"Thank God it's Friday," you groan, climbing out of your truck. Suit jacket slung over your shoulder, you kick the door shut before walking around to the passenger side, opening the door for your passenger and offering her a hand. A chestnut haired Russian maiden accepts your assistance as she slides from the leather seat and onto the pavement, smoothing out her own business attire.

“Such a flatterer,” she says with a smile, Russian accent as thick as molasses.

“You know me, Sachi, always the Southern gentleman,” you tease with a wink and chaste kiss upon her hand. The Waffegeist of your Mosin Nagant giggles and playfully swats you on the cheek before heading up the stairs to your shared apartment. She pauses at the door, allowing you the honor of stepping into the abyss before her.

You follow not too far behind her, standing next to your comrade and staring at the door when you reach her. Your hand reaches for and rests on the knob, and you mutter a quick prayer to the Lord, asking for Him to give you strength. Taking a deep breath and turning the knob, you step across the threshold and brace yourself

“ANON’S HOME!”

Not even a foot in the door, you’re hit with a barrage of welcomes, ranging from the more traditional “welcome home,” to “my nigga,” and even a few consisting of “oniichan.” The last one spawns a mental note to restrict the amount of anime the smaller ones are watching, but before it can be mentally filed, no less than eight pairs of arms are wrapped around your midsection as you’re hugged by the Waffengeists of your pistols.

“Eloise, Penny, Sarah, Susan.” You greet each of them with a pat on the head as you try to untangle yourself from the gaggle of lolis trapping you. “I can’t hug y’all back if you’ve got me stuck here,” you chuckle. They release you, lining up with their arms outstretched towards you. You start with Eloise, your Glock 19.

“Hallo, meine kleine Liebe,” you tease, picking her up for a hug and kiss on the cheek. She rolls her eyes and giggles at your attempt of appealing to her Austrian heritage. She returns the kiss and hug before you set her down, moving to the next in line.

“Have you been behavin yourself, Penny?” The LC9s in your arms huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, brow furrowed at the question.

“I wouldn’t misbehave if you stopped leaving me at home when you go to work, baka!”

“You know I can’t carry at work, Penny, otherwise I’d take you and Eloise every day.” You rub noses with the compact pistol and peck her on the forehead. “And I know you don’t want to sit in the glovebox all day.”

“But Sachi gets to go to work with you and she’s a rifle!” protests the sidearm.

“That’s because I’m his secretary,” the Mosin calls from the kitchen, where she’s standing with the other rifles while making coffee. The pistol harrumphs at this, but you know she’s just jealous because it’s not her turn tonight. You set Penny back down and tussle her hair before turning your attention to Sarah and Susan, your Smith and Wesson Models 67 and 10. While not actual sisters, the two were inseparable as if they were.

“And how’re my two lil’ cowgirls?” you ask, grunting as you scoop one into each arm. The two revolvers both kiss you on the cheek simultaneously, the brims of their Stetsons bumping into one another above your head. 

“We’ve been practicing our spinning routine, Anon!” declares Sarah, a proud smile painted across her freckled face.

“We finally got the tag team part of it polished, we gotta show you,” adds Susan, enthusiastically nodding.

“Hell yeah, y’all definitely gonna have to show me.” You bounce the two up and down a little bit to emphasize your eagerness to see what they’ve accomplished in their free time. “How bout tomorrow, hm?”

“Awww, not now?” Susan pouts. 

“C’mon Anon, please?” Sarah begs.

The two put on their best puppy dog expressions in an attempt to guilt you into watching their routine right then and there. You’re having none of that, though, and promptly threaten no ice cream after dinner. Before either can protest, Eloise pipes up.

“Schließen sie der Mund, bitte!” pleads your Glock. She is especially eager for the frozen desert, as it’s German chocolate. The revolvers sigh in defeat, accepting that they will have to wait until tomorrow to show you what they have come up with. 

