by Paige Tyler
The Badge Bunnies Series:
Hands-On Training
By Paige Tyler
Copyright © 2012 by Paige Tyler
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.
Cover Design by Gemini Judson
Dedication
With special thanks to my extremely patient and understanding husband, without whose help and support I couldn’t have pursued my dream job of becoming a writer. You’re my sounding board, my idea man, my critique partner, and the absolute best research assistant any girl could ask for!
Thank you.
And thank you to my wonderful executive assistant Jennilinh and the girls of my Street Team—Barb L., Barb K., Christy, Cyndi, Dani, Dianna, Desere, Janet, Jennifer, Kimberly, Kris, Regina, Susan and Yvette. You all rock!
Hands-On Training
This hot cop is only too happy to give her private lessons!
Texas State Trooper Blake Jordan can't afford to get distracted on the job, but he can't take his eyes off the beautiful woman in his concealed carry handgun class. With soft feminine curves and eyes he just about gets lost in, Trista Durant is enough to make him forget his own name.
Trista's been drooling over Blake since the moment he walked in the classroom. His broad shoulders, big biceps and sexy voice are enough to almost melt off her panties. When the hot cop acts completely professional despite the sultry smiles she sends his way, she realizes she's going to have to give up on getting him in her bed, or do something drastic to make it happen — like failing the hands-on portion of the class so she can get some time alone with him.
Blake is only too happy to give Trista private lessons, and soon shows her what real hands-on training is all about.
Who knew shooting a gun could be so much fun? Give a whole new meaning to the term keep your weapon pointed in a safe direction at all times.
Chapter One
As a cop, Blake Jordan couldn’t afford to be distracted, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous brunette in front of him. The only woman in the Concealed Handgun License Proficiency course he was teaching, she was all soft, feminine curves with long, silky hair and full, pouty lips. Not to mention honey-colored eyes he could just about get lost in. Which made it damn hard to concentrate on his presentation.
He dragged his gaze away from the beauty in the front row to scan the rest of the faces. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her studying him.
“We'll spend the first part of the day going over Texas concealed carry laws, use of force laws, nonviolent dispute resolution and general administrative matters related to maintaining your license.”
Everyone groaned at that. Everyone, but her. She sat back in her seat and got comfortable.
Most of the time, the ten-hour course was taught over two days, but as a full-time Texas State Trooper, Blake could only hold the class on his days off. Those were few and far between, which meant he had to cram everything into a single day. While he made some money on the side teaching the CHL course, it wasn't the pay that made it worthwhile. It was the knowledge that what he was doing would pay off in the long run, making the city of Houston a safer place for everyone. Concealed weapons were a way of life in Texas and he wanted to make sure the people who carried them were trained and prepared to handle the responsibility that came with the license.
“After that, we’ll do the written test, then grab lunch before the hands-on portion,” Blake said. “I'll cover how to properly handle a weapon, clean it, store it, and if the situation ever requires it—how to use it. We'll spend the last two hours using the indoor range, where I’ll get a chance to see how you handle your weapons. If I like what I see, you'll be out of here by six o’clock with your certificates in hand.”
His eyes lingered on the gorgeous woman in the front row again before he turned to the PowerPoint slide displayed on the screen. Damn, if her eyes didn’t sparkle like gold in the early morning sun coming through the window. Was she wearing colored contacts? The question mystified him half the morning. When they finally took a break, he found himself wandering over to the vending machine where she was standing to get a Coke he didn’t want simply so he could check.
“I'd recommend something with a lot of caffeine,” he said.
She turned to look at him and his breath hitched. Damn, she was even more devastating up close. He could actually see the little, green flecks of color in her gold eyes. Definitely not contacts.
Her lips—which were not only full and pouty, but very kissable—curved into a sexy smile. “I have a feeling listening to you talk is going to be more than enough to keep me awake.”
He pulled out a five-dollar bill and fed it to the vending machine, then pressed the Diet Coke button twice. He flashed her a grin as he handed her one of the bottles. “These concealed carry laws can be some riveting stuff, huh?”
She laughed. “I probably shouldn’t say this since you’re a cop, and I’m here to get my license, but actually they’re really not. You make the subject interesting, though. I think it’s because you have such a nice voice.”
He did a double take. Was she coming onto him?
She looked up at him from under her lashes. “I’m Trista Durant, by the way.”
“Blake. Jordan.”
His last name was already on his uniform, so telling her again wasn’t really necessary, but it was already out. Being around her made it hard to think straight.
She opened her coke and took a sip. “I’m guessing this isn’t the first time you’ve taught this class.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What makes you say that?”
“You barely looked at the slides on the screen.”
Because he’d been too busy looking at her. He took a swallow of Coke. “Guilty as charged. I teach it every few weeks or so.”
