by Shandi Boyes
Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms accepting any power Regan is willing to give me, but last night wasn’t about that. I can’t gripe about us being equal if I don’t occasionally hand over the controls. Regan is fierce, stronger than she’ll ever know, but her fierceness grows tenfold when she lets herself go. If she needs to reign supreme to achieve that, so be it. I didn’t lie when I said she is so far above me, I’m afraid I’ll never catch her. I still can’t believe she is here now, in my hometown, wearing teeny shorts and one of my shirts twisted into the middle of her stomach.
Besides, she’s as sexy as fuck when she’s grappling for power. I love that she has a backbone, and she’s not afraid to use it. That means she’ll forever walk beside me, not behind me.
Hearing my approach, Regan spins around to face me. She’s nervously chewing on her lower lip. “Is this really necessary?”
I arch a brow, answering her without words. We’ve had the same conversation four times already this morning. This is as necessary as my heart’s ability to pump blood.
“You are not at any time to touch the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Do you understand?”
I wait for her to nod before placing the gun in her hand. Her brows furrow as she stares down at it, but she doesn’t dump it and run as I anticipated.
When I told her we were going to a shooting range today, she flatly denied my remark as if it were a suggestion. Pity for her I wasn’t joking. There is a deranged man threatening to harm her. Anything I can do to make sure she is prepared for his attack, I’ll do. She has a gun. She has the confidence to fire it. Now, with my help, she’ll have the skills to protect herself. I’ll never let anything happen to her, but I can’t be her shadow 24/7. My parents’ story is living proof of that.
My dad believed keeping my mother in the dark would ensure her safety. It nearly cost him everything. I won’t let that happen to Regan. Her attacker is smart. He’s hidden his tracks so well, even Grayson is having a hard time locating him. But I’ve studied criminals long enough to know he won’t stop until he accomplishes what he set out to achieve. Stalkers don’t fail and give up. They keep going until they’ve either killed their victim or themselves. There is only one result I’m aiming for: the latter.
After curling myself around Regan’s back, I show her the stance required to fire a high caliber weapon without injuring herself. “When you’re handling a gun, you must maintain gun safety at all times. Don’t load a weapon unless you plan to fire it. Keep the safety on at all times, even when the gun isn’t in use, and never point it at anyone unless you’re hoping they’ll die.”
Her pulse quickens during my last sentence.
“I asked Ralph to put on a suppressor to dampen the noise and smooth out the recoil. It won’t be like that when you’re firing in haste. Despite what Hollywood tells you, most perps don’t use silencers.”
Her panicked eyes lift to mine, reminding me she needs more protection than just a few rules. I stop feeling her pulse thrum through my body when I move to the bench at our side to secure a set of earmuffs and protective glasses. Regan reveals she’s been paying attention when she lowers the gun so it points just left of her shoes instead of my chest. A ghost of a smile cracks onto my lips when I spot the heels she’s wearing. They’re the same pair she threatened to gouge my eye out with months ago. I still can’t believe that was only a little over two months ago. Feels more like a lifetime.
After putting on Regan’s glasses and earmuffs, I don my own set. Her pulse returns to its frantic pace when I curl my body over her back and raise her hand again. “Stop panicking. This can be as much fun as it is a lesson,” I shout to ensure she can hear me.
“Shooting a guy in the gonads to stop him from hacking me to pieces is not my idea of a fun time.”
My throat works hard to swallow. Just as her tone insinuated, she’s aiming extremely low on the paper silhouette. She’s not here to take him down. She’s aiming to hurt him as badly as he wants to hurt her.
“Aim for his chest.” I smile when she huffs. “It is a broader area, meaning you’re less likely to miss.”
I can’t see her, but I can imagine her rolling her eyes. “Watch your thumb. You don’t want it anywhere near the slide.” She nods, remembering the run down I gave her on gun safety during our travels. “Your fingers also shouldn’t be anywhere near the cylinder. That fucker burns.”