“Good girls,” you say, kissing both on the cheek. You then set them down with the other two pistols, the quartet of lolis then running off to their shared bedroom to play. You hope they find something not too destructive to pass the time, but you know well enough that’s a pipedream. Chuckling to yourself, you walk into the kitchen and lay your suit jacket over the back of a chair. Sachi, now leaning on the counter, offers you a cup of fresh coffee.

“And how’re my ladies?” you ask, accepting the cup and sipping on the steaming black gold. The bitter warmth of it livens your weary body from the long day at the office.

“Pretty good, homie,” answers Sam, your Hi-Point carbine. She walks over and raises her fist, which you instinctively bump with your own, beginning your simple yet above-average handshake that she had insisted on teaching you. Something about being “a real MvP, nigga.” The greeting ends with the two of you gently bumping foreheads, at which time you take the opportunity to quickly plant a light kiss on her nose. 

“Damn honkey,” she grumbles, a faint blush playing across her face. She quickly pulls the hood of her Hi-Point hoodie over her head in an effort to hide her reddened complexion as she goes back to sitting at the table.

“Hush, you know you like it,” you tease. She mumbles something along the lines of a reluctant agreement, but you don’t really catch it as another of your rifles approaches you.

“Welcome home, Anon,” purrs Lili. The AMD-65’s rabbit ears flatten as she leans forward to gently kiss your cheek, one hand lightly resting upon your chest.

“Evening, Lili.” You place your hands on the Hungarian’s slim waist as you pull her into a hug, returning the loving kiss to both of her cheeks. One of your hands slides up her back to her head, gently petting her lapin ears. A content sigh escapes her, urging you to continue the petting. “They give you much trouble today?”

“Not any more than usual, no,” she says, leaning into the petting. “The little ones kept occupied with either their Japanese cartoons, reading, or practice in the case of Sarah and Susan. Sascha has been watching Remi and Rouge most of the day, playing board games and such.”

“And Sam?” you inquire, glancing over to your wigger of a Waffegeist.

“She did her share, as always,” Lili states matter-of-factly. Sam sticks her tongue out at you in triumph, to which you respond with a raspberry. “Stop acting like a child,” Lili says with a laugh, placing a finger against your lips to stop your immature behavior.

“What’re y’all havin for dinner tonight?” You release your velveteen rifle as she moves to check the pots sitting atop the stove. You move to stand next to Sachi and begin running your fingers through her back length hair.

“Since it’s Friday and you won’t be here, I decided chicken tenders, mac and cheese, and some green beans.” She notices your raised eyebrow at her mention of the vegetable. “We may be firearms, but that’s no excuse to not enjoy some food that’s actually healthy.”

“Ever the loving housewife and mother of the group,” quips Sachi, grinning at her Eastern European compatriot.

“Well, it only makes sense for me to do so, as you fill the role of the working spouse,” she says with a shrug and delicate smile. 

“This is true. Anon sure is lucky he gets the best of both worlds, huh?” the Russian asks, playfully elbowing you in the side.

“So, my nigga, who’s turn is it tonight?” Sam slides back into the conversation from her spot at the table. Her voice carries a hint of hope that it will be her turn.

“Sascha’s, if I remember correctly,” you reply, finishing your coffee. “She’s given up her turn each time the rotation’s come back to her, so I’m hopin’ she’s had enough time to adjust. Besides, you just had your turn two weeks ago, dawg, don’t be so greedy.” Her face seems to falter a bit at your response, but she does her best to seem unfazed by it.

You walk over to the now disappointed looking Geist and wrap your arms around her from behind, prompting her to lean her head back. Her hazel eyes stare back into your own, unblinking as the blush from earlier slowly creeps back across her face. You lean down and plant a quick kiss on her lips, her face now a dark crimson.

“Doesn’t mean I love you any less, you little wigger.”

“Sh-Shut up, fuckin’ cracker,” she grumbles, again hiding inside of her hoodie. A muffled response of “Not like I was wantin it to be my turn, I was just wantin to know” comes from inside the pink pullover.

