"No, Miles! No! I can't. I'm too freakin' sore! This is like a recipe for a UTI." I'm laughing as he mumbles filth in my ear, fingers toying with sensitive skin as I squirm into his crotch, landing myself an erection pressing into my ass instead.

We haven't left his apartment since he drove us here in the early hours of Sunday morning. It's now Tuesday afternoon, wintery sunlight pale on sheets and skin as darkness starts creeping in. I lucked out with the schedule this week that afforded me tonight off but tomorrow I have to work. I'm not sure I ever want this bubble we're in to burst though.

I can't count the ways he's fucked me because I've lost count. My legs are aching, bruises to my inner thighs, and I'm so tender I'd actually be glad not to see his dick again for at least a couple of days.

"I'll go slow."

I scowl.

"How can you want it again? I thought your sex drive was supposed to die after thirty?"

"Well, either that says somethin' 'bout you… or somethin' 'bout me." He's smiling at me smugly, eyes crinkled. "Either way…"

"You've ruined me."

"Too fuckin' right," he nips at my neck, hand coming to rest on my waist. We're in his bed, TV on some film neither of us are watching.

When we finally talked, properly, it was … hard. I cried and he begged for a chance to make it right. I was stubborn and he was sorry. He tried to explain. I wasn't ready to listen. And I let him know: not texting is a dick move.

Then I reluctantly agreed that I did need time. I did need space, that he was right about that.

I needed to see who I was—who I am— without Luke. I could never have done that if I'd leapt into something with him. He'd have been a crutch when I needed to learn to stand on my own two feet.

When he says he's not a good person though… I don't think it's black and white like he makes out and I told him that, too. He's the grey. He might do bad things but he's always been good to me.

Right now, though? I figure none of it matters; when we're together in the way we both want.

His fingers find the smooth spot of raised skin near my hip and I instantly tense. Peeling back his sheets so he can see, he circles the smallish round patch with the tip of a finger, before sitting upright, jerkily.

I try to focus on the TV.

"Tell me this ain't what I think it is?"

I hide my face in my hands.

"Mia?" He prises my hands away from my face.

I huff and sit up, reaching across for his packet of Marlboro, covering the scar up with the sheets again, self-conscious. He was bound to notice at some point, I'm surprised it hasn't come up before now. He kisses my bare shoulder, stubble scratching as I bring the filter to my lips and take a sharp drag.

"It's probably exactly what you think it is." I bring my knees up to my chin, holding them with my arms.

"How?" he demands. "When?"

"I was four," I say blowing smoke up to the ceiling. "My, um, my Dad, he, um. He—" I swallow hard. "He killed my Mom. That's part of what he's doing time for. It wasn't just—it wasn't just, like, one bullet. He went all out. Stray one hit me through a door. I was lucky— the door slowed it down, so it didn't do a lot of damage. I mean, I was so young… I don't—I don't remember it, anyway. Just what I was told."

"Four?" he rubs his face, almost disbelievingly. "That's—"

"Fucked? It ain't half of it."

"No?"

I shake my head. Sometimes, in moments like this, I wish I could talk to someone. 

Him, maybe.

"You can talk to me anytime," Miles says, like he's reading my mind. "If you don't feel like it now, that's cool. I ain't gonna push you."

I nod, even though I know that isn't ever going to happen. I've never told anyone everything.

Nonna was adamant about one thing; anything where people might start digging around is a huge red flag. Sometimes I wish I hadn't gone digging around. Ignorance is bliss or so they say. Tell that to a hormonal teenage girl determined to find out the truth. Forced to have conversations with a Papà I never saw; on a phone. Once or twice a month.

And when I was old enough to understand that wasn't normal I started to question everything.

Where was he?

Why couldn't he visit?

What did he do?

Why do I speak Italian?

Why do I have to call him Papà at home and on the phone and Dad everywhere else?

I sigh, fiddling with the hair tie on my wrist, snapping it against my skin. Miles is watching me carefully, softness in his face.

"You've shot people," I say eventually, meeting his eyes. He runs a hand through messed up hair, wariness flitting across his face.

"You know I have."

"What's it like?"

"Mia..."

"I just wondered. Like, I read all my—my Dad's case when I was thirteen or fourteen. Curiosity, I guess. I mean, do you regret any? He didn't show remorse for what he did. He said it wasn't him. It was though. He even had my Grandma convinced he was innocent, she believed that until she died."

"Regret ain't the right word," Miles replies guardedly.

"I just... I'm just—I don't like guns. I'm just wary, you know. Bad experiences."

My Papà... Luke had held one to my head for something I can't even remember. Vince had pointed one at me… it all feels like I'm on borrowed time when weapons come into the mix. I try to explain this to Miles, but I don't do it very well, leaving him frowning.

