Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [1]
Dude said, “Where’d you learn about guns?”
Gabe shrugged. “My dad.”
“What does he do?”
“My father?” At this, Gabe broke into a slow grin. “Uh . . . actually, he’s a pimp.” The expected pause. “He owns whorehouses in Nevada.”
The dude stared at him with newfound respect. “Cool.”
“It sounds a lot cooler than it is,” Gabe said. “My dad’s a nasty guy—a real mean motherfucker. He also owns about a zillion guns and knows how to use every single one of them. I get along with him because I don’t cross him. Plus, we don’t live together anymore.”
“You live with your mom?”
“Nah, she’s in India somewhere. She took off with her lover and dumped me into the care of complete strangers—”
“Are you shittin’ me?”
“I wish I was shittin’ you.” Gabe laughed. “Last year was a total nightmare.” He rubbed his hands together. “But it worked out okay. I like where I am. My foster dad is a police lieutenant. You’d expect him to be the hard-ass, but compared to my own dad, the man is a saint.” He looked at his watch. It was almost six in the evening and night was inches away. “I gotta go.” He stood up and so did Dude.
“What’s your name?” Dude asked.
“Chris,” Gabe lied. “And you?”
“Dylan.” They fist-bumped. “What school do you go to?”
“Homeschooled,” Gabe said. “Almost done, thank God. Hey, nice to meet you, Dylan. Maybe I’ll catch you on the shooting range.”
He turned his back to the group and slowly swaggered away. It took all his energy not to glance back.
Once he was out the door, he ran like hell.
Rina was arranging roses when the boy came in, flushed and panting. She said, “Are you all right?”
“Just out of shape.” Gabe tried to steady his breathing. He attempted to give his temporary mother a smile, but it probably didn’t come out too sincere. He could tell that Rina was scrutinizing him, her blue eyes concentrated on his face. She was wearing a pink sweater that matched the flowers. His mind was desperately trying to figure out small talk. “Those are pretty. From the garden?”
“Trader Joe’s. The roses in the garden won’t start blooming for another couple of months.” She regarded her charge, his emerald eyes flitting behind his glasses. Something was off. “Why were you running?”
“Trying to be healthy,” Gabe told her. “I really need to do something about improving my stamina.”
“I’d say anyone who can practice for six hours a day has a great deal of stamina.”
“Tell that to my beating heart.”
“Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.”
“I can do it.” Gabe disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a bottle of water. Rina was still giving him funny looks. To distract her, he picked up the paper from the dining room table. The front page showed a picture of a boy, the caption stating that fifteen-year-old Gregory Hesse had committed suicide by a single gunshot to the head. He had a round face and big round eyes and looked much younger than fifteen. Gabe started reading the article in earnest.
“Sad, isn’t it.” Rina was looking over his shoulder. “You think to yourself, what on earth could have been so bad that this poor kid was willing to end it all?”
There were lots of reasons for despair. Last year he had gone through all of them. “Sometimes life is hard.”
Rina took the paper from him, spun him around, and gave him her serious eye-to-eye contact. “You looked upset when you came in.”
“I’m fine.” He managed a smile. “Really.”
“What happened? Did you hear from your dad or something?”
“No, we’re cool.” When Rina gave him a skeptical look, he said, “Honestly. I haven’t spoken to him since we came back from Paris. We texted a couple of times. He asked me how I was doing and I told him I was fine. We’re on good terms. I think he likes me a lot better now that my mom is out of the picture.”
He took a swig of water and averted his eyes.
“Did I tell you my mom IMed about a week ago?”
“No . . . you didn’t.”
“Must have slipped my mind.”
“Uh-huh—”
“Really.