Page 37 of C is For Corruption (Horsemen #3)

Joey

Az stirred his coffee like it owed him something.

The spoon clinked against the side of the mug in a rhythm that was starting to grate on my nerves.

Or maybe it wasn’t the spoon. Maybe it was the fact I wasn’t sleeping for shit lately.

Maybe it was just Az. Sitting there with his elbows on my mother’s worn oak table like he owned the goddamn place.

He didn’t, obviously. But Rich did. And now Rich was dead. So.

I pushed the last of my toast around the plate, not hungry anymore, not that I really had been in the first place. Mom had gone all out like she always did—eggs, bacon, fresh biscuits, everything—but it all tasted like ashes in my mouth. Resentment will do that.

Az, on the other hand, looked like he’d just walked off a magazine shoot. Fresh white button-down, hair like he’d styled it with a goddamn ruler. And the way he kept stealing glances at me over his mug? Yeah. He was watching. Clocking me. Like he thought he could catch me slipping.

“You’re taking her this morning,” he said finally, like it was just a normal Tuesday. Just a thing we do. Go shoot guns. Breathe air. Train the woman I think might’ve gotten my brother killed.

I took a slow sip of coffee to buy myself a second. It burned going down. “Yeah?”

“She’s gonna need the basics again,” he said, eyes on his cup. “Care, handling, muscle memory. All of it.”

“Already gave her the rundown.”

“How long ago was that?” he asked. “Before she was expected to maybe actually use any of it. It was just a precaution.” I didn’t say anything.

Just tapped my thumb against the side of my mug.

Once. Twice. Harder than necessary. Az looked at me now.

Full-on. Calm, but I could see the tension under it.

That thread of suspicion he was trying so hard to bury. “You good with that?”

“Sure,” I said. I even made it sound like I meant it. “She’s not gonna learn anything useful if she keeps holding the damn thing like it’s gonna bite her.”

“Exactly.” Az’s gaze lingered like he was trying to decide whether I was playing nice or playing games.

Then he gave a tight nod and went back to his coffee.

Right on cue, the door creaked open behind me.

Soft steps on hardwood, slower than usual.

I didn’t turn because I didn’t have to. I could feel her.

She moved like someone who’d been thoroughly ruined the night before. Which, from the sounds I’d ignored behind a closed door upstairs, she had been. When I did glance at her, I noticed a deep mark on her shoulder peeking out from the collar of her shirt, and I hated how my body responded to it.

“Morning,” she said, a little rough. There was that edge she always tried to hide behind sarcasm when she was unsure.

Az gave her a warm, polite nod. “Morning. Sit, eat.”

She eased into the chair next to mine with a quiet wince. Sore. Good. She was quiet for a beat, then: “Thought I might get the morning off after yesterday.”

Az smiled into his coffee. “You thought wrong.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, half challenge, half pout. “You’re going to make me hate you through all this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Az said. I smirked into my mug.

I couldn’t help it. There was something satisfying about being the person to rob her of her wish of a relaxing morning after getting worked over in Az’s routine and then railed out by the other two.

It took the edge off of the knowledge that meant I had to spend actual time in her presence.

“Joey’s taking you to the range,” Az added, standing. “You’ll need to go over safety first. Again. Don’t skip it. Then target practice.”

Victoria glanced at me, then back at Az. “I know I need to get miles better with guns but—”

Az looked pointedly at her, then at me, then back at her. “That’s why we’re training.”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Yes, Sir.”

Az clapped me on the shoulder as he passed. It didn’t feel friendly. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, sweet as poison.

Silence fell like a dropped blade when the door shut behind Az, and I let it hang.

Let her stew in the quiet for a minute while I rinsed out my mug and set it in the sink like I didn’t want to launch it through a window.

Then I turned. She was watching me. Wide-eyed.

Hopeful, like maybe we’d bonded or some shit over shared bullets and bacon.

“You sore?” I asked, voice flat.

Her lips parted, surprised. “Uh… yeah. Little bit.”

“Good,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.

Her face tightened, that softness she’d walked in with hardening in real-time. “I thought we were past this.”

I gave her a cold smile. “You thought wrong. You’ve got ten minutes,” I said, already turning away. “Wear something that won’t get you laughed off the range.”

