Tristan Michelson
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The first thing I noticed was how light the gun felt in my hand. Compared to the damage it could cause, it didn’t carry enough weight.
“Since when were you interested in guns?”
I studied the Glock in my hand, noting how it didn’t have a safety pin. I placed my finger on the trigger and aimed at a vase by the stool.
Nico snatched up the vase. “My mama gave this to me.”
“Do you believe I’ll magically have a good aim?” I laughed.
“When you’re looking at my vase and imagining it to be someone else’s head, I can’t say I trust you.” He said dryly and dropped it back where it was. He went toward the bar, poured two glasses of whiskey, and handed one over to me. “Who do you feel like killing?”
I let go of the gun before I actually pulled the trigger and released a br
