142 Ostriches by April Davila

142 Ostriches by April Davila

Author:April Davila [Davila, April]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00


TEN

Uncle Scott jerked to attention. “Jesus, Tallulah,” he said. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.” He eyed the shotgun.

“I’m not the one sneaking.” He had on khaki cargo pants and a filthy white undershirt, the pits stained with sweat and dirt. He was no longer wearing his father’s gold watch.

Lady Lil batted her eyelashes. I was relieved he hadn’t crushed in her skull with that punch.

Uncle Scott leered at me. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you,” he said, yanking on the rope around Lady Lil’s neck. He ran his free hand through his hair.

“Like hell.”

He scowled and I had the urge to back away. The bird shifted beside him and he flinched, his fist jumping up again, ready to strike. For all our experience dealing with my uncle as an addict, Grandma Helen and I only ever saw him when he ran out of money and had to come begging. By then, he was agitated and uncomfortable in his skin, presumably focused on his next fix. I had never interacted with him while he was high on meth, never seen him so aggressive and twitchy. I didn’t like it.

“Just let her go.” I clutched the shotgun.

He leaned forward slightly, leading with his head, the way a snake might approach a mouse. “Or what?” he said, his lips curling into an ugly smile, his voice rank with derision. “You’ll shoot?”

I undid the safety, cocked the gun, and swung the barrel toward the front of his truck. My hands trembled, but my aim didn’t have to be precise to hit a tire at such close range. I’d be damned if I’d dragged that heavy thing all the way out there for nothing, and it seemed a safe bet he hadn’t brought water. Uncle Scott straightened, shifted his line of sight to the horizon, calculating. The day was getting hotter by the minute, and even high as a kite, he knew that a hike in the desert without water was risky. He might make it to the highway. He might not. My nerves settled a little when resignation flashed across his face. He wasn’t fool enough to ignore the threat of a couple flat tires.

“Just get in your truck and go,” I said with an authority I didn’t feel. I hoped he couldn’t hear the quiver in my voice.

He glared at me, then jumped from the back of the truck. With the bird in tow, he stomped up the last few feet of the slope in my direction. I swear, the temperature went up a few degrees. I pointed the gun square at his sternum. He charged right up to me so that the muzzle pressed against the fabric of his ratty undershirt. I could smell the anger coming off him like bird shit baking in the desert sun.

He made a grab for the gun, but his hand slipped and he only succeeded in knocking it to the side. I clutched at it and managed to keep it in hand but was thrown off-balance.



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