Sachi and Lili quietly chuckle at their fellow Geist’s reaction to your affection, but soon begin chatting with one another while the Hungarian tends to the food preparation. Not one for small talk, you excuse yourself and make your way to the rifles’ bedroom, where you find Sascha, your other Mosin, lying on her bed. She’s reading Antony Beevor’s Stalingrad for the umpteenth time while Remi and Rouge, your Nylon 66 and 10/22, play checkers on the floor. You lightly knock on the wooden doorframe, grabbing their attention.

“Anon!” the two .22 rifles cry in unison. 

They leap to their feet, board game forgotten as they both tackle hug you. While larger than the pistol Geists, they’re still only about the size of girls in their mid-teens, so you’re able to easily pick them up. One at a time, similar to the ritual earlier, you pull them into a hug and pick them up, kissing them on the cheek before. As you finish with them, you notice Sascha quietly standing off to the side, waiting to greet you. Hands behind her back, she’s staring down at her booted feet, the tip of her right one rubbing at a spot in the carpet.

“Rouge, Remi, give us a moment?” you ask the small bore rifles. The two nod and leave the room, giggling as they do so, knowing the reasoning behind the request for privacy. You shut the door behind them with before turning your attention to the shy, bubba’d 91/30 standing before you.

Well-worn blue jeans and camo hunting boots complement her tied-up t-shirt, her exposed midriff filling your eyes with the sight of her sun-tanned skin. As you approach her, she meekly looks up from the floor, the bill of her camouflage mesh hat pulled low enough to still hide those beautiful eyes that you long to look into. You reach up and pull the hat away, careful to not catch your finger on the large fishhook stuck to the bill.

“Hi, Anon,” she quietly drawls, her voice carrying a velvety fusion of the cotton fields of Dixieland and the harsh tundra of Siberia. You know her accent is a byproduct of her having been cut down into a hunting rifle, but you liken it to warm sunshine on a cool day in autumn. 
“Evenin, Sascha,” you drawl, allowing your own Southern accent to flow as thick as cane syrup.

You gently lay a hand on her cheek, holding her there as you stare into her dual-colored eyes. One, a deep, dark blue like that of the ocean, the other a shimmering amber comparable only to fresh summer honey. You feel like you could lose yourself in those pools mesmerizing colors, despite their being a side-effect from having her front sight post replaced, a new one welded on in place fallowing the cutting down of her barrel and stock. While her straw colored hair and she herself are shorter than her fellow Mosin, Sachi, due to her having been cut down, you can’t help but find beauty in what she considers to be imperfections.

“You know that tonight’s your turn for date-night, right?” you ask, leading her to sit on the edge of the bed. You sit next to her, laying a loving arm around her shoulders. She looks down to the floor, not meeting your gaze as she nods.

“Are you still not too keen on the whole matter?” 

She shrugs, an incoherent response just escaping her lips.

“I won’t force you, you know that,” you assure her, rubbing her shoulder. “I know you’re still getting used to being in a family that you don’t have to hide your non-weapon form, but know that we’re all here for you and love you like one of our own because you are part of the family.”

You stand, a little disappointed but understanding, and begin to move towards the door when your hand is caught in her grip. You stop, not even two steps from the bed, looking over your shoulder to find her looking up at you, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. You immediately turn to face her, but before you can ask what’s wrong she springs to her feet and latched onto you, quietly sobbing into your chest.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, Sascha, it’s okay,” you coo, slowly petting her back. “What’s wrong, darlin’?”

She takes a few deep, ragged breaths as she attempts to calm herself while still clinging to you as if her life depended on it. You continue to rub her back, doing what little you can to console the weepy Waffegeist. After a few minutes, she finally is able to choke out what has her upset.

“W-Why are you so nice to m-me?” she whines, tears streaked down her cheeks.

