Rowan and I think it's best to get Lucy out of there before she needs maintenance, Ben thinks Rowan's good enough at rewiring brains to set Lucy up to succeed over several days. I don't think I can handle having her away from me for so long, but I don't bring that up as a reason to get her out sooner.
I don't offer my own ideas, I just give my opinion when asked. After five years of successful jobs, the complete and utter failure of the hit job on Rowan and Ben -- complete and utter failure to the point of being under their control -- makes me loathe to make any more plans. I tell myself the plan for the hit job was actually Ray's idea, so I shouldn't be so hard on myself, but I really am shaken to the core. I'm trying to hide this from my controllers, of course. I'm not sure I'm doing a good job of it.
Lucy listens to everyone talking about her, occasionally adding her own idea. I think she likes being the center of attention. Or she likes being used. Or maybe there isn't much difference between the two, for her. At one point during the conversation, she catches my eye and licks her lips lasciviously. She's still using that soft, deferential body language, but tops it with the cherry of expressing desire for me. It nearly stops my heart. The fact that we're discussing her possible disappearance, even death, keeps my pussy from flooding with heat.
Once the conversation's over, it's time for Rowan to use the second level of The Loop on Lucy. I state my intention to break down, clean, and reassemble the rest of Ben's extensive firearm collection. Rowan and I agree it's best to keep an ear out for Reynolds without stepping outside and showing my face.
Rowan and Lucy disappear into the spare bedroom. I bring the weapons and their cleaning supplies to the kitchen table. I hear some cartoon noises coming from the living room. From where I sit I can see a portion of the living room walls flicker white and blue with TV light. I don't recognize the show. I don't know if Rowan told them to stay put, but I haven't seen her daughters. I don't want to see her daughters.
I start with the biggest weapon, a McMillan M1A, a semi-automatic rifle with a dark, orange-yellow body and a huge price tag. Ben never struck me as the kind of guy who'd own half a dozen weapons, much less something like this. I'm tempted to take it and a few cans outside for target practice. The magazine is empty. I have the feeling he's never used it. Breaking it down and cleaning it is easy. Putting it back together is even easier.
I realize my body is responding to the rifle, a little jolt and tickle in my belly. I tenderly put it down on the table and move on to the other rifle, a Benelli Ethos. Brand new, probably never fired. Lovely. I run my hands down the smooth barrel to the wood stock. The need in my belly spreads downward as I break down the weapon and rub the parts down with a clean oilcloth. I wish I was wearing gloves so the oils from my fingers and the palms of my hands wouldn't sully the finish.
I have to admit the bean-counter has good taste in guns. I think briefly of my own handgun, a SIG Sauer 1911 Centerfire Pistol. I think about how I'd rather invade Reynolds' dairy, a one-woman army, with Ben's Ethos, and take back my own piece from Reynolds' warm, dead hand, than let Lucy walk in, unarmed and vulnerable.
Ben's handguns are as good as my own, even though they lack any sentimental connection to me: a Turnbull 1911, a Browning, and the one I've been using, a new Ed Brown Centerfire, Special Forces Black Sand. I'd been eyeing one for myself, saving up for it. On the one hand, I'd now had a few chances to try it before buying. On the other hand, if I'd gotten paid for offing Rowan and Ben, I'd have the money to buy my own. I am tempted to keep Ben's as a payment for pulling me into this mess and keeping me here and sending Lucy to Reynolds.
Cleaning the handguns is a pleasure. I'm impressed with Ben's attention to detail, but not surprised. You can't be a long-con bean-counter without being careful and conscientious in that sort of way. The weight and the tactile pleasure of the guns, taking them apart, rubbing them down, rebuilding them, build on the pleasure and neediness between my legs.
Between one gun and the next, I take a moment to close my eyes, imagine Lucy kneeling between my open knees, worshiping my wet and open cunt. It's the kind of future I want to have: me cleaning weapons while Lucy tongues me. I could spend long Summer afternoons that way, forever.
I purse my lips rather than release a melodramatic sigh. I'm done with the guns, it's way past lunchtime, and Rowan's still rewiring Lucy's brain. My stomach grumbles. I return most of the guns to Ben's firearm closet -- the Turnbull goes on the top of the chest of drawers in the guest bedroom and the Ed Brown goes to the small of my back -- and wash my hands before ransacking the kitchen for something to eat.
I'm opening the cereal cabinet for the third time when Reba says, "Mom usually makes us sandwiches for lunch."
Fuck your mom, I think.
"I'm not your mom," I say, pulling out a box of Frosted Flakes.
"Yeah, you're not," Reba says, her voice sober and serious, "Will you please make us lunch, anyway?"
"You're old enough to get your own sh- lunch," I say. I'm pulling open drawers, looking for a spoon.
"To the right of the sink," Reba says.
I open the drawer to the right of the sink and choose a spoon from the multitude of mis-matched silverware all jumbled together. I wince at the mess of the old drawer, slam it shut with a hip bump, and start the water to wash the spoon before I use it.
"It's clean," Reba says, sounding offended, "You just got it out of the drawer."
"The drawer is dirty," I say, not looking at her. I wonder if I should wash the bowl, too. I start opening cabinets again, forgetting where I saw the bowls.
"Above the silverware drawer," Reba says.
"Don't you have a cartoon to watch?" I ask.
"It's just ads right now. Cartoon Network has, like, five minutes-worth of ads at a time and we don't have TiVo so we can't record it and skip through the ads."
"Poor you," I say. I've pulled down a bowl and am washing it, along with the spoon.
"Can I have some cereal, too?"
"Help yourself," I say.
"You're not very polite," Reba says.
"Don't care," I say.
"I'm not tall enough to reach the bowls," she says.
"So?"
"So will you please get one down for me, and one for my sister, too?"
I sigh and get down the two bowls, slam them on the counter. With one child in the living room, another in the kitchen, and Rowan and Lucy in the spare bedroom, the only place to be alone is the bathroom. Once I pour my cereal and milk, that's exactly where I go to eat. My iPhone's in the bedroom, too, so I can't even play the stupid little games I like, like Hexbee or Dooors.
I sit on the closed toilet lid and stare at myself in the mirror. I hate mirrors. I eat the Frosted Flakes; the cold milk is tastelessly sweet.
All that lust I was feeling while cleaning Ben's firearms has completely disappeared and I just feel cold and scared. I had chosen to be a monster because monsters are never scared; they're the ones doing the scaring. I look myself in the eyes and admit I'm afraid. I'm lost. I don't know what to do.
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