In the corner of my eye, I spot her lips curving high. She’s probably remembering my whine last night when I showed her the burn I got during my first trip to the range. I was six and shit scared of firing a gun for the three years that followed. Thankfully, my father showed me what I’m hoping Regan will soon realize: guns can be as much fun as they are dangerous.
My eyes stray to the target to calculate its distance before returning them to Regan. Ralph brought the target a few feet closer. It’s a smart move. If a new shooter has confidence in their precision, they’ll be more likely to continue with lessons. If they fail on the first go, or worse, injure themselves, they’ll be reluctant to return to the range. Considering I want Regan’s marksman skills to be on par with mine, making her comfortable is a step in the right direction.
I switch off the safety, then press my lips to the shell of Regan’s muffs. “Alright, when you’re ready, fire at your target.”
Usually, at this point in a lesson, I’d step away from the recruit. I don’t go far. I stay close enough they can sense my presence, but far enough to show my confidence in them. But since Regan isn’t a cadet, and I can’t be reprimanded for my cock getting cozy with her ass, I’ll stay put.
I’ll never see marksmanship training in the same light now.
“Come on, Rae. You’ve got this,” I encourage when she stalls firing. She has her arm up and ready, her eye glancing down the sight. She’s just frozen. Mute. Shit-fucking scared. “Take charge like you did last night, baby. Show them fuckers how it’s done.”
She exhales loud enough for me to hear through my earmuffs before firing off a shot. I don’t know if the unfavorable nickname is the cause for her sudden burst of determination or because she’s noticed the handful of gun-toting men hovering close to watch the spectacle of Barbie unleashing her anger.
They’ve underestimated the strength of my girl, but it won’t be long until they discover what I learned the moment I laid my eyes on her. She’s not just strong. She’s fucking dynamite.
The vein in Regan’s neck flutters when the bullet pierces the left upper quadrant of the paper silhouette.
“Again.”
This one shreds the paper silhouette’s stomach in half.
“Again.”
She continues firing until the magnum is depleted of bullets, and the paper target is hanging by a thread.
“Now switch on your safety and lower your weapon.”
She does as requested without hesitation.
“Well done,” I praise when Ralph drags in the target. Every bullet hit the target, one in a spot I’m certain Regan aimed for.
“If a bullet to the heart doesn’t kill him, I’m sure the loss of his cock will make him wish he were dead.”
I laugh when her comment forces the men circling us to wither away. I swear some even grab their crotches on their way by.
Regan stops smirking like the cat who swallowed the canary when I say, “Get your finger off the trigger. None of them are your targets.” I nudge my head to the handful of men happy to risk their lives to continue enjoying the visual. “Me, on the other hand. . .”
Regan’s smile steals my words. . . and perhaps my jealousy.
Our time at the range goes better than I could have hoped. Regan’s confidence fed off the adrenaline racing through her veins, and the worry her eyes have held since Friday night is almost gone. Although real life scenarios will always be more harrowing than any amount of practice, workable knowledge will lessen the terror. I hope Regan is never in a position in which she’s required to protect herself, but if the unfortunate o
ccurs, I’m confident she has the skills to safeguard herself.
Regan’s eyes swing from the road to me when I ask, “Wings or cob loaf?”
If I didn’t know her as well as I did, I’d be worried by her quietness. Fortunately, I’m pretty clued in when it comes to her emotions. She’s not quiet as she is angry. She’s absorbing all the information she’s been overloaded with the past four days. It’s smart for her to do. The more prepared she is, the less carnage there will be.
“Does your ma make the dressing for the wings?”
I shake my head. “Her cooking specialties don’t branch into poultry. There’s a wings joint a few miles from The Manor. It’s not up to my mom’s caliber, but they’re pretty darn tasty.” Not as tasty as you, but I’ll keep that info to myself.
Seeing Regan like that, a gun holstered dangerously low on her waist, and her hair pulled away from her face to ensure it didn’t hinder her long-range sight. . . fuck! Every fantasy I’ve ever had was played out today. I can’t wait for Halloween. Regan has mentioned she plans to attend a costume party dressed as Jeannie from I Dream of Jeannie, but if I have my way, she’ll be a walking wet dream—a blonde Lara Croft.
