Sarah McMurchy is my rock, the one who knows all my secrets and still loves me for them. She has this easy grace about her, with her blonde hair always perfectly styled and those deep brown eyes that seemed to understand everything without a word. Her frame is delicate compared to mine—slimmer, with a petite build that contrasted sharply with my thicker thighs and fuller curves. But what she lacked in physical bulk, she makes up for in presence. She is a charismatic little thing.

We had been inseparable for years, our bond forged through countless late-night talks and wild adventures. I was more the impulsive type, quick to dive into trouble, while Sarah tended to be the calming force, the one who made sure I didn’t get myself killed. Her calm demeanor and sharp wit balanced my fiery temper and sometimes reckless choices. Even though we were opposites in many ways—my dark hair and blue eyes against her golden locks and warm brown gaze—there was something about our differences that made our friendship so strong.

Sarah had been through it all with me, and she had seen me at my worst. Despite our contrasting appearances and personalities, there was an unspoken understanding between us. She knew when I needed a shoulder to cry on or when I just needed someone to keep me grounded. She wasn’t just my best friend; she was my anchor, the person who reminded me of who I was when the world felt like it was spinning out of control.

We were standing in line outside our favorite nightclub, Plush. The cool night air was buzzing with the low hum of conversations and the distant thump of bass. Sarah was beside me, laughing about something I barely caught, but I couldn’t help grinning along. I glanced up at the neon sign above the door, its flickering glow casting shadows on the crowd. This was our spot, where the night always felt infinite and the world outside faded away.

Once inside, the pulsating beats of the nightclub enveloped us, the strobe lights flickering like a heartbeat syncing with our own. I could feel the warmth of the alcohol coursing through me, heightening every touch and every beat. Sarah and I were completely in our element, her laughter echoing mine as we danced. We were both rocking our black leather pants that hugged every curve, making us feel like we owned the night. Sarah’s had silver zippers running down the sides, catching the light with every twist and turn, while mine were sleek and matte.

We made our way to the bar for a couple of shots as Sarah tugged playfully at my waistband, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she leaned in close to shout over the music. “We should hit the VIP lounge next!” she suggested, her breath warm against my ear. Her black leather pants seemed to shimmer under the dim lights. The night was ours for the taking, and with every sip of our drinks, the boundaries between us and the world outside melted away, leaving just the electrifying pulse of the club and our carefree spirits.

I leaned against the bar, letting the bartender have an eyeful of my cleavage, exchanging a glance with Sarah. The bartender was just our type—dark hair, a strong jaw, and a smirk that said he knew it. We sauntered up to the bar, our heels clicking against the worn wood floor. Sarah gave him a wink as she leaned forward, her elbow brushing against mine. “Two shots of tequila,” I said, locking eyes with him. His gaze flickered between us, and that smirk deepened as he reached for the bottle.

He poured the shots with an easy confidence, sliding them across the bar toward us. “You two look like trouble,” he said to both of us, but he had his eyes on me. He wiped his hands on a towel and rested his forearms on the counter. Sarah leaned in, tilting her head with a sly smile.

“Only the fun kind,” Sarah teased, running a finger around the rim of her glass. “You got a name to go with that face, or should we make one up for you?”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention. “It’s Matt, but feel free to get creative.” He raised an eyebrow, his eyes lingering on mine. “And what should I call you two troublemakers?”

I grinned, downing the shot before answering. “I’m Ashley, and this is Sarah. So, Matt,” I paused, biting my lip. “What’s a guy like you doing behind the bar when you could be joining us for a drink?”

He leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I’m just waiting for an invitation.”

The bass of the music pounded through my chest as Sarah and I made our way back to the small, dimly lit table in the middle of the club. The lights flashed, casting everyone in an alternating glow of neon red and purple. I slid into my seat, eyes sweeping over the crowd, but Sarah’s gaze was locked on every guy who walked by.

“I swear to God, Ash,” Sarah said, leaning forward, almost shouting to be heard over the music, “I haven’t had sex in months. Every guy in here is looking like a snack right now.” She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, tapping her fingernails on the edge of her glass.

