‹ Prequel: Monster
Sequel: From Darkness

Hell Bound

Fourteen

Since everyone was cool with my pizza idea, I called in the order and emptied out the meeting box while we waited. I told Graham to stay in the living room with Bucky, but that lasted a total of two minutes before he wandered into the kitchen looking for things to help with. There wasn't much for either of us to do. And after I swatted him away a few times, he relented and took a seat at the kitchen table.

"You're not going to make us sit at the table like a real family, are you?" he asked, picking at the napkin holder I never actually used. It was a gift from my mom. I was busy folding towels but smiled at him anyway.

"I wasn't," I said. "But now I am. Thanks for the idea." He groaned loudly, going back to looking like a petulant teenager.

"You're just like my mom."

One of my biggest pet peeves was being compared to people's mothers. I would have thrown a towel at him if his mother wasn't dead. Bucky once told me I reminded him of Steve's mom. I was sure she was a nice woman, but it drove me nuts. It always brought me right back to adolescence when my mom would tell me I was destined for motherhood just because I kept bringing home injured kittens. I'd been shelling out money to the birth control industry since I was old enough to get it without my parents finding out. Maternal wasn't exactly my forte.

And it wasn't that I disliked children. I just knew I'd be as emotionally supportive as a teaspoon, and I didn't want to ruin anyone's life. But there had been fleeting moments where I'd considered kids. Wanted them even. The whole marriage and family shebang. I just knew it was not in the cards for me. My chance for that had died on the battlefield.

"Why don't you have any pets?" Graham asked. "Like a service dog or something? Maybe even just a cat. A cat would like it here. Or even just a goldfish. I find it weird that you own a house, but you don't even have a pet. You have the perfect yard for a little dog. Like a—chihuahua or a poodle or something. But you seem the type to like big dogs. Like a big doofus dog."

"There's a raccoon in the attic. I haven't seen him since I got back from Malibu, though."

"I'm pretty sure having a pest live in your walls doesn't count as a pet."

"I gave him a name and everything."

"What's his name?"

"Rocket. Because he used to shoot out of the hole in the roof like a rocket and shake the whole tree."

"That's a good name for a raccoon. I hope he comes back. Maybe he's hibernating. Do raccoons hibernate?"

"I have absolutely no idea. I was never really interested in learning random animal facts."

"What are you interested in then? Like everyone has a thing, right? Mine is embroidery. I know it sounds dumb, but my mom taught me, and I always really liked it. What about you? What's your thing?"

"Knives," I told him. "I used to be really good with knives. I could hit a moving target on the mark every time. I even used to do tricks. I still have some upstairs. Black titanium throwing knives. They're as sharp as razor blades."

"Why don't you do it anymore?" I paused at turned to face him. I was wearing a zippered hoodie, but I had a tank top on underneath. So I pulled the zipper down and slid it off my shoulders to show him the scars. He hissed through his teeth. "Yeah, I guess that would do it. Need a lot of upper arm strength." I started to pull it back up, but he squinted. "What happened to that one?" he asked, pointing to my left.

"I got shot," I reminded him. He shook his head.

"No, that one looks like you got shot. I can see the entry wound and the surgery scars. That one." He pointed to the left again. "That doesn't look like a bullet wound." I looked down at the scars on my shoulder. Then I looked at the scars on the right. The right showed a clean entry wound and a single line where they'd cut me open to fix the shattered bone and stapled me back together. The other one looked like a spider web of raised pink skin.

"Some bullets have a tendency to explode on impact," I reminded him. He shook his head slowly and then met my eyes.

"We've both seen some shit, Jo. And you're a combat medic. I know what a bullet wound looks like."

I ran my fingers over the scars. He said it in an almost accusatory tone. As if he thought I would lie about it to cover something up. I never paid much attention to the scars anymore. The left one still ached occasionally, but the right was far more painful. So I didn't think about it as much.

"I can tell you what it looks like," Bucky's voice said. He was standing behind Graham. Only this time, he wasn't holding a knife. But Graham jumped anyway.

"Shit," he whispered.

"What does it look like to you?" I asked Bucky. He moved his eyes over the right shoulder, where the scars he'd left behind were now hidden behind the sleeve of my hoodie. Then he moved to the left.

"It looks like you were shredded," he said. "Intentionally." I shook my head.

"I was shot," I repeated.

"And whoever dug the bullet out either didn't know what the hell they were doing, or they were trying to make you suffer." I pulled the sleeve back up and zipped the hoodie.

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," I insisted. Then I left the kitchen to put the towels away.