Echoes by Marissa Lete (best books for students to read txt) 📕

his hand for a second. Then he closes the cabinet, sliding the lock back into place. “Come with me.”

        We go back up the stairs, past a window looking out at the pool in the middle of the house, then through a back door. We step outside onto a wooden deck with floral padded porch furniture and a shiny, stainless steel grill. We go down a few steps and stand in the grass, facing a massive, perfectly manicured lawn edged by a wall of trees.

        Maverick turns to face me, the gun in his left hand pointed at the ground. “Rule number one: the gun is always loaded. Never point the barrel at anything you aren’t willing to shoot, even if you know it’s not loaded. It’s a deadly weapon, and should always be treated as such.”

        I nod. “Okay.”

        Maverick shows me the safety, how to reload it, and how to chamber a bullet. “Then, you just pull the trigger,” he tells me. He gestures for me to back up, and I take three giant steps away from him. He lifts the gun, aiming it at the edge of the woods, then pulls the trigger. The sound of the gunshot leaves my ears ringing.

When it’s over, Maverick slides the safety back into place, then holds the gun out to me. “You’ll want to use both hands until you get used to the recoil.”

        I stand there, eyes wide, heart drumming against my ribcage. This is all happening too fast. “You want me to shoot it? Right now?” I choke out.

        “Well, you don’t want the first time you shoot it to be the time when your life depends on it.”

“I—I,” I stutter. “I don’t want to use it.”

“I don’t want you to, either,” he says. “But you need to be ready.”

I squash the knot forming in my stomach. “Okay,” I try to be brave. “Okay.” I reach for the gun. My fingers brush Maverick’s as I take its weight from his hands, but I don’t flinch like the last time. He meets my eyes, a cautious look on his face, but I look away, turning my focus to the open yard.

I repeat the steps Maverick taught me moments ago, releasing the safety, then cocking the gun. I hold it up with both hands, arms shaking the tiniest bit.

“When you aim, look right there, right above that hole.” Maverick points, leaning close. Close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body. Then he steps back, the space between us returning to its normal distance. I shiver, but I suspect it’s not because of the cold or the fact that I’m holding a deadly weapon in my bare hands.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, staring straight ahead, a tree coming into focus across the barrel of the gun. I take a deep breath, muscles tense. Then I pull the trigger.

A shock courses through my body at the force of the gun’s recoil. The sound of the shot permeates the air, rattling my bones. I lower my hands, steadying my breath.

I turn to Maverick, a cold fear piercing through me. I can’t imagine pulling that trigger when it’s pointed at someone. I can’t think about having to do that. I hold the gun out to him. “I think I get the point,” I say.

He holds my gaze for a second, then takes it from me, sliding the safety back into place and removing the bullets from the chamber easily. The gun felt out of place and awkward in my hands, but Maverick holds it like it belongs there. “I’m hoping that you won’t need it. But I want you to be able to defend yourself.”

“Is there any other way for me to protect myself? Preferably a less deadly way?” I ask.

Maverick slides something out of his pocket then tosses it in my direction. I look down at the small container. “Pepper spray?”

“For less life-threatening situations, it works pretty well. Just aim for the eyes.”

I nod, pocketing it. “I’ll have no problem putting this one to good use.”

He lets out a laugh, then starts back toward the house. I trail behind, watching the way he walks, surely and steadily, with purpose.

When we get inside, Maverick leads me into the dining room. The same place where we’d had that difficult conversation, barely two weeks ago. “What would you like for dinner?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is there a menu?”

“The menu is whatever you want,” he replies, serious.

I contemplate his words for a second, realizing that he’s probably telling the truth—with all the money he has, he could just get whatever he wants. I decide not to test my limits, though. “Honestly, I’m kind of just in the mood for some French fries.”

“I can do that. Better than Tony’s, too. Come on,” he tells me, then starts for a door at the opposite side of the room. I follow him, staring at the sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The echoes in this house are so quiet; it feels empty. Lonely.

Through the door, there’s a restaurant size kitchen. Maverick opens the storage room, pulls out a sack of potatoes, then walks over to one of the many clean counters. He flips a switch on a deep fryer, and I watch as he carefully starts peeling the potatoes, then slides each one through a French fry cutter.

“Don’t you have, like, people who cook for you?” I ask him, his back facing me.

He turns his head just enough so he can look at me. “Sometimes, yeah.”

I nod. “It must be nice.” I watch his shoulders moving under his shirt as he lifts the potatoes into the basket of the deep fryer, admiring his frame. This guy was my boyfriend at one point? Grace would have been so jealous.

“It’s… weird. I prefer to cook on my