He gets out of bed suddenly, stark naked, turning on a bedside lamp. I don't think I'll ever tire of looking at him, his skin almost tan in the soft light as he moves to his bathroom.

The sound of the shower filters through as he comes back out.

"Get up." He points to the bathroom.

I don't move, wide-eyed.

"What?"

"We're goin' out."

"Why? It's like the freakin' arctic out there, I'm fine right here."

He walks over to me when I make no attempt to move, scooping me up. "You'll see."

We shower together in his walk-in. There's space enough for us both but we still have to take turns for a decent stream of water. He slides suds over wet skin, cupping my tits, tweaking a nipple as I arch against him, hands around his neck, trying to get a face full of water, instead finding teeth biting lightly in the dip between my neck and shoulder and his cock digging into my back.

I want to roll my eyes but the fact he can't get enough of me thrills me. I turn, finding his eyes closed as he washes the last of his shampoo out of his hair, and I decide to repay him a favor; on my knees, taking him in my mouth.

"Mia," he rasps, a strangled noise in his throat, his eyes snapping open. I look up at him innocently, humming, tongue flat on the tip, hand moving to grip around him, moving both together. He groans bracing hands against grey tiles, watching me with heavy eyes until I make him come all over my face, licking him after he finishes to try him out. Jizz isn't my favorite flavor that's for sure.

I smile, knees red, as I move him out the way so I can stand fully under the water and wash him off me. He stares at me, dazed.

"Your clothes are that way," I say, tilting my head back into the water, reaching for the shampoo, dismissing him nonchalantly, pleased with myself. He reaches for a towel, rubbing it over his hair and leaves me in peace, a grin on his face.

***

Miles drives slower in the snow, gunning it when we're on cleared roads until eventually he pulls up around the back of a large single-story, red brick, warehouse-like building.

"C'mon," he beckons, taking my hand, walking us to a robust, black door, keying in a code on a fancy-looking access pad before it releases. There's a second door, much the same.

I glance at my clothes; with my pink dress now in tatters my only choice was yoga leggings and a sports bra I had in my purse. Miles offered up a hoodie and a beanie hat to try and keep the chill away, but it's not quite cutting it as I shiver. 

"Where are we?" I ask as we move down a narrow, grey corridor, automatic lights switching on and stinging my eyes as we move toward another black door at the end of the corridor. Loud bangs echo from behind it and I'm wide-eyed, dragging my feet.

Miles turns to me.

"You trust me?"

"Do I have a choice right now?"

His eyebrows draw together. "You always have a choice with me." His sincerity smacks me in the face because I didn't often have a choice before, with Luke. Miles rubs the back of my knuckles with his thumb.

"I own this place. It's a shootin' range. I figure you wanna know, so why don't you try?"

"You own—What? Try? Shooting a gun?"

My first reaction is to recoil. I've been uncomfortable around them for so long, even the idea makes me feel ill. It's why I pushed the one Luke tried to give me away all those months back. I mean, what was he thinking? I wouldn't have even known how to shoot it.

Ironic though, sort of. That one of the people he wanted me to be protected from was the one who ended up protecting me from him.

"The biggest headfuck is here," Miles says tapping his temple. "Shooting targets can be fun."

"Fun?" I echo the word dubiously.

"Maybe this is too much," he says, scratching his chin. "Maybe another time."

"No. I mean, really? You think this is a good idea?"

"Controlled environment. Can't hurt."

I stare at the grey breeze block wall behind him, thinking it over.

"OK," I say eventually.

He opens the door revealing a huge grey expanse of space in front of us, tracks at the top, targets in the distance of each booth, the people shooting guns with their backs to us, ear and eye protectors on.

I wince at the noise but he pulls on my hand, making me walk with him towards the front, around the corner to a counter where a big burly guy with tattoos is busy signing in a couple of guys around my age, chatting and laughing like this is no big deal.

Counter-guy looks towards us as Miles approaches, a grin spreading on his face. They do a weird fist bump thing.

"Long time no see, bro. What's the occasion?" His eyes slide to me and he quirks an eyebrow up. "Who's this?"

"This is Mia. Mia, Nate. He's the one who runs this place for me."

Nate sticks a large hand out, shaking mine when I reach out, his grip firm.

"So, boss man wants to show you the ropes, personally, huh?"

His eyes dart between us and there's a sly smile on his face. I laugh nervously, running a hand through my hair.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Well, we still have to sign you in, boss' guest or not."

He hands me over a pen and slides over a form; a waiver. They need ID too, so I pull out my driver's license, a much younger me staring back, taken a few weeks after we came to Chicago. Luke had allowed that, at least. I look like shit in it; tired, too thin. My weight hovering at below a hundred pounds on a five-five frame. Grieving for Nonna, living hand-to-mouth  it took it's toll.

"Congrats. You're not a felon," Nate says, sliding my ID back to me. Miles takes it up in his hands, studying it.

