“Push her. I don’t know that bitch,” she said with a shrug, but her body went rigid when the woman ran a manicured finger over the tattoos on Gunner’s arm. I chuckled at the way she shot up out of her seat, ready to storm over. She always was the shoot-first, who-gives-a-fuck-about-questions kind of woman. My hand landed on her forearm, stilling her movements.
