Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  Visiting the range seemed like a great idea when Lacey and Brooke made their plans days ago. Even Stella climbing aboard sounded like fun, a high-adrenaline girls’ night out without their guys. But after seeing Cecily Ashton in the parking lot with the gunshot wound, Lacey wasn’t so sure.

  Brooke pulled out a third gun, one for Stella. It was Brooke’s favorite .22 caliber target revolver, a Smith & Wesson K-22 Masterpiece.

  “I’m sorry you’re upset about Damon,” she said. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “And this is just one night with Stella. Please give her a break. She really is excited to be here with us.”

  “Right. I’ve seen what she can do with hair. I can only imagine what havoc she can wreak with a deadly weapon.”

  “Hey, I’ll have sixty-some hours of Damon snarking at me in class. Not to mention the conspiracy of the month— mind control.”

  “I’m jealous.” Brooke flicked open the cylinder of the .22. “You’ll see more of Damon than I will for the next two weeks.”

  You can have him, Lacey thought. “You appreciate him more.” She bit her tongue.

  “You don’t understand how much he looks up to you. Damon thinks you’re the best reporter in Washington.” She looked down the hall. “What on earth is Stella doing in there, taking a bath?”

  Lacey laughed. She had opted for comfort with a little style in her most comfortable faded blue jeans, old cowboy boots, and a black turtleneck sweater. She’d pulled her hair off her face into a chignon so it wouldn’t get in her way.

  Dressed for the range with her blond hair flying out of her long braid, Brooke looked more like a one-woman shooting safari than an up-and-coming young Washington lawyer. She wore khakis tucked into her boots, and the many-pocketed khaki shooting vest over her black cotton shirt was stuffed full of ammo and essentials: BlackBerry, iPod, Leatherman multitool, Ray-Ban shooting glasses. Her hearing protectors were looped casually around her neck, and she had earmuffs for Lacey and Stella too.

  “I’m serious, Lace. I don’t know if Stella’s up to this. Tonight is serious business. Tonight is about self-defense and self-empowerment. And guns.”

  The ladies’ room door flung open and Stella pranced into the room as if she were leading a conga line. The last time Lacey got a good look at her stylist was the previous week. Something had come over her since then. Stella twirled and struck a pose.

  “Stella! What have you done with yourself?”

  Brooke stared, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That’s not what just anyone would wear to go shooting, Stella. More like what no one would wear. But I always expect the unexpected from you.”

  Stella grinned. Lacey had watched Stella’s hair careen through a moody rainbow of dark dramatic colors, red, magenta, chestnut, purple, black. It had been gelled into spikes, glued into faux-hawks, pushed this way and that, and recently dyed jet black and sleeked back like a Roaring Twenties screen siren. Stella had grown her hair out several inches from the near-buzz cut Lacey had first seen her wearing, but there had always been some stylistic consistency to her look: the punky spikes, the colors du jour, the eye-popping satin bustiers and leather corsets, the dragon-lady red fingernails with attitude to match. “Punk Goddess with a Heart of Gold,” Stella had once captioned her own look, and Lacey could only add, “On acid.” But none of that prepared Lacey and Brooke for “Gidget Goes to the Gun Range.”

  Stella was now a blonde. Not just any blonde, she was a bubbly blonde with a retro-space-age 1950s vibe, a perky short Doris Day bob and a pink headband. Gidget would have died for Stella’s pistachio green capri pants, bubblegum pink sky-high stilettos, and matching pink nails. Her shocking pink cardigan sweater was tight and curvy and revealed Stella’s trademark cleavage. Without that peek, or more than a peek, of the photogenic assets she called “The Girls,” no one would have believed it was Stella. Lacey wasn’t sure she believed it anyway.

  “So, what do you think?” The vision in pink and green did a spin and shook her blond bob. “Totally hot, right?”

  “Don’t ask me, Stella.” Brooke shot Lacey a pleading look. “Please don’t. I mean it. Besides, I’m not the fashion expert here.”

