Someone Else's Love Story by Joshilyn Jackson Page B

ago, watching Paula drink up all his beer inside his quiet house. He was better twenty minutes ago, even, when he was angry with laundry soap. He was best of all a few breaths previous, calmly making an origami bird in the peace of knowing that a bullet belonged to him. He should stick with that.
    But the desperate mother eyes of the girl with Bridget’s voice are telling him he needs to reprioritize. Young Bridget would agree. She’d say that what he wants doesn’t matter here. This girl and her child love each other. The little old couple, they love each other, too. Even the clerk with her disturbing front teeth must matter to someone, somewhere. He must get them all out of here, safely, and now teenage Bridget is more than a voice in his head. She is a presence. She is a haunting with an Irish temper, telling him to get up off his ass and fix it.
    Fine. William draws white lines on a blackboard in his head, mapping the play. He can’t go for Stevie directly. He has to cross to the opposite wall first. That way, when Stevie shoots at William, the bullets will move perpendicular to the other hostages. It also means Stevie will have time to pull the trigger, perhaps multiple times, as William turns at the wall and goes toward him.
    He is almost certain that the gun is a .32, and it is the perfect gun. Shoot a guy as big as William with a .22, and it’s only going to make him angry. A .38, however, could push him backward in midstride, and a good hit from a .45 would blast a huge hole in him and drop him instantly.
    But a .32? William has crashed through hosts of offensive linemen, barreled into massive blockers, bulling forward to get to the ball carrier and take him down. He has waded willfully toward pain a thousand times. He knows how to overbalance, tip his body forward and dig with his feet. The gun will tear him up, but he is stronger than it. He was practically built for running into gunfire from a .32. Unless Stevie gets lucky, hits his heart or brain, William’s big body can absorb the bullets long enough for him to sprint close. There is a large glass paperweight near him on the lowest shelf of the desk. He will smash this paperweight into Stevie’s head and lay him out.
    If he does it right, this girl and her little boy get to walk out hand in hand, and the old couple, too. The clerk can stop weeping and go back to work, save up some cash, and fix her teeth. Stevie can wake up in prison with a bad headache. Life will go on for all of them its inexorable way.
    Meanwhile, William can stop thinking. Stop remembering. He can lie down quietly and bleed. Hopefully, Stevie will shoot him enough times to be definitive. Everyone gets what they want.
    The phone rings again. It is close, sitting on the desk beside him. He looks from the phone to Stevie, who is standing in the sunlight under the windows. William can see a million dust motes floating in the yellow light.
    “You gonna answer that?” William asks, meeting Stevie’s eyes. Man to man. A dare. The same look he learned to use on guys on the opposing team at the ten-yard line.
    Stevie pants and his eyes roll around. “You think I’m stupid, big guy? You want me to come over by you? Lean across you, get that phone, huh?”
    William shrugs. If Stevie comes close, William could take control of his gun hand and have Stevie pinned and helpless in seconds. He likes his first plan better, though, and Stevie doesn’t move toward him anyway. Stevie is stupid, and his limited synapses are misfiring because of the stimulant he ate or smoked or snorted, but he has a roach’s instinct for self-preservation.
    “I could answer it,” William says. He reaches for the phone.
    Stevie panics, brings the gun to bear. “Hell, no!” William hears Shandi’s breath catch as the gun swings. He stills. Stevie wastes another ring puffing a short breath in and out. “No one needs to talk to the cops but me.” He eyeballs the phone, then William, wanting one, rightfully wary of