I couldn’t help but smirk. Sarah was always so blunt about her needs. “You sound like you’re starving,” I teased, taking a sip from my drink. “Anyone in particular catch your eye? Or is this a buffet situation?”

She rolled her eyes, but I could see she was scanning the room again. “I’m serious! It’s like… I don’t even care anymore. I just need someone to take me home and remind me what it’s like to feel something.” She let out a breath, then her gaze flicked to me.

“I know it sounds kinda crazy, but honestly, dating Jay and Brad at the same time has been amazing,” I said, “You need to get yourself a couple of boyfriends.”

“How do you even manage it?” she asked. “I mean, aren’t you worried about them finding out or things getting, I don’t know, messy?”

“Surprisingly, it hasn’t been messy at all, not yet anyway. It’s like, they both give me something different, and I’ve just been… flowing with it. Jay is all fun and spontaneous, you know? He makes me feel like a wild teenager again, but Brad—Brad gets me on a deeper level. He’s more intellectual, and our conversations are on the next level. They balance each other out, really.”

“Okay, that makes sense, but what about, you know, the sex part? How do you keep that… together? Doesn’t it get awkward having two guys like that?” she asked.

“Girl, you’d think it would be, but no. It’s actually thrilling! With Jay, it’s all physical. He knows how to turn things up and keep it exciting. But with Brad, it’s more sensual, more intense. He takes his time, and it’s more about connection. It’s like, with Jay, I get that adrenaline rush, and with Brad, I get to explore this slow-burning passion.”

“That sounds… kind of amazing. I didn’t know it could work like that. Aren’t you afraid you’ll start liking one more than the other?” she asked.

“Sometimes I think about that, yeah. I mean, Brad is more in tune with my mind. I could talk to him for hours, and he’d never get bored. But Jay… I’m addicted to how easy things are with him. He’s carefree, fun, and always down for anything. It’s hard to compare because I love different things about each of them. Sex with Jay is shorter but more physical, more intense. But with Brad, it’s slower and longer. Brad takes his time in a way that just drives me wild. Oh fuck, I’m gonna get wet just thinking about it.”

“I’ve never even thought about dating two guys at once,” Sarah said, “but hearing you talk about it, I kinda get it. I fucking love dick, I’m horny pretty much twenty-four-seven. So you might be onto something!”

A man came over to our table with a greasy confidence, his dark, sunken eyes darting nervously. His clothes, a tattered jacket and ripped jeans, reeked of cigarettes and desperation. We exchanged knowing glances; we’d seen him before, the kind of guy who lingered in the corners of places like this, peddling cheap drugs to anyone who would listen.

“Look, I know what you’re about to say, but we’re good. We’re just here for the drinks and the music, not whatever you’re pushing,” Sarah said.

“Come on, don’t be like that. I’ve got the best stuff in the city. Just a taste, and you’ll be flying higher than this music’s bass line.” He flashed a cocky grin, leaning over the table like he’d done this a million times. His fingers tapped the edge, waiting for one of us to crack.

“Why don’t you take a hint and go?” Sarah said, her voice calm.

“You sure? I know your type. You’re not strangers to the good life, I can tell.” His eyes flicked between us, then back to me. “How about this, you don’t even need to pay upfront. Consider it a gift for two beautiful ladies just trying to enjoy the night.” He pulled out a small bag of white powder glinting under the flashing lights. “Come on. One line, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Put that away before I shove it down your throat,” I said, my voice like ice.

“Okay, Jesus,” he said, and disappeared into the depths of the nightclub.

The music was pounding even louder, the bass heavy enough to shake the walls, perfect cover. I caught Sarah’s arm, pulling her close enough that I didn’t have to shout but could still make myself clear. “I got another call,” I said, watching her expression tighten. I could see it in her eyes before she even responded—she knew who it was. Her lips parted, but no sound came out, so I leaned in closer, my voice low, just for her. “It was one of Riddick’s hitmen. Same threats.”

