Give Me a Shot, page 1
By Gia de Cadenet
Getting His Game Back
Not the Plan
Give Me a Shot
Dell
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Copyright © 2025 by Gia de Cadenet
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ISBN 9780593722763
Ebook ISBN 9780593722770
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter One: Mo
Chapter Two: Jess
Chapter Three: Mo
Chapter Four: Jess
Chapter Five: Mo
Chapter Six: Jess
Chapter Seven: Mo
Chapter Eight: Jess
Chapter Nine: Mo
Chapter Ten: Jess
Chapter Eleven: Jess
Chapter Twelve: Mo
Chapter Thirteen: Jess
Chapter Fourteen: Mo
Chapter Fifteen: Jess
Chapter Sixteen: Mo
Chapter Seventeen: Jess
Chapter Eighteen: Mo
Chapter Nineteen: Jess
Chapter Twenty: Mo
Chapter Twenty-One: Jess
Chapter Twenty-Two: Mo
Chapter Twenty-Three: Mo
Chapter Twenty-Four: Jess
Chapter Twenty-Five: Mo and Jess
Chapter Twenty-Six: Mo
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jess
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jess
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Mo
Chapter Thirty: Jess
Chapter Thirty-One: Mo
Epilogue: Jess and Mo
Acknowledgments
Book Club Guide
Questions and Topics for Discussion
About the Author
_151084964_
Dear reader, this book is dedicated to you.
You, with all your flaws, with all your fears, with all your doubts about yourself.
Maybe you wear a mask so the outside world can’t see all the things that are “wrong” with you.
Maybe you cover up by pushing the world away.
But the You deep down, the core of who you are, is okay.
I hope that one day you can fully see that.
Chapter One
Mo
“Who. The Hell. Are You?”
Mo did not raise his head. He took a slow breath in, noticing a few missed suds still glistening on his just-rinsed hands dripping over the sink. He willed his heart to slow after the shock of the unexpected voice behind him. He should have been alone in the empty workshop that shared a wall with his own.
“I asked you a question.”
The woman’s voice was cold, steely. No sign that she’d been hit by a wave of adrenaline like the one that was still coursing through his own body.
“I’m Mo,” he said, his voice scratchier than he’d intended.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
While still hard, her voice had lost a bit of its edge, so he took the risk of lifting his head slowly.
“I have a key,” he said. Between the harshness of the florescent bulb high on the wall and the large chunk missing from the mirror above the sink, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of her without making a sudden movement. Which he was sure wasn’t wise.
“Why?” she asked.
It occurred to him that it might be marginally safer for both of them if she could look him in the eye. He turned slowly, keeping his hands in view. Another blast of adrenaline cut his breath as he came face-to-face with a loaded crossbow, its arrow pointed squarely between his eyes.
Months earlier, at his auto shop, Mo had interrupted one of his newer mechanics watching a video on the shop floor with one of the delivery men. They had been far too excited to show it to him, and Mo was subjected to the sight of a deer being taken down by a crossbow. The deer’s pain and terror had weakened his bones and forced Mo to look away. Now, at the business end of a bow that looked exactly like the weapon from the video, he was fully aware of the damage they could do. His Adam’s apple was as heavy as a billiard ball when he tried to swallow.
“Is that…a crossbow?” he asked, slowly raising his hands.
She lifted her chin, but the crossbow didn’t waver.
“Yes,” she said.
“A…a real one?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The silence was sharp and heavy. The absence of any other sound amplified the thudding of his too-fast beating heart. It clipped at the bottom of his throat. He wanted to shake the adrenaline burn out of his raised hands, but he didn’t dare move them.
“So?” she asked.
Her voice widened his vision beyond the crossbow, and it was only then that he began to see the person holding it. She was about five foot six. Her jeans were covered in dust, as was her black shirt. Her hair was dark and long, pulled into a ponytail that fell over her shoulder, more like a cheerleader’s than a potential murderer’s. Her skin was pale, but he didn’t know if that was from fear, or if it was her normal complexion. The depth of her narrowed eyes reminded him of the charcoal dust he’d been washing off his hands. At some point, she’d turned on the hallway light behind her.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m just here to wash my hands.”
“After you finished chopping people up?”
Chopping people up?