I didn’t wait for her response. Just headed for the stairs two at a time, needing distance before I said something that’d get me slapped again—or worse, looked at like she pitied me.

My room smelled like oil and powder and cedar cleaner.

Comforting. Familiar. The safe was already open from last night—I hadn’t been able to sleep and ended up cycling through gun parts and old memories at three in the damn morning like a lunatic.

I pulled a couple of pistols from the foam slots, clean and familiar, like muscle memory.

Then grabbed a heavier one just for the hell of it.

Not for her. For me. Then I shoved a couple spare mags into my jacket.

I didn’t need them. She did. She’d probably drop one, jam the slide, or forget to check the chamber. Again.

The thought of her with a weapon in her hands again made something twist low in my gut. I didn’t trust her. Not with a gun. Not with my friends. And sure as shit, not with my dead brother’s legacy.

I locked everything back up, double-checked the weight of what I was carrying, and stood still for a second. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to think.

If she was gonna be around, I might as well use this.

If she was working with the Jackals, sooner or later, she’d fuck up.

Show her hand. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow.

But no one could fake it forever—not with the pressure we lived under.

The Jackals weren’t subtle. She’d trip. They always did.

And if she didn’t? Then maybe I’d finally push her far enough to leave. Either way, I win.

When I came back downstairs, she was waiting by the front door in leggings and a jacket I knew wasn’t hers. It was Craig’s. The sleeves were too long, the hood too big. She looked ridiculous in it, as if she was trying to be taken seriously.

“Cute,” I muttered, pushing past her and heading for the car.

She followed, silent until we were halfway down the block. The silence was heavy but not the kind that soothed. It scratched at the inside of my skull.

“You used to like when I wore your clothes,” she said, like we were reminiscing. Like we were us.

I scoffed, eyes on the road. “Yeah, well. I also used to like anchovies. We all make mistakes.” That shut her up.

For about twenty seconds.

“I meant what I said, you know,” she tried again, quiet. “I was glad you apologized. I’ve missed—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off. My voice was low, but it hit like a slap. “Don’t talk to me like we’re friends. Like you know me.”

“I do know you.”

“No,” I snapped, eyes narrowing. “You knew him . The guy who gave a shit. The one who sat by your bedroom door when Az went on a rampage and Leighton was too rough with you and played nice so nobody scared you off. He’s dead, Victoria. You buried him with my brother.”

Her breath caught in her throat. I didn’t look at her.

I didn’t want to see whatever expression was crawling across her face right now—hurt, guilt, hope—any of it.

I didn’t want it. She went quiet again, but I could feel her watching me.

Probably still searching for pieces of the man I’d been.

Pathetic. She might as well have been looking for a ghost.

We were two stoplights away from the range when she finally spoke again, soft and hesitant.

“I don’t understand why you hate me so much.”

I barked a humorless laugh. “You don’t? That’s rich. You roll into our lives, start sleeping with everyone like you’ve got some God-given right, and then shit starts going sideways and people start dying. You think that’s a coincidence? ‘Cause I don’t.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything. Smart girl. When we pulled into the lot, I shifted the car into park but didn’t move. Just let the engine tick while I stared straight ahead.

“You’re not gonna go runnin’ back to Leighton or Craig or Az, tattling that I wasn’t sunshine and flowers today, right?” I said, voice like glass on asphalt. “Because I promise you, if you so much as breathe a word that I’ve been anything but polite, I’ll make sure you feel it.”

She blinked, startled. “Joey—”

“I will make you regret it,” I repeated, slow and steady.

“So you keep your mouth shut and play the good little trainee, or I’ll stop pretending altogether.

” Her face went pale. Not scared, just shocked.

Like she hadn’t realized how far gone I was.

Good. Let her see it. Let her finally stop trying to dig through the ashes for a man who wasn’t ever coming back.

“Let’s go,” I said, getting out of the car and slamming the door shut behind me.

“Lesson one. Keep your fucking finger off the trigger unless you plan to shoot.”

She followed me into the lobby like a kicked dog. Head down, steps soft, silence loud. It should’ve satisfied me. Should’ve felt like a win. Instead, it pissed me off.