She didn’t flinch, but I saw the tension in the way she clenched her jaw, and how her fingers tightened around the edge of her drink. She looked around the club, scanning faces, probably wondering if any of them were watching us.

“What did he say this time?” she asked.

“He told me my time is up. That Riddick no longer cares about me paying my gambling debt, he just wants me dead. Sarah, this shit is getting serious.”

“Ash, you have to go to the police!” she said sternly.

I didn’t even respond to her suggestion. I knew going to the police wasn’t an option for me, not for protection from someone like Bronson. What could the police do anyway? It was well known that Riddick had deep connections in the city police department, and probably had many of them bought off. That’s why he had managed to stay out of jail for all these years. I knew I was completely alone in all of this.

“I’ve decided to buy a gun,” I said, my voice steady but low, watching her reaction carefully. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything right away. “After everything that’s happened, I can’t just rely on luck anymore. These threatening phone calls are serious, and I need to be ready if they come for me. I’m not gonna just sit around waiting to be a target.”

“You cannot be serious. You, a gun? Ashley, you’re not going to shoot anybody and you know it!”

“Sarah, I know what you’re going to say, but I can’t go to the police. They can’t protect me from this. It’s not like they can just put a guard at my door 24/7, and even if they did, we both know it wouldn’t be enough. These people... they won’t stop. I have to face this on my own. I’m going to handle it, by myself, and I need you to understand that. Buying a gun is a smart move for me right now.”

“You’re not buying a gun! You know what, Ashley, this fucking pisses me off! I can’t even talk to you about this right now. Let’s go do more shots,” Sarah said, as she gently grabbed my arm and pulled me back towards the bar.

The pulsing lights and pounding bass of the nightclub swallowed me as the drinks kept flowing, one after another. At first, the alcohol made everything sharper, the conversations louder, the laughter infectious. I danced without inhibition, feeling the heat of bodies around me, but as the hours slipped past away, so did my clarity. The edges of the night blur, faces blended, words slurred, and the once exhilarating beat of the music became a dull throb in the background. By the end, I was stumbling, my thoughts scattered, with only flashes of the night remaining in my hazy mind—faces, hands, and darkness. The topic of guns didn’t come up again for the rest of the night.

                                                        *************

The next morning, I pulled up to Billy's Rod & Rifle Store, letting the rumble of my Mustang engine fade as I shifted into park. I could see my reflection in the shop’s glass door, and I was reminded again of the power I carried within me—both in my appearance and in my purpose. I stepped out of the car with a confidence that turned heads. I wasn’t here to mess around. I was here to get what I needed.

The old gun shop was a weathered relic, its timeworn facade revealing years of neglect. The wooden planks of its exterior sagged under the weight of time, and the flickering neon sign above the entrance struggled to announce its wares with several missing letters; it had been that way for years. The dimly lit shop was filled with dusty glass display cases, their contents an eclectic mix of antique firearms, ammunition, and worn leather holsters. The musty scent of aged gunpowder hung in the air, a testament to the shop's enduring presence.

That day, I entered the store knowing I exuded an air of confidence and strength, a stark contrast to the typical clientele Billy was probably used to. Dressed in a manner more suited for a gym than a gun store, I likely didn’t fit the mold of a typical gun enthusiast. I wore black yoga pants and white running shoes. My hair was up in a tight bun, and I had on a black baseball cap. My light zip-up hoodie left my midsection exposed, with my pierced belly button sporting a small sparkling diamond. My thick thighs and bigger ass contrasted nicely with my thinner midsection, and the ridges of my abdominal muscles were there for everyone to see.

As I approached the counter, there was a moment of silent acknowledgment, as if we were each trying to decipher the other's story. It was a curious pairing: a man steeped in the world of firearms and me, a woman who defied stereotypes. But sometimes, life's most intriguing connections happened in the most unexpected places. Billy was immediately attracted to me; my eyes mesmerized him.