“Why am I nice to you? Sascha, you’re one of my guns and I love my guns, y’all are my family.” You reach up to gently wipe her cheeks with your thumb. 

“But I-I’m just a b-butchered piece of surplus,” she coughs. “Y-You’ve got S-Sachi, sh-she’s a perfect Mosin and I’m… I’m… “

You silence her before she can continue, your finger lightly pressed to her lips. You shake your head, sighing. “Sascha, sweetie, come here.” You lead her back to sitting on the bed, this time pulled into your laps. Her arms quickly lock in place around your neck, your own holding her close. She buries her face into the crook of your neck.

“Sascha, when Penny pointed you out to me at the gun show two months ago, three things caught my attention. The good price, the modifications made to you, and you know what else?”

She shakes her head, face not leaving your shoulder.

“How amazing you looked, despite having been bubba’d.”

“Don’t lie,” she whines. “I’m not worth anything like this.”

“Then why did I burn the cash on you, hm? I saw you in rifle form, and knowing you were a Geist, my mind was racing with the image of how you would look in human form.” You lean back, just enough to make her look you in the eye. “And honey, my imagination was nowhere near close to how wonderful you actually look.”

“Really?” Her eyes stare into your own, searching for any sign that you may be lying. The gleam of sincerity as you speak, however, reveals that you are indeed telling the truth.

“Mhmm, really. You forget, Sascha, that even though we’re not in Dixie anymore, I’m still a Georgia boy.” You lean in, causing her to flinch out of fear, but she’s surprised when you instead kiss her cheek. “So to me, you’re my pretty lil’ country queen who brings me back home to the backroads that I grew up on.”

“I’m, um… flattered, Anon, I really am,” she breathes quietly, a faint blush playing across her face. 

“With that being said, I wish you’d allow me to treat you as such. So, will you let me take you out tonight and treat you like my redneck Juliet?”

She’s red in the face at this point, she’s blushing so hard, but this doesn’t keep her from laughing at your words. You flash a goofy smile at her, happy to see her livening up.

“You’re so cheesy, Anon,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Fine, I’ll go tonight, so long as you promise to treat me like one of your Georgia peaches from back home. Deal?”

“Y’all ain’t got nothin to worry bout, sugar.” You give her your best copenhagen smile before leaning in to plant a quick kiss on her lips. As you go to pull back, though, she leans in for one more, kissing you back.

“Let’s go, then,” she says, jumping to her feet. “Let’s go burn it down!”

CHAPTER 2

“So, where are you taking me?” Sascha asks from the passenger seat. While she had been quiet since leaving the apartment, there had been a subtle aura of excitement radiating from her as she stared out the tinted windows of the truck.

“It’s a surprise,” you answer, pulling into a gas station parking lot. “I try to keep it unique to each of y’alls individual tastes, so I hope what I’ve planned is to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be, Anon. I have a notion that I’ll be happy with whatever you have planned,” she says with a petite smile. “It’s just nice knowing that my owner is willing to do this for one of his guns, even if that gun is butchered… “

The smile fades and her final words peter out to just above a whisper as she speaks, her dual toned eyes looking down at the floorboard. You’re having none of that, however, and lean across the center console to gently rest your palm on her cheek to turn her gaze towards you. Her own rough and callused hand rests upon your as she looks to you, yet not meeting your gaze.

“Sascha, you ain’t butchered,” you drawl, thumb stroking her cheek. “You’re you and you’re perfect the way you are. Just cause some asshole decided to alter you don’t mean you ain’t beautiful, alright? Now, find us something to listen to on the radio while I run in the store real quick.”

She nods, pressing your hand closer to her cheek with her own for an added sense of comfort. She finally meets your eyes with her own, the faint smile returning. You return the smile with one of your own before leaning in to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. She’s almost reluctant to let your hand slide away from her face, but relents and turns to scanning radio stations as a distraction.