Confused, he glanced down at himself. Nothing out of the ordinary about his work pants. Yeah, his well-used leather apron was dingy, but it wasn’t bloody. Was she freaked out about the respirator he’d pushed onto his forehead?
“I’m a blacksmith,” he said, looking back at her. “I was working next door. But my sink doesn’t work. So Arnie, you know, the landlord? He lets me use this one.” Damn, he was having to talk a lot. Far more than he ever did with a complete stranger. But he pushed on through the tightness in his throat because he didn’t want to die. “You can come take a look if you don’t believe me.”
“And go to a secondary location so you can murder me? No thanks,” she said.
Right. But you’re the one with a murder weapon.
“It’s late,” he said.
“No shit.”
“I mean, why are you here so late at night?” he asked.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Okay.”
She still hadn’t lowered the crossbow. And her arms weren’t even shaking. She squinted at him.
“Why are you here so late? If you’re really just working? Can’t you blacksmith during the day? If you aren’t up to something shady?”
Something shady? Sharp sparkles flashed across the back of his scalp. This woman just appears with a weapon in one of his few safe spaces, and he’s the one who’s up to something shady?
“ ’Scuse me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Most people do their jobs during the day. Why are you here so late at night?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Mo growled, his annoyance diminishing his fear. “But I’m a mechanic. Run my auto shop during the day.”
She stared at him. The crossbow was still pointed at his face. He wished he was wearing his welding helmet so that his face was protected, but then he’d probably look even more threatening. Besides, even if he’d had a helmet on, she could still shoot him in the chest.
“And?” she asked.
“And?” he asked back.
“You weren’t going to say anything else?”
“Uh…no. I told you. I came to wash my hands. You drew attention to yourself.”
Her dark eyes we
“Excuse me?” she asked. “You trespassed in my—”
“No one’s been here for nearly a year. Arnie said he’s been trying to get in touch with you for months. He was going to have to do something with all your—”
“Not mine—” Her arms went slack, and the arrow pointed at the ground. The woman seemed to deflate completely. Mo was happy to see that he was no longer perceived as a threat, but the transition was far too brutal. A completely different person was standing in front of him all of a sudden. Both of her shoulders were slumped, and she turned slightly away from him, her face a little toward the wall.
“Arnie doesn’t have to worry about all the stuff. I’m loading up what I can tonight.” She looked back at Mo, assessing him differently this time. “Sounds like you all are friends. Let him know my parents got all of his messages. He’ll be paid for the back rent. My sister didn’t exactly have an estate, but our parents did have a life insurance policy on her. Arnie’ll get his precious money,” she spat. She turned her back on Mo and walked away down the hall.
* * *
—
At home, Mo opened the door of the microwave with one second left on the timer. The beep on this one set his teeth on edge. He’d been vacillating between buying a new one and just putting up with the sound even though it stressed him out right before eating. Getting a new one would be wasteful, and that bothered him, but so did the fact that he had to stand next to the machine to make sure the sound didn’t set him off. He sighed. He was able to acclimate himself to some sounds, but not others. And the ones he couldn’t handle forced him to take burdensome extra steps, to spend his limited energy on them. Like so many other types of stimuli.
Minimizing or Managing Strong Sensory and Emotional Stimuli: The Full and Complete Story of My Life.
Taking out his leftover soup, he stirred it carefully, resetting the timer to zero. He was trying not to think about the woman again. The corrosive fear that had bathed his muscles had abated enough for him to eat. At the table, where he’d arranged his placemat, napkin, and sparkling water, he stirred his soup again, telling himself to stop thinking about her. She’d threatened him with a crossbow for chrissakes. But then, in a few short words, she’d told him part of why she had: grief. Her sister had died, and the woman had been there, clearing out the space, dealing with her sister’s things on her own.
Presumably, she’d been holding back her feelings. Mo hadn’t seen any signs that the woman had been crying. But she’d been alone there in the night. Maybe in a place with which she’s unfamiliar. She heard noises, someone coming in. And she grabbed a weapon to protect herself.
But why a crossbow? Was it her sister’s?
After running a hand down his beard, he leaned over and started eating his soup, going over the encounter in his mind. It was interesting that she didn’t hide. Mo didn’t know she was there until she was right on top of him. She didn’t wait for danger to find her; she went out and faced it.