"Valentine, huh? You suit that." He hands it back to me. "Get her the Glock 17. Start you off with somethin' light."

Nate disappears with a, "Sure thing."

"What if I, like, hit someone," I say nervously, stuffing my ID away.

"You won't." Miles grins. His confidence in me is nice, but it does nothing to kill the anxiety that's flaring up. It's as if he knows I'm freaking out because he hooks an arm around my shoulders bringing me to him, kissing the tip of my nose.

Nate comes back, sliding the gun, a couple of pairs of ear defenders, and eye protection over to us. "You'll be fine with this dude, he's the sharpest shooter I know." He winks.

My heart thuds.

I'm not completely swayed.

Miles takes us to one of the free booths and I shed his hoodie, tying back my hair standing with my hands on my hips, still feeling that ache between my legs as he explains things.

He covers everything; from specifications to showing me each aspect of setting up the gun; how you load the magazine; how to hold it; how to stand; how to take the safety off; how to use the front and rear sights to line it up with a target, and then he makes me do it, patient with my questions.

"So, like this?" I say, unsure. There's a lot to take in. I line up my front and rear sight like he showed me, left foot forward.

He comes behind me. Shifting my hips, lowering his head so he's got my line of sight.

"Uh-huh." He presses a kiss to the little patch of skin just below my ear before he moves away, leaning to the side of me, a distraction with how tight his t-shirt is on his biceps. "Whenever you're ready."

I pull down my ear defenders before raising and pointing at the piece of paper in the distance, the outline of a person on it. It takes me far too long, but when I finally pull the trigger, I'm still not prepared for how powerful the gun feels going off in my hand.

It's not surprising that I'm way off target; I might've let out a little shriek because it was just not quite what I was expecting.

Miles just smiles when I turn my head to him, flushing, embarrassed.

"Try again," he says, encouragingly.

I do better the next few times, it's not too far off the shoulder, the one after that to the left of the head.

"Show me how you line up. My eyes are going crazy, they don't know what to focus on."

"Always focus on the target, sights should be blurry," he pulls the trigger with no hesitation, no flinch, straight through the head, then through the heart, twice.

"Pssh, now you're just showing off… Anythin' you're not good at?"

"It's just practice. Don't overthink. Have another go. You got ten rounds left." He hands black metal back to me, pointed downwards, safety back on. "And there's lots of things I'm not good at. Can't spell for shit, can't cook fancy shit, and I'm definitely, definitely no good at controlling myself around you." His hands find my ass, nose skimming my neck. "You kinda look like that Lara Croft chick, but hotter. This is jerk off material for me right now."

I look at him like he's crazy.

"No one is hotter than Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft," I scoff.

He just grins, stepping back, taking out his cell—it's new, an iPhone or something. He tells me to look over my shoulder and smile and I indulge him as he snaps a picture.

"Speakin' of cooking... you owe me breakfast. Don't think I've forgotten. Or was that just a play to get me to your place?"

"What do you think?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. Then more serious. "I was gonna make you something." He moves closer to me again, mouth to my ear. "But your pussy tasted better than any breakfast I could've made. I could eat you for days."

A groan slips from my mouth, warmth creeping over me as he grips my hips and pulls me back towards him gently, mouth finding my neck.

"Make me pancakes when we're finished here, please?"

"Done."

I finally start hitting the target, but I'm still struggling when I unexpectedly hit a perfect headshot with my second to last round. Miles whoops and I turn to him in amazement, buzzing.

"Did you see? Total fluke, but I'll take it."

"Do it again, you got one more round," he challenges.

"Nope, I'd rather go out on a high. How crushed will I be if I miss this next one? It'll kill my vibe."

He takes the shot for me and my mouth goes dry, the fleeting look of concentration on his face the same look he has when he's pushing inside me.

Suddenly all I want is that.

Him.

I last the car ride home, Miles making good on his pancake promise and then I'm all over him.

We undress each other all over again until he's buried inside me so deep it hurts. Slow, lazy, unhurried, like he promised. Palm to palm, skin slick on slick skin until I come hard and he comes harder.

I fall asleep almost straight after, exhausted, fleetingly thinking and hoping he's as tangled up in me as I am in him.

Even though it feels too much and way too soon.

***

I'm woken abruptly to the sound of clapping, Miles startling beside me, his arm flying over me protectively, his other hand pulling a gun from somewhere.

"Nice," I hear Vince drawl.

I blink, blearily, seeing him standing a few feet away, pursuing me with a gleam in his eye. Realizing I'm naked and he's probably getting an eyeful, I scramble to cover myself with a gasp.

"Get the fuck out!" Miles growls, lowering the gun and getting out of bed at lightning speed, seething, pulling on a pair of sweats.

Vince, in all his arrogance, doesn't move.