Exiting the Ford, you beeline for the back of the convenience store as you walk through the doors, giving the attendant a quick greeting. Ten dollars later and you’re at the back of the truck, tailgate down, dumping a small bag of ice into the cooler you keep in the bed. You then bury six glass bottles in the ice, tossing the trash into a nearby can as you walk back to the driver’s door. As you climb back into your seat, your ears are greeted by the sweet twang of country music as it flows from the sound system.

“Jason Aldean, huh?” You flash her a grin as you look over your shoulder to be sure you don’t run over any stray pedestrians idiotic enough to get in the way of your four wheel drive.

“I can change it, if you want,” the meek Geist says. “I know you listen to other genres, too, so if you want we can listen to something else.” Her hand moves to change the station, but your own meets it before it reaches the dial.

“It’s fine, country’s my favorite, anyway,” you reassure her. You keep her hand in yours, resting it on the center console. As you pull out of the parking lot, you feel her fingers slowly move to intertwine with your own. You happily oblige and return the gesture.

The next short stint of driving is spent in relative peace and quiet, save for the Southern fried music pouring from the speakers. However, Sascha seems to be getting warry of just where the two of you are going, as you passed the usual turnoff for the range a few miles back. You squeeze her hand in an effort to ease her worries, pulling it up to your face to plant a quick kiss on it. She looks over to you for further reassurance.

“Don’t worry, Sascha, we’re almost there.” She quietly nods, looking out the window as the truck enters downtown.

A few blocks later, you pull into a parking lot where you’re just able to back into a parking space in the back. The lifted F250 sticks out amongst the Priuses, Hondas, and other sedans that fill the public lot, but you’ve come to accept being in almost another world when you enter city limits proper. You climb out and make to go around to open Sascha’s door, but she meets you at the front of the truck.

“So, what’re we doin downtown?” she questions, head tilting this way and that as she scans the immense buildings around you.

“There’s a bar, club, place thing that does different themes each month,” you say, offering your arm to her. She latches onto it, almost afraid to let-go in this unknown terrain. “And this month’s theme is ‘Southern Soiree,’ which essentially means all these damn yankees are using it as an excuse to pretend to be redneck.”

“Then why are we going if it sounds like we may get made fun of?” She allows you to lead her from the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, walking a few more blocks in the direction of the bar.

“Well, I hear it’s usually not too busy with these kinds of themes, and I figured you’d prefer a more relaxed atmosphere for our first date.”

“Oh… well that’s very considerate of you, Anon,” she acknowledges, squeezing your arm a little tighter. 

“I told you, I care about all of you and take things into consideration,” you say, leaning over to peck the Geist on the cheek. Her face reddens slightly at the affection, but makes no protest.

Eventually, the two of you reach the club and take your place at the back of the line of people waiting to get inside. As you wait, you take in the attire of the city-folk standing ahead of you. Most seem to have taken country to mean either cowboy or redneck, with there being a halfway mix of either western garb, large belt buckles and ten-gallon hats included, or white wife-beaters and grungy jeans. Needless to say, you stick out like your truck in the parking lot: black polo, faded jeans, your favorite ball cap with an embroidered Georgia flag, and pair of boots still stained red from the red clay back home.

The people ahead of you and your date are slowly admitted to the establishment, and soon the two of you approach the bouncer. He looks over your outfit, then Sascha’s, and shakes his head as he pretends to check “the list.”

“Not on here,” he grunts. “Back of the line.”

“C’mon, Anon, it’s not worth it,” Sascha sighs, pulling on your arm.

“Now hold up,” you say, holding up a hand. “Sir, may I see the list? I’m sure there’s some mistake.” 

You’re handed the clipboard, the bouncer rolling his eyes. You flip through the stack of papers that contain a myriad of names that were more than likely pulled from the pages of a phonebook, stopping every so often pretending to search for you name. You soon triumphantly hand it back to the hired muscle.

“Page 9, you’ll find things in order.”

