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“Damn, son. If I knew you could shoot like a Texan, I’d have signed that contract a decade ago.” Bruce whistled low, squinting at the log on which a Snapple cap had sat just a second ago. “How’d you learn to aim so well?”
I lowered the Remington 870, rolling the gum in my mouth from one side to the other. “My old man taught me.”
“Are y’all close?” He stuck his thumbs inside the loops of his belt, putting one booted foot on a chopped log in his backyard.
Bruce had woken my ass up at six in the morning, first for a run (“you can tell a lot about a man by his physical capabilities”), then for a shooting session. I suspected we were going to finish off the day by hunting a bear with our bare hands, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Good thing we were at the last dregs of our visit, a breath away from boarding the private plane in the afternoon and goingback to New York. I’d marked this whole thing a success, mostly because Dylan and Gravity had brought their A game and were both endearing and agreeable to a fault.
“He’s back in Maine, but we try to catch up as much as we can.”
Once every couple years or so.
I walked over to the logs, fishing for bottle caps in my pocket and putting one on each of the four logs in front of us. Bruce propped his shotgun up. I sauntered back next to him.
“Did you read the contract?” It had been some time since I sent it.
He fumbled with the shells in the box beneath him, pretending not to hear me. After reloading, he aimed the barrel at one of the caps. He was off by at least a few inches. I sighed.
“Watch your stance, Marshall. Feet should be shoulder-width apart, knees bent, slight forward lean. C’mon—it’s not amateur hour.”
“I’ve been hitting the range my whole life, boy.” He took the shot and missed.
“Here.” I ignored his sulks, coming in from behind him and cupping his elbows to push them up slightly and better his stance. I kicked his feet open from behind. “One cheek on the stock, hold it tighter to your shoulder,” I instructed, tilting his head just right. He wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t great either.
He took the shot with me behind him, and the bottle cap soared through the distance, snapping in two midair.
Bruce lowered his shotgun and turned to me. “You know, Coltridge, patronizing your potential investor is bad for business.”
“Not taking good fucking advice is worse,” I said dryly.
He studied me through bloodshot eyes. He didn’t look like a man who slept too often, and I wondered if his life was as fucked up as mine under all this wholesome pretense.
“I can’t figure you out,” he said. “You seem like a happy-go-lucky guy in company, but every time it’s just the two of us, I get the distinct feeling you’re predatory and dark.”
“I’m both,” I said laconically. “I’ve spent my life perfecting the art of being exactly who I need to be at any given moment. Which is why you’d be a fool not to get into business with me. I know exactly what you need. Now, answer my question—did you read the contract?”
“Yes.” He took his hat off, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “I sure did, the night at the restaurant.”
“And?” I didn’t want to seem eager, but I was drowning financially.
He sighed. “Tate helped you draft it, didn’t he?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you are fucking me over real good if I fail to push it down people’s throats.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue if you plan on helping me make it big.”
“You should be very wary of Tate Blackthorn.” He changed the subject.
“And why’s that?”
“He’s shadier than the Mariana Trench at midnight. Dangerous too—I’m talking underworld stuff. And you know what it’s like. When shit hits the fan, everyone in close proximity gets dirty.”
I’d always suspected as much about Tate. His suits were clean-cut, but I saw the ruthlessness lying underneath them. However, I found his expertise and balls of steel valuable to my endeavors. And it had to be said: he had yet to let me down.
“Thanks for the heads-up. So? Will you sign the contract?”