"You weren't answerin' your phone," Vince shrugs, hands in pockets, casual. "Thought I'd come over and check on you. Make sure you hadn't been iced. I was concerned."

"I was busy."

"I see that," Vince smirks. "Smells like a brothel in here. Knew you'd got some balls somewhere." His eyes drift to me and I feel like I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. "Y'know, Doll, if you're not averse to an extra player in the game, I'd be— "

"Not a fuckin' chance!" Miles snarls, striding over to Vince, bare-chested and shoving him out the door, away from me.

I cringe. Miles shoots me a look before he yanks the bedroom door closed. A second later I flinch as there's a massive thud against the wall and I think he may have just pinned Vince to it.

I sit there for a minute, still clutching sheets to my chest listening to him tear into Vince, my heart thudding hard.

What a way to start the day.

Vince is still there when I come out from my shower, wet hair thrown up in a bun, wearing one of Miles' t-shirts and my leggings. I had been hoping he'd have left already but no such luck.

They're talking in low voices at the dining table any issues apparently settled. Vince looks ruffled and I'm kind of glad Miles laid it out to him, because the guy makes me feel queasy.

I wander over to the balcony, pulling on one of Miles's hoodies as Vince's switches into Italian as soon as he's aware I'm there. His voice still carries though, and I can't help but listen; even though I'm pretending I'm not.

"He's becomin' a fuckin' liability. Surprised the Feds ain't all over it yet. He's gonna bring us all down the way he's carrying on, the paranoid old bastard, never mind the fuckin' Russians—he'll destroy us. He needs to go. I need you to help me get rid, y'know what I'm saying? You'll be well rewarded, I'll make sure of it."

I unlock the door and step out into the cold, breathing in air that makes my lungs sting, and my hot breath expel in clouds. I look out at the city as I spark up a cigarette, comfort in the hum of the traffic, the warmth from the flame on my hand as I cup it. I turn slightly waiting for Miles to speak finding he's looking at me, catching my eye before he refocuses on Vince.

"I help you do this… I want out. No reprisals," he says on his exhale, voice hitched, stubbing out his cigarette.

I can't see Vince's expression but I can hear him snort.

"Are you fuckin' serious?"

"Yeah." He rubs his face. "That's what I want."

I busy myself with my phone, feeling guilty for being privy to this, seeing I missed a call from Tara last night. When I dial her back, she picks up almost immediately, not even greeting me before she launches into how she broke it off with Joey last night after confronting him.

"He's such a fuckin' liar, it was written all over his face and he had the balls to try to deny it! Bastard."

"What a dick. Honestly, T, you're better off without him. I really thought he was one of the good ones," I tell her, flicking ash away. "Listen, I'll be home later ready for work, OK?"

"Sure. Missed havin' you around these past few days, babe. Carter was a douchebag last night. Think he's still pissed he lost out on you. Wasn't happy seein' you goin' off with Miles the other day. Like, at all."

"You think he's gonna make my life hell now?"

"Don't think he'd dare," she giggles. She asks me how things are going, suggestiveness in her voice.

I can't help the smile that breaks out on my face or the laugh that escapes because, despite everything, I think the last few days are the happiest I've felt in ages. I look back into the apartment, at Miles as he looks up from his conversation with Vince and smiles faintly at me. I turn away again, looking down at the traffic. "Yeah—um, good. Really good, actually."

"You're gonna have to give me all the deets later," she says. "That reminds me, actually, some cops came looking for you yesterday."

"What?" My smile fades. "Are you serious? What for?"

"Luke."

I kind of want to breathe a sigh of relief and throw up simultaneously.

"They left a card. It's probably just standard, you were with him for a long time, y'know?"

"Yeah. I guess," I say frowning, a lump in my throat. "Look, I'll see you in a bit. OK?"

I hang up quickly, finishing off my cigarette, then shoot off a text to Charlotte. She's still not responded to my message from Saturday and I'm kind of getting worried. It's not like her at all; but mostly, I feel like I kinda need to freak out to her right now.

***

"Not regrettin' this are you?"

Miles' voice startles me from my thoughts.

"Why would you think that?" I tilt my head at him.

"You're quiet." His eyes don't move off the road as he drives me to Tara's.

"No, I'm not regrettin' anything."

His posture relaxes, infinitesimally. Truthfully, I'm a little worried he'll just disappear again, but I don't tell him that. I don't want to look clingy.

"I'm just—when I was on the phone to Tara she said some cops had stopped by. They want to talk to me about Luke. Guess I'm just worried."

Miles considers this for a moment. "You want me there when you speak to them? You're allowed that."

"I don't—I don't know. Maybe. Is that a good idea? With what you did to him?"

"Maybe not," he concedes. He glances over, sliding his warm hand along my thigh, squeezing. "It'll be alright."

My smile is faint. I'm not so sure; the red flags are waving and there's absolutely nothing I can do.