The man flips the pages back and finds the twenty you slipped into the clipboard, eyeing it before giving the two of you one more look-over. He finally tucks the ersatz document under his arm and steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. You usher Sascha in through the double doors before he can change his mind, thankful it only burned twenty dollars. You had thought it would require at least fifty.

“What was that back there?” your Mosin asks as the two of you make your way around the edge of the crowded dance floor. In an effort to both keep to the theme while satisfying the more urban patrons, some Frankenstein fusion of house and banjo music is blasting over the speakers. The two of you find a table for two in a back corner, far enough from the sound system to avoid having to yell at one another.

“Oh, I just found my name on the list, you know how hard of a time some people have reading such small print,” you lie, grinning wide.

“Cyka, you bribed him like a backwoods sheriff,” the Southern Slav giggles, prompting you to hold your hands up in feigned innocence.

“It got us in, didn’t it?” you ask as a cocktail waitress appears. You order two beers and a basket of fried chicken legs. You hand her the cash and hope in the back of your mind it’s at least KFC tier.

“It’s more crowded than I thought,” Sascha comments, looking around the establishment.

“Yeah, I guess my source was wrong,” you apologize.

“Well, the music isn’t the worst I’ve heard… “

“You’re joking, right? The dude in that last song rhymed ‘nigga’ with ‘banjo.’”

“Okay, so it’s terrible.”

The waitress returns sooner than expected and sets two stout bottles of a microbrew you’ve never heard of, a plate containing no less than three miniscule drumsticks accompanying them. You and Sascha can’t help but just stare at the plate and drinks, unsure of what to make of them.

As the two of you make your way to the near empty dance floor, more than a few of the other bar goers eye you both with mixed expressions of curiosity and interest. They don’t matter, though, as the next few minutes it’s just you and Sascha moving in time with the country twang of My. Byrd’s “Watermelon Crawl.” The two of you fall into something of a miniature line dance, mixing in portions of the song’s namesake. Just as the tune begins to taper out, another one slowly builds in its place, another piece you’re both familiar with

“Shall we continue?” she asks, breathing heavily

“Let’s,” you say with a nod, pulling her close. She laughs as you begin to lead her across the dance floor, spinning and dipping her to the melody of Josh Turner

At this point, the two of you have garnered quite the crowd of onlookers, all of whom seem mesmerized by the unfamiliar dance moves, while equal parts shocked that such movement and grace is possible in boots. The two of you seamlessly flow across the wood paneled floor, almost as if you were both dancing on air. The two of you lose yourselves in the music, focused solely on the movements and one another, your eyes never leaving one another’s except when you spin her around. As the final notes are struck and fade, you dip Sascha lower than you had previously, her head just above the floor with one leg in the air. Applause ripples through the crowd around you both, whistles and catcalls following. 

The combined heat from the lights and the dancing has you both sweating profusely, but you can’t help appreciate the way her face glistens in the lights above you. As you pull her upright, she presses herself against you, still breathing as if she had just run a mile. Your faces are less than an inch apart, mouths open from the intense respiration, eyes locked on one another as you look down at her. Ever so slowly, you begin to close the gap, your eyes and hers closing as you both brace for contact

The moment is cut short as you suddenly find your arms empty, Sascha having pulled away from your arms. She gives you a playful wink as she squeezes your hand in hers. As people begin filling the dancefloor once more, she hugs onto your arm for a moment, leaning in to whisper in your ear.

“Go sit, I’ll get us some water. You’ve earned it.” She kisses your cheek before once again evading your grasp, weaving through the crowd. 

Chuckling at her actions, you make your way back to the table for two in the corner, relishing the feeling as you get off your feet for a moment. You take another swig from the nasty beer, face contorting in disgust as you force yourself to swallow it. You lean against the well, resting for a moment as you await Sascha’s return. Your peace is shattered, however, as a commotion breaks out not too far away, the music abruptly halting mid-tune. You raise your head, brow furrowed as you try to look past the crowd to see what the deal is, but your ears quickly pick up what sounds like your date yelling at someone.

