Dear Jesus. Bethany wasn’t sure what exactly she was seeing from the windows of Luke’s truck parked on the dark side of the ring of trailers, but she knew in a heartbeat that more than one boy here would kill her to keep it a secret. She saw Tomas Hernandez step out onto the porch of the tall triple-wide and light a cigarette. His eyes seemed to settle on hers.
Bethany ducked down, her heart thudding.
Steps in the dirt outside. A truck’s door opening, slamming. A laugh.
She pressed her hand to her lips and counted to thirty. Thirty-five.
The laugh faded. Quiet around her.
Deep breath. Deep breath. Bethany reminded herself that she was a very strong person, a very capable person, a very—
No. Stop. Bethany realized, in that cold quiet moment, that if she wanted to survive this mess she was going to have to stop telling herself what kind of girl she was and start living like that bitch while she still had the chance.
Get your shit together, Tanner.
She noticed something. During the entire ride here, she had been certain that the golf bag sliding around the truck bed was going to strike her in the face. Now, however, she saw that it wasn’t a golf bag at all.
It was a black vinyl rifle case.
What had Dylan called her that one time, that rainy morning this past spring when Bethany (and her .22 bolt-action) had rounded on him in the shelter of her father’s deer stand and asked (possibly demanded) to know why her man hadn’t fucked her in weeks?
The Sharpest Shot in the West.
Bethany pulled the rifle bag toward her and spun the business end outward. She fumbled with the zipper.