  My friend the attorney, Lacey thought, leaving no buck unpassed.

  Stella adjusted her pink headband over her new blond locks and fluffed her bangs, brushing them out of her long black lashes. “I like your outfit too, Brooke. You’re like Safari Girl, right, out hunting wildebeests or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Well, don’t keep me waiting, girls,” Stella prompted. “We have wildebeests to shoot! So what do you think, Lace? You like it?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Stella.” Lacey wondered if it was a good idea to mix this fashion show with gunpowder. “It’s . . . different.”

  “Isn’t it? It’s a whole different Stella. You’re speechless, right? That’s okay, I’ll fill you in.” Stella spun around again. “I am totally channeling that Swinging Sixties thing, like Twiggy or Jackie O. Way before our time, I know, but a totally timeless look. Only, you know”—she indicated her bountiful chest—“with boobs.”

  “Like Sandra Dee without the surfboard,” Lacey offered. “Or Judy Jetson without the—” She stopped. Without what? Without the good taste of a cartoon character?

  “Yeah, Sandra Dee! Gidget Gone Wild! That’s good, I like that, ’cause Sandra Dee was really stacked in that Sixties beach blanket bimbo kind of way, wasn’t she? And I’m thinking now I need another new outfit too, one of those classic dresses you always write about, Lace.”

  “A little black dress?”

  “Yeah, totally, for cocktails. A little black dress, like Audrey Hepburn, only with boobs. Simple, elegant, classic. That’s me.”

  “The little black dress,” Lacey said, “is a simple concept, but it’s not so simple to find the right one. Especially with your . . . you know.”

  “Boobs. We’ll go shopping then, the three of us. It’ll be fun! You know, sometimes I look in a mirror in this outfit and I don’t know who the heck that chick is. But she rocks, and I gotta tell ya, Nigel thinks I’m totally hot in this look.”

  “Nigel? Nigel who?” Lacey handed her revolver back to Brooke and stared at Stella, the born-again bubbly blonde. Brooke checked the guns and slipped them back in her range bag. “Not Nigel Griffin! Not that Brit twit nitwit again, Stella. Please tell me this is some other Nigel.”

  “There is only one Nigel Griffin, Lacey. My Nigel. We are an item again! Didn’t you know?” Stella scooted in between Lacey and Brooke and took their arms. “Me and Nigel, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

  “Stop that rhyming!” Brooke commanded. “It’s bad luck.”

  “Hold on, Stella,” Lacey said. “That was over last fall. After New Orleans.”

  “It was. But that was totally a misunderstanding. We are together forever.”

  “How long is forever on your planet?” Brooke asked. Stella stuck her tongue out.

  “Oh, Stella. Not Nigel!” Stella, once again under the influence of that toxic English import known as Nigel Griffin? Women considered Griffin handsome, Lacey knew, in his pale English way, and he could exude a certain pale English charm, but she thought there was absolutely no character to the man. “He’s a thief. And a liar.”

  “He used to be a thief, and I wouldn’t say ‘liar’ exactly. He might exaggerate a little, but don’t we all? Even me, and I am an open book.”

  “I hope you’re not changing your look just for that weasel Griffin,” Lacey said. “I mean, not that I don’t like the new look, Stel, but really, for Nigel?”

  “I have to agree with Lacey,” Brooke said. “I met him before you ever did. When the going got tough, Nigel got himself gone. Very gone.”

  “He’s changed,” Stella protested. “Nigel is sensitive. He’s a lover, not a fighter. I been with fighters, Brooke, and believe me, lovers are way better. I think he’s very hot, and he’s got that cool English accent going on. Besides, I wou
ld never change who I am inside for some guy, you know that, Lace. The Girls and I are still the same. I just wanna know: Do blondes really have more fun?” She gave Brooke’s blond braid a yank.

