered.
Foster eyed where Trance had his arm running along the back of his shoulders, and I had my hand resting on the stick shift that was in between his legs. “No, I can’t see how they’d think that at all.”
I snorted and put it into first gear as the light turned green. “Well, then, let ‘em think that. We don’t have anything to prove to them.”
“What if my future wife was in that car?” Foster tittered.
I shot him a glance. “Foster, those girls were all of sixteen. If your future wife was in that car, she’d have to come visit you in the state pen for statutory rape.”
Trance snorted. “You used to be like that, too.”
I shrugged. “I’ve changed my ways.”
I had, too.
Over a year ago I’d been going through women like they were fucking candy.
Then I’d, literally, fucked one of my dates so hard that the wall between our apartment and the one on the other side had fallen with my exuberance, and I hadn’t had sex since.
I’d nearly killed someone. Two someone’s.
Granted, the wall had been flimsy and a piece of shit, and had withstood not just me having sex against it, but the previous occupant as well. I’d literally never been so scared in my life. Not even when I was in a middle of a fucking warzone with thirty Taliban pointing their weapons at my face.
Trance and Foster snorted. “You’ve turned into a little bitch.”
That comment came from Foster, and I made sure to nail him in the balls the next time I shifted gears.
“Fucker,” he wheezed.
I pulled into the driveway of the shooting range after thirty minutes of listening to their bullshit, and was relieved to see the place deserted.
It was helpful that we’d come on a weekday. If it’d been a weekend it would’ve been hopping.
“Rifle or handgun first?” I asked at the T in the road that led to the separate ranges.
“Rifle.”
“Handgun.”
Rolling my eyes I took a right, choosing handgun first.
Foster shot Trance a triumphant grin, and Trance slugged him in the shoulder.
“Oww,” he whined.
I pulled into the spot next to the only car, thankful that I got a close parking spot.
I hated nothing more than having to haul all of our stuff back and forth to the truck. It was inevitable that I’d forget something.