I looked down at the dusty display case, my eyes fixed on the formidable array of firearms within. I examined each one with a careful eye, studying the intricate details and considering their weight and design. The muted light caught the contours of my face, revealing a sense of determination as I contemplated my choices—a stark contrast to the hardened arsenal before me. In that moment, I embodied the complex intersection of self-protection and empowerment, a testament to the profound decisions one must make in a world where choices often carry heavy consequences.

"I need a gun," I said.

"Well, you are in a gun shop, love. Tell me, what do you need a gun for? Hunting, or…?"

"Self-defense," I replied, making it clear I wasn’t messing around.

"Oh, I see. Well, you can never be too safe out there on those streets. Have you ever fired a gun before?" Billy asked.

"No."

Billy, a seasoned and knowledgeable gun enthusiast, began describing some options. He picked up a sleek black semi-automatic pistol, a Walther PPK, and explained its compact design, ideal for concealed carry. His tone was calm and authoritative as he highlighted the PPK's 7-round magazine and its reputation for reliability.

"Now, this right here is what Hitler used to kill himself! Contrary to popular opinion, he didn’t use a Luger! Nope, no sir. Hitler offed himself with one of these bad boys right here!"

I had no interest in the PPK, nor in a rundown of World War II history.

Next, Billy reached for a classic 1911 Colt Government, its steel frame and walnut grips showcasing timeless craftsmanship. He spoke with admiration for the .45 ACP cartridge and how it had earned a place in American history. His words were a testament to his passion as he described the 1911's single-stack magazine and legendary accuracy.

"Now, here’s the thing with guns, sweetheart. These semiautomatics are all great and dandy, but you never know when they’re gonna jam on ya. You see, this is why I prefer a good old-fashioned revolver. Sure, it can only blast six bullets, but it’s old reliable. Ya know? You never have to worry about it. It’s never gonna let you down. Doesn’t leave any of those pesky shell casings lying around either, because you know that can get you in trouble."

I wasn’t listening closely to Billy. My eyes had locked on to a slick black gun that looked big and powerful, the black steel radiating strength and power.

I stood in front of the glass display case, my eyes scanning the rows of pistols and revolvers. Each one had its appeal, but none of them seemed to call out to me—until I saw it. Cold, black steel. Its sleek, unyielding frame stood out from the others, practically daring me to pick it up. I could already feel the weight of it in my hand, imagine the recoil against my palm. There was something powerful, almost seductive, in the thought of it. With this gun, I could defend myself. I could be the one in control. The bad men who had been after me for weeks—well, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

As I stared down at the weapon, my mind drifted to the moment I could finally turn the tables. I could picture it now, pointing the barrel straight at one of Reddick’s hitmen, my finger hovering over the trigger. They’d never expect me to fight back, but that was the beauty of it. The flash of realization in their eyes right before they dropped—it would be worth it. I felt a strange sense of calm, like I had finally found the one thing that could keep me safe. The gun wasn’t just a tool; it was a lifeline.

"Tell me about that one, right there," I said, pointing at the gun in the display case that had caught my eye. Billy admired my taste in firearms. He reached into the display case and pulled out the slick firearm I had set my eyes on.

"Now, that there, that’s a Glock 18! This bad boy holds 33 bullets in the mag! I wouldn’t want to mess with a woman brandishing one of these bad boys!" he said.

Billy handed the gun over the counter to me, and I held it in my hand, observing it. The moment I wrapped my fingers around the cold, steel grip of the gun, it was as if time slowed. Its weight was heavier than I expected, grounding me with a sense of strength I hadn’t anticipated. I felt both vulnerable and protected, an odd duality that pulsed through me as the metallic surface pressed into my palm. I hoped, with everything in me, that I’d never have to pull the trigger—but the moment I held it, I knew I had the strength to do so if needed. Right then and there, I knew it was mine to own.

"Ya know, we have a shooting range in the back here if you want to test that bad boy out. For a beauty like you, I’m gonna throw in a box of bullets!"

"Yeah, sure, sounds good," I said. I still couldn’t believe I was about to fire a gun for the first time. An actual real gun.