He thought of Maddie. God, she’d be like that when she got older. She was already headstrong enough. He had trouble trying to balance teaching her to maintain her courageous streak when she should, but also to be cautious for her own safety. He picked up his phone and opened his messaging app to return to their earlier conversation, taking another spoonful with his left hand.
Diana:
Hi again Daddy (it’s Maddie)
It always made him chuckle when she texted that. Like his ex-wife would write “Hi Daddy.” But that was Maddie, always making sure he knew it was her talking. Which Mo appreciated. He knew Maddie didn’t realize it, but he kind of felt like he was intruding on Diana’s privacy, with Madison having to use her phone to talk to him. Madison had recently turned twelve. Maybe it was time to revisit the discussion about getting her her own phone.
Mo:
Hi Sugar Plum. Getting ready for bed?
Diana:
Yep. Just wanted to say good night.
Good night. Sleep tight.
Don’t let the bed bugs bite.
Love you.
Love you, too.
He checked the time. They’d finished texting hours earlier, before he’d had his life threatened. She’d be well into dreamland by now. And Diana herself hadn’t contacted him, so no sign of nightmares, either. He finished his soup and cleaned up. He could hear that the TV was on in the other half of his duplex. Mrs. Sargysan sometimes fell asleep before turning it off. He carefully made the rounds of each plant in the living room, adding a little water where needed. He checked the soil on his orchids, even though he’d done it the day before and knew it was too soon for water. Lights off downstairs. He went to Madison’s room and flicked on the light. Everything was as it should be. Her desk was tidy. At her bed, he smoothed her yellow-patterned bedspread and fluffed her pink pillows. He went over to the peace lily on her dresser and ran his fingers over the leaves to remove any dust. Standing in the doorway again before turning out the light, he surveyed the room and smiled. The riot of color in her room matched the joyful, silly riot of energy that was his daughter. She’d wanted to liven up his bedroom with bright colors once but had quickly understood that Daddy needed a visually quiet space. His was perfect for him and hers was perfect for her. She knew he checked on her after she’d gone to sleep during her weeks at his house. She said it made her sleep better knowing that he did. What she didn’t know was that he couldn’t relax without his little routine of making sure that everything was right in her environment even if she wasn’t in it. Especially on a night like this when he’d been flooded by his own painful emotions and those of someone else.
It was a little past eleven by the time he finished his shower. The very hot water and vigorous massage cycle usually helped clear out any negative energy from the day, but tonight it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t thinking about the woman in specifics anymore. He was just weighed down. While he was washing his hair, he’d made the mistake of putting himself in her shoes, imagining what it might be like to lose one of his brothers. And to have to touch, to pack away their personal things alone. At night. The pain that the woman might have been feeling flashed through his body, and it almost knocked him to the ground. No wonder her reaction to his presence had been so strong.
What if her sister had also been alone? Had been attacked somehow?
If she had, the woman’s choice to confront him with a weapon in hand made sense.
He needed to get to bed. Get some sleep and let his mind reset. When he picked up too much from people, sleep was a good way to let go of emotions that weren’t his own. Crawling under the covers, he ran a hand over his beard and groaned.
Emotions from people I care about, fine. But why do I have to absorb strangers’ emotions, too?
Chapter Two
Jess
Returning to her dining room table, refreshed mug of tea warming her hands, Jess stopped short.
“Steinem,” she said. “The whole and entire point of getting you that toy laptop was so that you could mirror me and stop—” She put her mug on the table and cupped his sleek black-and-white bottom. “Stop parking yourself on mine every time I step away.” She nudged, and after a bit of resistance, the cat yawned and stood. Jess tapped the toy sitting in front of the chair beside hers. “That’s yours,” she said. “This is mine.”
Steinem shot a glance at the toy, a glance at Jess, then stalked to the other end of the table and sat, his back to her. Jess rolled her eyes.
“Okay, fine,” she grumbled, picking up her mug. She glanced at the corner of the screen. Still another ten minutes before her video call with her close friends Alice and Stephanie. She straightened the papers on her desk with one hand as she sipped. The first day of school was the following week. Her first day as Dr. Anderson, University of Michigan professor, the career she’d been dreaming of and striving toward since middle school. Along with her excitement about work, she also counted herself lucky to have found a place to shoot. Her competition days were over, but she still loved archery and needed it to be a part of her life.