She lifted a brow. “I didn’t realize that many people got concealed carry licenses.”
“A couple hundred people take the course every month. What made you decide to get your permit? Someone hasn’t made you feel threatened, have they?” He grimaced. Why not just add “little lady,” while he was at it? “Sorry. Occupational hazard of being a cop. You have every right to tell me to pound sand.”
She laughed. “There's no particular reason, but Houston is a lot bigger than it was when I lived here before. I just want to be able to carry if I feel the need.”
Smart move. “It can be a scary place out there sometimes.”
“Yes, it can.” Trista casually looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his crotch for a moment before their eyes met. “And there's nothing like getting your hands on a big weapon to make a girl feel all safe and secure.”
Blake almost choked on his soda. Damn. Guess that answered his earlier question about whether she was coming onto him or not. And with a blatant invitation, he’d be an idiot not to flirt right back.
Unfortunately, one of the men in the class wandered over to the vending machine before Blake could say anything.
“Don’t mind if I slip in here and get something, do you, Officer?”
Blake inclined his head, giving the man an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. Go ahead.”
Trista moved away from the vending machine as well, automatically falling into step beside Blake as they walked back to the classroom.
“You said you lived in Houston before.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “Where’d you move from?”
“Birmingham. I moved there when I went to the University of Alabama and stayed when I was offered a job in the area. I’ve wanted to come back to Houston for a
while, so when a position opened up, I jumped at the chance.”
He gestured for her to walk into the classroom ahead of him—because he was a gentleman, but also because he wanted to check out her ass. Damn, she looked fine in a pair of jeans.
“What do you do for a living?” he asked.
“I’m a graphic designer.” She turned, her long hair swinging over her shoulder. “Right now, I’m doing websites.”
“Sounds interesting.”
Blake wanted to ask what kind of websites she designed, but a heavyset man in a plaid shirt interrupted him.
“Got a minute, Officer?”
Blake glanced at Trista and saw disappointment flash in her eyes. He’d rather spend the whole day talking to her, too, but he couldn’t ignore the rest of the class.
“If you’ll pardon me?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “Thanks for the soda.”
Blake tried to give the man his full attention—he really did—but Trista was so damn captivating, it was practically impossible to keep his eyes off her. And while that made the boring part of the class a whole hell of a lot less boring—at least for him—it was also a kind of sweet torture. Especially when she did little things that drove him crazy. Like nibble on the top of her pen. Or cross her long legs. And when she leaned forward giving him a glimpse of her perfect cleavage? It was enough to make him groan.
As much as he wanted to monopolize her every time they took a break, he resisted the urge. If he did that and someone failed the course, that same someone could claim misconduct on his part, saying he was showing favoritism, and he’d be screwed. So, he limited their conversation to a few minutes before making the rounds. Fortunately, everyone passed the written test. And Trista maxed it, so no one could say she'd passed because he was sweet on her.
Nearly everyone in the class went to the restaurant across the street for lunch, including Trista. Blake quickly slipped into the empty chair beside hers before any of the other men could grab it. He got a smile for his efforts that just about did him in. He’d never met a women who had that effect on him before.
“So, do you and the other State Troopers alternate teaching the class?” she asked in between bites of her turkey sandwich.
He set down his iced tea. “No. I just do this on the side on my days off.”
“Oh.” She chewed on her lower lip as if considering something. “Your wife must hate that.”
That was blatant enough that even he picked up on it. “I’m not married.”
That seemed to give her pause. “Then your girlfriend must hate it.”
“Don’t have one at the moment.”
Her lips curved, and he waited for her to say more, but once again, someone interrupted them—this time it was the waitress asking if she could refill their iced teas. By the time the woman left, the guy on the other side of Blake already engaged him in a conversation about handguns—or more precisely, why he preferred a revolver over a semi-automatic. Usually it was a debate Blake was always up for, but discussing the pros and cons of each weapon while Trista’s arm kept “accidentally” brushing against his was damn near impossible. God, he couldn’t wait until class was over so he could grab a minute alone with her. Maybe then he could finally ask if she wanted to go to dinner with him. But first he had to get everyone certified and out of there.
He started the afternoon session talking about how to both store and clean a handgun, as well as how it should be carried concealed. After that, it was the part of the class everyone had been looking forward to—hands-on training. This was where Blake got to find out whether he should certify a person or not. Anyone could sit through a class and take a test. What he needed to know was what a person did when he or she had a gun in their hands.
Blake glanced at Trista as they made their way to the indoor shooting range. She didn't appear uncomfortable, but she didn't look completely at ease, either. That was normal. She probably didn't have a huge amount of experience with a handgun. Most people who took the class didn't.