“Let me go, damn it!” she yells, voice filled with anger, struggle, and fear.

“C’mon, you lil hick, just one dance?”

“I got that good shit out at the car, if you know what I’m sayin.”

You jump to your feet and quickly shove your way through the throng of people, boots stomping as you go. As you get closer, you can see two lanky white guys flanking Sascha, one of which has her by the arm. Both are dressed in gaudy, bright colored “cowboy” outfits similar to that of Marty McFly’s, hipster tier facial hair adorning their faces. Closing in, you can see tears starting to well up in the eyes of your Southern Slav as the two are egged on by the crowd. You finally break through the last line of people.

“Hey, fuck face!” you roar. The two John Wayne wannabes ignore you, still focused on their prey. You reach for the nearest one and grab him by the shoulder with your left hand, pulling him to face you.

“Can’tchu see we’re busy- “ He stops midsentence as you tower over him, face deadpanning as he begins to realize the mistake he’s made. His friend, however, doesn’t have the same mental capacity and suddenly punches you in the jaw. Well, punch would be an exaggeration in this case, as it feels more like a love tap with the force of a puppy behind it. The color drains from both of them, and even a few bystanders, as you chew your tongue, contemplating what to do. The entire bar is dead quiet.

“Sascha, go wait in the truck,” you drawl, tossing her the keys. She nods, running for the exit as she does her best not to cry.

“Hey man, no hard feelings, right?” the one who punched you begs, hands up, a nervous chuckle escaping his maw.

“Of course not,” you say with a toothy smile. You push past them, giving the appearance of leaving. They both audibly exhale, nervously laughing. “Then again,” you reconsider, stopping not even two steps behind them. “Daddy always said you don’t treat a lady like a piece of meat.”

As nimrod one turns to face you, your fist makes contact with his jaw and sends him sprawling on the floor. Nimrod two attempts to scamper away, but you grab him by the back of his shirt and reel him back in. You spin him around and sock him in the face, ensuring him a black eye and stitches. As you finish them off, you hear what sounds like the bouncer from earlier trying to make his way through the crowd.

“Time to boot scoot and boogie on outa here.”

Like a bullet from a gun you’re gone, the crowd dispersing before you as you run for the door. You make it out to the street and sprint in the direction of the parking lot. You’re not even half a block away from the club when you catch up with Sascha, who’s hugging herself tight as she walks. Without skipping a beat, you scoop her into your arms and continue the quickened pace back to the truck.

“W-what happened?” she asks, wiping away a few stray tears.

“Had a conversation on the proper treatment of women,” you grunt, turning to job into the parking lot. You set her down, doubling over as you catch your breath for the umpteenth time that night. “God I’m out of shape,” you wheeze.

Ten minutes later and the two of you are leaving city limits, traffic in the outbound lanes near non-existent as the night’s still young. The clock on the radio confirms this, reading 8:17. You sigh, gripping the wheel as you navigate the highway.

“I’m sorry, Sascha,” you apologize, breaking the silence. “I had this whole night planned out, thought it would be a good way to ease you into things and all it did was shatter it.”

She’s quiet, sitting with her hands folded in her lap as she stares out the window.

“I had this notion that we’d be able to get a taste of bein back in the South, try and feel like we were back where we first met instead of stuck up in Yankeeland hell.. “

“Anon,” she sighs, hand resting on your arm. “I appreciate it, I really do. And I enjoyed it for the most part, honest.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sascha,” you say with a shake of your head. “This night’s gone to shit and it’s not even nine o’clock. Might as well just head home and forget everything else.”

You feel her squeeze your arm as she leans in close, resting her head on your shoulder. Her presences is comforting, to say the least, but you still feel like a sack of crap after what happened.

“What else did you have planned?”

“Don’t worry bout it, just gonna head back home.”

