"Pull The Trigger"

CHAPTER THREE

The moment Matheo left my room, I grabbed my phone and opened my banking app.

“Let's see what you haven't managed to ruin yet.”

I checked my balance, then went through my properties, investments, and the accounts I had once allowed Matheo to access. My eyes stopped on one of the accounts we used for household expenses. I remembered how he'd convinced me to give him access, assuring me that there was no need for secrets between husband and wife.

“Well, not anymore.”

I changed my passwords, updated my recovery details, and removed every device I didn't recognize. When I finished securing my accounts, I opened my property records and checked the details of my investments. I wasn't leaving anything to chance this time.

By the time I put my phone down, my shoulders ached from sitting in the same position for hours.

That evening, I spread a notebook across my bed and started writing down everything I would need before the apocalypse. Food, clean water, medicine, fuel, batteries, generators, solar equipment, tools, and communication devices. I paused several times to add things I'd forgotten, flipping through the pages until I was satisfied with the list.

Last time, I'd watched people fight over the little food and water they could find. I remembered the empty shelves and the desperate faces of people who had waited too long to prepare.

I wasn't going through that again.

The next morning, I drove to a large supermarket across town. I grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, picking up canned food, rice, pasta, bottled water, cooking oil, and powdered milk. I checked the prices as I went, making sure I bought enough to start building my supplies without attracting too much attention.

I was reaching for another can when someone else's hand landed on it.

I looked up.

The man standing beside me was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and sharp features. Tattoos peeked out from beneath his sweater, and his muscular arms made it difficult not to notice him.

Unfortunately, he noticed my cart before I could appreciate the view for another second.

“Planning to feed an army?” he asked.

I glanced at his nearly full cart, then raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to survive one?”

He looked down at his groceries before meeting my eyes again.

“Touché.”

I took the can and dropped it into my cart.

His gaze lingered on my purchases, but he didn't ask anything else. I pushed my cart past him and continued down the aisle.

What an annoying man. He was handsome, but that didn't make him any less nosy.

By the time I got home, I had arranged several deliveries under different names and sent them to different destinations. A few orders had already arrived, and I was carrying the bags inside when Matheo appeared in the hallway.

He stopped and looked at the bags piled near the entrance.

“What is all this?”

I shifted the bag in my hand. “Uhm... shopping... duh.”

He stared at me. “I can see that, Vanessa. Why are you buying so much stuff? We don't eat that much in this house. Do you have any idea how much money you're wasting?”

I rolled my eyes and walked past him with the bag.

“Vanessa, I'm talking to you.”

I kept walking.

His footsteps came up behind me, and before I reached the stairs, his hand closed around my wrist.

“When I'm speaking to you, you don't walk away from me.”

I looked down at his fingers, then raised my eyes to his face.

“You're speaking to me? Then perhaps you should try actually speaking to me instead of ordering me around.”

His expression hardened. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I bought some groceries, Matheo. Unless the food in this house has suddenly become your personal property, I don't see the problem.”

“Don't get smart with me. You're spending money like there's no tomorrow.”

For a moment, I simply stared at him.

“Then it's a good thing I can afford it.”

I pulled my wrist free and picked up the bag I'd nearly dropped.

“Vanessa, we're not finished talking.”

“We are.”

I headed upstairs, but I hadn't even reached my bedroom before his voice followed me.

“VANESSA! Come back here! I'm talking to you!”

I walked into my room and shut the door just as he reached it.

“Vanessa! Vanessa! What the fuck?!”

His fist struck the door.

I set the bag down and started unpacking it.

Another bang rattled the door.

“Open this door!”

I took out a can of food and placed it on the shelf.

He kept shouting, but I didn't answer. Eventually, his footsteps moved away from the door.

I let out a breath and went back to unpacking.

For once, he could stand outside a closed door and wonder why he wasn't getting his way. If only I could just shoot him... fuck...if I wanted to survive what was coming, I needed to know how to use a gun.

I spent the rest of the evening checking my orders and making notes about the supplies I still needed.

A few days into my preparations, I found myself at the shooting range, holding a gun and questioning my decision to learn how to use one.

I aimed at the target and pulled the trigger, but the bullet landed nowhere near the center. I adjusted my grip and tried again, only to get the same result. By the fourth attempt, I was staring at the target with my lips pressed together, wondering how something that looked so easy when other people did it could be so frustrating.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the target, determined to try again. I was adjusting my grip when I caught sight of someone watching me from the corner of my eye.

The man from the supermarket.

He stood a few lanes away, looking in my direction with a smirk on his face.

I frowned at him. “What's so funny?”

“You, obviously.” He glanced at my target. “I've never seen anyone look so personally offended by a gun. You're about two shots away from crying over it.”

“I am not crying.”

“Good. I'd hate to think the gun had hurt your feelings.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the target. “Worry about your own shooting.”

“With pleasure.”

I raised the gun again, determined to prove that I could do this without his commentary. Unfortunately, my next attempt was just as bad as the others. I shifted my feet and tried to correct my stance, but when I fired again, the recoil caught me off guard and sent me stumbling backward.

A hand caught my arm before I could lose my balance completely.

“Careful.”

I straightened and pulled away from him. “I'm fine.”

He glanced at the gun in my hands. “Have you actually been taught how to use that?”

I looked at the target, then back at him. “I'm learning.”

“From who?”

“Does it matter? I'm learning...”

“Considering you're struggling to stay on your feet, I'd say it does.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already looking at my stance again.

“Your feet are too close together,” he said. “And you're holding the gun too tightly.”

I looked down at my hands. “I thought I was supposed to hold it firmly.”

“You are. There's a difference between holding it firmly and trying to squeeze the life out of it.”

I loosened my grip, and he nodded toward my feet. “Move them apart a little.”

I did as he instructed, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

“Would you like me to show you, or would you rather keep guessing?”

I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was to give him another reason to laugh at me, but I wasn't making much progress on my own.

“Fine,” I said. “But if you laugh at me again, I'll find another instructor.”

“I'll try to control myself.”

“That isn't a promise.”

“It's the best you're getting.”

He stepped behind me and adjusted my grip, guiding my fingers into the right position before helping me correct my stance. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but it became difficult when he moved closer to adjust my elbow. His cologne drifted over my shoulder, and I caught myself paying more attention to him than to the target.

Get a grip, Vanessa. You're learning to shoot, not auditioning for a romance novel.

“Relax your shoulders,” he said. “Keep your feet planted, and don't anticipate the recoil. Take your time before you pull the trigger.”

I followed his instructions, keeping my eyes on the target.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Then show me.”

I steadied my arms, took a breath, and imagined the target was Matheo... then I fired.

The bullet landed much closer to the center than any of my previous attempts.

I lowered the gun and leaned forward, checking the target to make sure I hadn't imagined it.

“I did it!”

“You did.” I heard the amusement in his voice. “See what happens when you relax?”

I turned toward him, unable to keep the smile off my face. “Did you see where I hit?”

“I was standing right here. Congratulations.”

I looked back at the target, still pleased with myself. It was only one decent shot, but after all the trouble I'd had, a win was a win.

“Don't get too excited,” he added. “One good shot is better than five terrible ones.”

I turned to him and rolled my eyes. "So inspiring"

“You're welcome.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to say something else, but he only gave me that irritating smile. Honestly, did this man ever get tired of having the last word?

I turned back to the target and raised the gun again. This time, I paid attention to my stance and grip, correcting them before I fired. The next shot wasn't perfect, but i kept trying.

The stranger returned to his own lane, and I continued practising without asking for his help again.

I still didn't know his name.