He's certifiably crazy.

Through gritted teeth, I warn, "I don't like repeating myself and I won't press charges if you leave. Now."

His smile disappears. "If it makes you feel more comfortable, pull your gun."

I close my eyes in frustration and then realize what I've done and open them again. My gun isn't the problem; his damned guns aka ripped arms, are. No one involved in crime should have a body like Moon's. His cologne drifts over me and I inhale deeply. ...