At the back of the store was a large steel door. As soon as we passed through it, the relentless popping of gunshots could be heard. The medium-sized shooting range was bustling with activity as individuals meticulously honed their shooting skills. The sharp crack of gunfire resonated in the air, mingling with the distinct scent of gunpowder. Rows of paper targets stood at varying distances, each awaiting the precise aim of the marksmen—or in this case, a markswoman. The sound of bullets slamming into targets echoed in my chest, a steady, powerful rhythm that matched my heartbeat. There was a strange comfort in it, almost intoxicating. I glanced around at the walls lined with rifles, pistols, and shotguns, and for the first time, I felt like I belonged. It wasn’t just about survival anymore—it was about control, about power.

We made our way down to an empty stall, and once there, Billy loaded the gun with ammunition and handed me a pair of earmuffs.

"You’ll need these, love. It’s a little hard on the ears in here," he said over the relentless popping of gunfire.

I took off my baseball hat and released my hair, letting it tumble down to the small of my back. Next, Billy handed me the Glock 18 with a fully loaded magazine and showed me how to cock it and release the safety.

"Okay, you’re ready to go," he said, pointing to the paper target fifty feet away.

I stood with unwavering composure, my fingers gripping the cold steel of the Glock 18. This was my first time handling a firearm, but from the moment I squeezed the trigger, something extraordinary became evident. After a brief pause to set my aim, I squeezed the trigger six times in rapid succession, and after another brief pause, fired another four bullets into the target ahead of me. My shots cut through the air with remarkable precision, every bullet finding its mark dead center on the target. Each round fired was a testament to my natural gift for accuracy and control, leaving Billy astounded by my God-given talent.

It was evident in the way I maintained my poise and fired shot after shot with astounding accuracy that I was a natural at handling a gun and had an amazing aim. Billy had witnessed countless individuals attempt to master marksmanship, but rarely had he seen someone who could pick up a gun for the first time and deliver such precision. When Billy brought the paper target closer for inspection, every round fired by me had struck the target with uncanny accuracy.

"Jesus," was all Billy could say as he studied the target with a look of complete dismay.

I took the earmuffs off and placed the gun down. Billy was lost for words.

"You know, over the years I’ve seen a lot of newbies come in here. I’ve never seen anything like what you just did. Never. Your aim is impeccable—some of those bullets almost went through the same hole for fuck’s sake!" he said, looking shocked.

"I hope you’re not planning on shooting something other than these paper targets, are you, love?" Billy asked cautiously.

"I hope not… but I don’t know."

"Well, love, I’ll say this: You’ve got yourself one hell of a sidearm there, and I’ll say this as well—I would not wanna mess around with you!"

"I’ll take it," I said.

I never thought I’d feel this way, not from firing a gun. My hands had been shaking when I first picked it up, the weight unfamiliar, the cold metal a reminder of how serious this was. But the moment I squeezed the trigger, everything else fell away. The sharp crack of the shot, the recoil pushing back against my arms—it was like a jolt of clarity. I watched the bullet punch through the target, dead center, and a strange sense of calm washed over me. It was more than just hitting the mark—it was the realization that, for the first time, I could protect myself.

A few more rounds and my nerves were gone, replaced with something new. Confidence. Power. And if it came down to it—if someone tried to hurt me—I wouldn’t hesitate. The fear I’d always carried, the worry about what I would do if I ever had to defend myself, was gone. I knew now, deep down, that I could pull the trigger if I had to. That thought should have scared me, but it didn’t.

I had always been anti-gun, but now that I owned one, I felt an unexpected sense of security, like I had just gained a new layer of protection. But as much as I felt powerful, there was a darker side to it. The thought that I might have to use it against someone sent a shiver down my spine. The cold, hard reality of what a gun is truly meant for hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s one thing to shoot at a paper target, but the idea of pulling the trigger on a living, breathing person was terrifying. Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t deny the comfort it gave me, knowing that I was no longer defenseless. If Bronson Riddick wanted to send his contract killers after me, even some of his best men, they were going to be in for a shock.