Christian Westbrook, an emotionless seventeen-year-old who is far too mature for his age, is trapped in a life with his aunt and uncle. It was never his intention, but he didn't have an option. His life has been irreparably altered, and he longs for...
Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
(THE SHOOTING RANGE)
My head feels like it's leaping when I wake up from my nap.
I rest my head against my pillow before closing my eyes once more when my father comes through my bedroom door.
"No five more minutes, we have to go in an hour, princess," he speaks causing me to groan into the pillow I so much desired to feel for the rest of the day.
I sit up for a few seconds before rising to my feet. He pulls the curtains apart, letting the daylight through and blinding my eyes.
"I'll be downstairs," he replies, and I nod before proceeding to my bathroom. I open the medicine cabinet before swallowing two Advil tablets and drowning them down in water.
After I shower, I choose an outfit, which isn't difficult because I'm merely heading to the shooting range.
My father feels that because my parents are both criminal lawyers, I should practice shooting with a weapon because we have many 'enemies.'
When I get downstairs, I go into the kitchen and say a gentle good morning before slipping up onto the counter to wait for my mother to finish cooking.
"Morning," River says, his voice ten times deeper, which is expected yet it's always jarring, given how sweet and gentle his voice usually is.
"Why doesn't River have to come to these?" I question.
"Because I'm a man," he chuckles as he pulls a bottle of water from the fridge.
I roll my eyes in response, "More like half a man,"
"He's already learned," my mother says as she hands me a dish of French toast and bacon.
"Now get your butt off my countertops," she says causing me to slip off.
I fix myself a cup of orange juice and take a seat on one of the stools beside the kitchen island when my father kisses the side of my head.
"How'd you sleep?" He questions placing his briefcase on the floor next to me as he unbuttons a button on his suit so he can sit on the stool next to me comfortably.
I clear my throat a bit, "Good, well rested,"
Given that my mom was the only one who knew I went out last night, I quickly find a way to change the subject. If my father found out I was wasted and staggered through those doors at two a.m., he would ground me for a month.
"Wait, aren't you carrying me?" I inquire as I examine his attire; he's dressed formally, which isn't unusual, but he doesn't work on Saturdays for this sole purpose.
"Your mother reminded me that I have a troubling case to deal with, River will take you," he adds, "He knows the basics and that's all you need right now."