After quickly adjusting my crotch, I shift my focus back to Regan. She’s tapping her index finger on her lips as if she’s contemplating. I know she isn’t. She’s loved the time we’ve spent with my family as much as I have. So much so, she suggested we return home after our five-mile run this morning to eat breakfast with my family instead of the little café we ran to.
She muses for a few more seconds before saying, “I’ve never had cob loaf before, so I choose that.”
“Alright.” I steer my dad’s truck to the left, pretending her decision solely resonates around her stomach’s cravings instead of her heart’s.
We travel two miles before flashing lights cause my foot to slip off the gas pedal. I pull up next to a state trooper directing us to the opposite side of the road. “What is it?”
There must be something in my tone that displays my authority, or perhaps the fact my family is well known around these parts, because he answers with no hesitation, “Bad traffic accident. Two fatal. One badly injured.”
“Are medics on site?”
He nods, his cheeks whitening.
“First to arrive?” Sympathy echoes in my tone. I can still recall the first time I was assigned to a homicide. It was a home invasion gone wrong. Quick, relatively clean death, but still hard to stomach.
“Yeah, it’s. . . ah. . . not pretty. That’s why we’re directing people to go via Trate.” He points to a street sign a few spaces up from us. “Travel half a mile before taking a right on Howdy. That will pop you out the other side.”
“Alright, thanks.”
I jerk up my chin in thanks before pulling my truck onto the opposite side of the road. The fire crew on site have done a good job concealing the wreckage, but nothing can hide the sight of two bodies lying roadside covered by white sheets.
I cut the corner of Trate, praying I’ll save Regan from a visual I know will shred her heart into a million pieces. I’m not fast enough, though. If the way her spine snaps straight isn’t enough of an indication she spotted it, the harrowing sob rumbling in her throat as she tries to maintain her composure is a surefire indication.
“Rae,” I say her name as painfully as my heart is bleeding from the pained expression etched on her beautiful face.
Realizing there isn’t a single thing I can say to help her through this, I unlatch her belt, seize her wrist, then drag her across the leather seat until she’s nuzzled under the crook of my arm.
There are a thousand sayings filtering through my mind. Quotes on sympathy, handling grief, and how she’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met, but no matter how hard I try to fire them off my tongue, I can’t get them out. She needs comfort, not words. Assurance, not regrets. But more than anything, she needs me. So that’s precisely what I’ll give her.
I pull her in even closer before flattening my foot on the gas pedal. My dad’s truck is an old girl, but she’s quick off the mark.
By the time Regan’s shaking begins to settle, I’m pulling into the driveway of The Manor. I park near the valet, leave the keys in the ignition, then slide out the driver’s side door, taking Regan with me.
“How about we shower before we eat? We smell like lead.”
She doesn’t, but it’s a good excuse to give her a few more minutes to compose herself before my family swarms her for the third time. My silent comfort eased the pain in her eyes, but the fact she didn’t jerk out of my clutch the instant we entered The Manor proves she still has a little way to go.
Regan’s frantic nod matches the thump of our feet hitting the landing at the top of the stairs. As I chaperone her to my room at the end of a long hallway, she takes in the family portraits dotting the walls. They’re similar to the photos my mom shared last night but ten times their size. They were professionally taken the day before my dad started his new placement over a decade ago. They include the same six faces: me, my parents, my two brothers, and my sister, Darcy.
I won’t lie; the jealousy that roared through Regan’s eyes when Darcy leaped into my arms yesterday afternoon was one of the best moments I’ve ever had. She can deny it all she likes, but I know she was seconds from yanking Darcy off me by the strands of her hair. It’s lucky I had a vise-like grip on her hand or nothing would have stopped her. Regan doesn’t seem like the type to get jealous, but just like her presence affects my mind, she’s learning nothing is as it once was.