“Anon,” she sates, voice carrying some weight to it.

“Yes?”

“What else did you have planned for tonight?”

“Sascha, don’t- “

“Cyka, tell me,” she swore, the Russian half of her hybrid accent becoming more prominent. Defeated, you decide it best to tell her instead of making things even worse by testing her patience.

“There’s a stretch of land one of my new clients said I could use for whatever I wanted since it’s nothin but timberland and grassland.”

“What were you planning?” she prods, eyebrow raised.

“I, uh, figured we could end the night just resting in the bed of the truck with a blanket and that six pack I bought earlier… “

“How far of a drive is it?”

“The turn’s right up here, why”

“Let’s go,” she orders, shaking your arm.

“But Sascha- “

“No buts,” she quips. “Just drive.”


Nodding, you follow directions and turn off the highway and fallow a series of side roads until you’re on a backroad leading away from town. Roughly twenty minutes later, you turn off onto a dirt road and flip the switches to turn on the light bars mounted to the brush guard. As you trundle down the uneven roadway, you look over to see a grin of excitement pulling at the corners of Sascha’s lips. Your powers of deduction decide it’s the off roading, so you decide to make the most of it.

You roll down the windows and slow down enough for the gears to change as you shift into four wheel drive, looking over to her with a mischievous grin of your own plastered across your face. She looks to you with an expression that says she doesn’t believe you. You answer by mashing on the gas, sending the super duty flying, dirt and gravel flying. Sascha, in turn, lets out what can only be described as a cross between a rebel yell and Russian “urrah” as the two of you speed down the backroad. The diesel engine roars as it carries you both away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust behind.

The dirt road finally runs out and you whip the truck into a sliding stop in the middle of the field, dust swirling around the vehicle as the two of you sit in the cab laughing. You unbuckle yourself and climb out, pulling a few blankets from behind the seat before making your way around to the back. Just as you drop the tailgate and toss the blankets into the bed, you’re nearly tackled to the ground by Sascha, who is still laughing and energized.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” she says, jumping up and down with her arms around you.

“So is this actually more your speed?” you ask, lifting her up into the back. You join her soon after, spreading out one blanket for the two of you to lay on.

“Hell yeah!” she nods.

You pull out two amber bottles of beer, handing her one after opening it with your multitool. She graciously accepts it and takes a long drink. You settle down on the blanket, back against the cab, watching her. She drains the bottle in one go and pulls another from the cooler. She looks around for the bottle opener and spies the pouch for the tool on your belt. Dropping to all fours, she crawls across the bed of the truck until she’s practically in your lap, pressed against you. You’re not sure where the meek and shy rifle from earlier has gone, but you think she’s somewhere back down the road choking on dirt.

“You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you?” she asks, pulling the tool from your belt. She doesn’t wait for a response before popping the cap off and letting it roll away, forgotten. 

“Not at all,” you answer, unsure where she’s going with this. Now it’s your turn to sport a reddened face. 

She giggles at your expression before turning to sit in your lap, snuggling close. You pull the other blanket over the two of you and wrap your non-beer arm and hand around her midriff. With a content sigh, you both settle in, beers in hand, and stare up at the stars. You both sit in silence, just enjoying the other’s company and the atmosphere of the moment.

“Dumbass, you shoulda just done this in the first place,” she laughs, leaning back to look up at you.

“I kinda realized that the moment we hit the dirt road.” You lean down and rubs noses with her, prompting a giggle to escape her.

“So, think we can make this our thing?” she asks, eyes glittering in the moonlight.

“I think that can be arranged,” you whisper, leaning further down to plant a kiss on her lips.

“Mudding next time, though?”

“Only if you volunteer to wash the truck.”

“We can make it a group effort. I know you’re just dying to see us all in bikinis,” she teases, rubbing the back of her head against your chest.

“Shut up and kiss me again,” you grumble, face reddening further.

And she does just that.

CHAPTER 3