She did okay loading and unloading an empty magazine—not perfect, but acceptable. It was when they loaded live rounds and did some shooting that Blake got concerned. Trista couldn't shoot worth shit. She didn’t have to hit the man-shaped silhouette dead center, but she had to at least get close. Best he could tell, she wasn’t hitting the target at all.
He waited patiently while she reloaded her 9mm. Maybe she was just nervous with him standing there. That happened sometimes.
But she didn’t do any better with the second magazine. He wasn’t sure where her rounds went, but it sure as hell wasn’t in the target.
There was no way he could certify her. Which meant taking her out to dinner was probably out. Damn.
* * * * *
Trista couldn't believe how hard she was having to work for this one. She'd been drooling over the hunky Blake Jordan from the second he'd walked in the classroom. Tall with dark hair, broad shoulders and biceps she couldn’t get both of her hands around, he was definitely put together. And when he talked? She'd never heard such a smooth, sexy voice in her life. It just about made her panties melt off right there in the seat. He was a fantasy come to life. Especially if you had a thing for cops—which she did. Combine that with her complete lack of a social life over the past few months, and it was no surprise she was as hot as a horny rabbit in a frying pan.
Between leaving her old job and trying to get into the swing of things at her new one, all while moving everything she owned back to Houston and finding a place to live, she’d been a little stressed. Seeing Blake made her realize exactly what she needed—a roll in the hay. And not just any roll in the hay, either. She was talking about the kind that knocked the pictures off the wall and made your neighbors call the cops. Something told her Blake was just the man for the job.
Unfortunately, he’d been completely professional the whole time. Which would be a good thing if she wasn’t seriously in lust with him. She thought for sure the way she’d worked him during class—throwing him sultry eyes and nibbling on her pen—would do the trick, but damn if the man didn't seem impervious to her feminine wiles. She supposed she could try the old standby and ask if he knew a good place to get a bite to eat—besides the restaurant across the street—but with the way things were going, Blake was likely to draw her a strip map to the nearest steak joint.
She either had to give up on getting Blake in her bed that night, or do something drastic to make it happen—like failing the hands-on portion of the class so she could get some time alone with him. She hated wasting the money for the course, but some things were more important than a concealed carry license.
She’d never realized how hard it was to look completely incompetent when you weren't, and had almost given up on her crazy plan a few times. It had to be easier to grab Blake and plant a kiss on him after he issued her license, then tell the big stud she wanted him to bang her until her eyes crossed.
But when Blake didn’t ask her to again demonstrate her ability to shoot at the target after she emptied the second magazine, she knew it was too late to change her mind. She chewed on her lip as he handed out the licenses. She hoped he didn’t embarrass her in front of the rest of the class by announcing she’d failed. But he called everyone else’s name, leaving her until last. And leaving them gloriously alone together.
Trista gave him a smile. “I guess that means I must be next.”
“Yeah. About that.” He sighed. “I’m not going to be able to sign off on your license. While you knocked the written test out of the park, you didn’t demonstrate the required proficiency with a handgun.”
She put on her best crestfallen expression. “Oh.”
“The good news is that you can take the course again. Unfortunately, you’ll have to pay the fee again, too. Which is why you should probably think about taking a target shooting class first. They offer some good ones here, if you’re interested.”
Only if he was the one doing the teaching. She chewed on her lower
lip, pretending to consider it. “Do you think you might be able to give me a few pointers about what I'm doing wrong?”
“Now?”
That worked for her. “If you wouldn’t mind. I know you said something about the range closing early tonight, but maybe the owner would let us stay a few extra minutes?”
Blake was silent as he considered that. Finally, he nodded. “Sure. I’ll go talk to him.”
She smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He flashed her a grin. “No problem.”
Trista sighed with relief. For a minute there, she’d been half afraid he was going to turn her down. Just because he agreed to give her some tips didn’t mean he was as attracted to her as she was to him, though. And if she didn’t get a rise out of Blake? Well, at least she'd get some quality one-on-one private shooting lessons. She had no doubt he was talented at using a weapon.
She only hoped it was the kind of weapon she had in mind.
Chapter Two
Blake came back ten minutes later. “I told Bob—the guy who owns the place—that I’d lock up, so we can stay as long as we want.”
Which meant they were all alone. This was working out even better than she’d planned. “Great.”
Blake glanced at her over his shoulder as he led the way to one of the firing lines. “You seemed comfortable handling the weapon when it was unloaded. It wasn't until you got on the line with a loaded weapon that you started having a problem, so I think we should start there.”
Trista groaned inwardly. The possibility of romance was dropping by the second here. Blake seriously thought she wanted a firearms lesson.
She picked up her pistol. “Should I just start shooting at the target?”
“Let's work on your stance first and get you comfortable with the weapon. Then we'll do some shooting.”
