My jaw drops. “It shouldn’t matter! They should come out anyway and do their job!”
She pats my knee. “They aren’t coming out because there’s nothing to come out for.” Then she adds, “Your tax dollars are being put to productive use elsewhere.”
Fuck. I’ve married a crazy woman. Hot, but crazy.
“So how long do you plan on staying crouched down by your car?”
“Until it’s safe.”
She considers. “Probably safer inside. Let’s go.”
She walks toward her house, her step unhurried and casual. She tosses her hair over one shoulder as she plunges a hand into her bag and looks for her keys.
Since she’s acting so nonchalant, I have no choice but to go over and act like there’s nothing wrong, even though I feel like there’s a target painted on my chest. Becca clearly didn’t appreciate my heroic attempt to keep her safe.
And my dick is still hard. What the hell? It’s like my body’s doing its own thing, totally separate from my mind. It must’ve installed a Becca Radar when I wasn’t watching, and the radar sucks all the blood from my body and shoves it straight into my penis every time she’s close by.
She finally fishes her keys out and unlocks the door. We walk inside together.
The place is all hardwood floors and high ceilings with fans to keep things cool. The living room has a crimson couch big enough for two, and a white leather armchair that’s still in the plastic bag it must’ve come in. The mantel above the fireplace has trophies in the shape of an archer. They read, The Best Archer in Drover, and have years underneath. Becca must’ve won a lot of them. She doesn’t strike me as the type to buy somebody else’s trophies from yard sales to display as hers.
On the wall right above that is an autographed, framed poster of Axelrod’s first major world tour. It must be the one Max asked us to sign for his sister because she couldn’t come. I thought it was odd she couldn’t make the time to celebrate her brother’s big success, but I didn’t say anything at the time, deciding that maybe he had a sister who didn’t care that much. Dad still thinks my music career is shit because I really should’ve been a Harvard cardiologist. But it doesn’t look like that’s the case with Becca.
Bang!
“Okay, what is up with that shooting? Can you make them stop?” It’s driving me crazy. Every time I hear it, my body generates another wave of adrenaline.
“We just like to do some casual target practice. Keeps you sharp.” She dumps her bag on the couch. “Haven’t you ever fired a gun?”
“No! Never had a reason to.”
“Don’t you have stalkers?”
“We usually handle them with security and restraining orders. Shooting your fans doesn’t make for good publicity.”
Becca doesn’t look that convinced.
“Most of them don’t pose any real danger. Just inconvenience and annoyance. I might feel different if I was a female rocker and had a swarm of crazy male stalkers. But generally, I’m bigger and stronger than my stalkers.”
“You haven’t read Misery, have you?”
“You mean watched the movie?”
“No. I read the book.”
“Well, I watched the movie.” Reading takes too much time. All day long for a book versus, like, two hours for a movie. There’s no contest. “But that was for a writer. Most of them aren’t exactly prime examples of strength and power.”
“Well.” She shrugs. “I’m not going to tell you to learn how to shoot, but don’t be shocked if you see guns lying around the house. I keep them for self-defense. A woman living alone has to be safe.”
I do a quick scan of the area and spot nothing that looks like a handgun or rifle. “I don’t see anything.”
“There are four in the kitchen alone,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Four? Why do you need that many? Do you shoot your meat before cooking it?”
She laughs. “The kitchen’s sizable. Max thought it’d be prudent to have some extras around.” Her tone says she agrees with Max. “Like, what if I’m by the cabinet when a home invasion happens and there’s only one gun by the knife block?”
“You’re asking me? Dive for the gun. Works great in movies.”