My arm slips from Regan’s shoulders when she freezes halfway down the hall. “Your aftershave is a peppery scent, a spicy palette that elicits thoughts of hard fucks and painstakingly vivid dreams about trekking through the wilderness to find the beastly man hiding behind the smell.”
The cocky expression on my face fades when she murmurs, “My anger at being ditched made me mistake his aftershave as yours. I thought the smooth, velvety scent wafting in the air was anger seeping from my pores.” She fiercely shakes her head, eradicating the last of the grief in her eyes. “It wasn’t. It had a smooth, velvety texture to it, with a pinch of vanilla that had me recalling tranquil gardens and lazy lovemaking on a sandy shore.” Tears prick her eyes when she adds on, “It was a smell I’ve experienced only once before. It was on my darkest day. That’s why I was confused. My woozy head had my wires crossed. It wasn’t your scent I was smelling Friday night in my apartment. It was Luca’s.”
I take a step back, shocked. “What are you saying, Rae? That Luca’s not dead? That he’s the man stalking you?”
She shakes her head once more. “No. That isn’t what I’m implying at all. Luca would never do this to me or you.” She scans the angry bump on my right temple. “But I think I know who did.”
She pushes past me and charges down the hallway. She makes it ten steps before she realizes she has no clue which room is which. All the doors in The Manor are identical.
Hearing her unasked question, I point to a room two doors down on my left. I shadow her into my room, my steps stiffer than hers. I feel sorry for the guests in the room below ours. My angry stomps sound like an elephant sprinting away from the trapeze line.
With a grunt, a tear of a zipper, and a hoist, Regan flops onto the pristinely made bed in the middle of our room to fire up her laptop.
“What are you looking for?” I join her bedside.
Her throat works hard to swallow before she forces out, “Do you remember the confession I let slip after rolling my mom’s Jeep?”
She waits for me to nod before murmuring, “Luca and I were fighting that night because I walked in on him in a compromising position. . . with a man.”
Her last three words are barely whispers. She hates that she’s sharing stuff she swore she’d never share, but I already have a gist of what happened, and she knows it.
“Luca tried to brush off their exchange. He said what I had saw wasn’t real, that they were just fooli
ng around, et cetera, et cetera.”
“What most men say when busted having an affair,” I interject, my tone snarkier than I anticipated.
Since I’m only working with half-truths, my jab at Luca’s integrity isn’t surprising, but with neither of us having the time nor the means to discuss the situation, I offer her an apologetic grin before gesturing for her to continue.
She does—thankfully. “The person Luca was with that night was unappreciative of his recollection of events. At first, he took his frustration out on Luca—”
“Then it switched to you?” I read between the lines.
She nods. “I knew everything he screamed at me was true. I could smell Luca’s cologne all over him, not to mention see the honesty in his eyes. He was in love with Luca. . .”
She slows her words to suck in some quick breaths, hoping they’ll help ease out her next set of sentences.
Eager to save her from the turmoil, I fill in, “You knew he loved Luca because his eyes reflected your own.”
She nods again, but it’s not as determined as her earlier ones. Tears gloss her eyes as her hands ball into fists on her keyboard.
The sound of teeth grinding together fades when I curl my hand over hers. “Work with facts, not emotions. Facts are evidential. Emotions are fact-blockers. If you can keep your emotions out of it, you’ll find the truth lying beneath them.”
Once the groove between her brows soothes, I ask, “You said on the plane that you forced Luca to pick. How did you do that?”
She licks her dry lips before answering, “How any irrationally jealous teenage girl would. I told him it was either his new friend or me. He couldn’t have us both.”
Her face screws up as if she can’t believe how naïve it was for her to do that. I’m not surprised. She was just a girl who believed she was in love. I’m quickly learning that fascination and love are too entirely unique emotions. Don’t ask me how I’ve suddenly gained this knowledge, because there is no way in hell I’ll give you an honest answer, but I’m reasonably sure Regan is slowly unearthing the same wisdom.