  “Ow! Only if you’re a real blonde,” the real blonde replied huffily. “Are we going to shoot, or are we going to stand around talking about clothes and boys all night like a bunch of teenagers?”

  A couple of guys in blue jeans and tight blue T-shirts entered the locker room from the range. With their precision buzz cuts and combat-ready gear, Lacey pegged them as serious shooters, probably cops or military. They stopped at the soda machine. One dug in his pocket for change while his eyes took in Stella’s curves. Stella grinned.

  “Gee, it’s getting a little hot in here, isn’t it, girls?”

  “Really?” Lacey said. “My nose is cold.”

  “I don’t mean you girls!” Stella wiggled her pink cardigan open to reveal an eye-popping pink and green bustier and a shiny jeweled skeleton key dangling provocatively in her décolletage. The boys in blue grinned at Stella and tipped their caps as they left.

  “And here I was afraid you’d changed, Stel,” Lacey deadpanned.

  “If only. Let’s go shoot.” Brooke was not amused. She shouldered the range bag with the guns and ammo and targets. Stella nestled her dangling gold key back in between The Girls.

  “Pretty key, Stella,” Lacey said. “Story there?”

  “This old thing? Just an antique pendant. Nigel gave it to me.”

  “Move.” Brooke ordered them down the short hallway to the range.

  “We started off last fall pretty hot and heavy, you know, me and Nigel, in New Orleans. Then we kind of fell apart. But he came back, bearing gifts.” Stella showed Lacey the rubies that decorated the ornate fluted bow of the key. “He is an ace purloined jewel retriever, as you know.”

  “He’s an ace con man,” Lacey replied. Nigel Griffin worked as an investigator for big insurance companies. The title “jewel retriever” was his attempt to give himself an aura of respectability.

  “Are we gonna shoot or chat, ladies?” Brooke was running out of patience.

  Stella paid no attention. “Nigel calls it the key to his heart, Lace. Is that romantic or what?”

  “A key isn’t a ring, and Nigel is not known for his fidelity, ” Lacey said. “And what do you really know about him anyway? Vic says he’s a complete and total—”

  “I know I’m crazy about him!” Stella grabbed Lacey’s arm. “Nigel found this key in a little antique shop somewhere. He says it symbolizes how he’s never given his heart to anyone but me. It’s solid gold, you know.”

  “Gold plated,” Brooke sniffed. She handed out eye and hearing protection at the heavy soundproof door to the shooting range. “Do you two even remember what we’re doing here?”

  “Course we do, we’re going shooting!” Stella hugged Brooke and pointed her finger at Lacey. “Bang bang! Look at me, Annie Freakin’ Oakley!” Brooke and Lacey exchanged a look. “I am so excited about tonight! I cannot believe the three of us haven’t done this before. Girls’ night out, with guns and ammo. And just look at us, ladies: armed and glamorous!”

  Chapter 10

  “Armed and glamorous,” Brooke said sarcastically. “That’s us, all right. Stella, we are here to learn gun safety and some basic shooting skills. And maybe blow off a little steam. You’ve never fired a gun before, correct?”

  “Oh, like, how hard can it possibly be?” Stella shrugged. “Point and squirt, right?”

  “Why don’t we go find out?” Brooke challenged her.

  “Hey, you guys, lighten up,” Lacey said. “This is supposed to be a fun evening.”

  “I can’t wait to get my hands on a gun—any gun!” Stella declared. “The bigger the better, Brookie. Like a forty-five, or a fifty-five, or something.” “Gidget Goes Gun Crazy.” Lacey sent her a warning look. “What? Come on, let’s go shoot something!”

  Brooke and Lacey both donned their protective gear. Brooke handed Stella a pair of safety glasses and earplugs and earmuffs to go over her ears.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Stella gasped. “We gotta look like dorks? They don’t wear this stuff on TV!”

  “Safety dorks get to pull the trigger and keep their hearing, ” Brooke said, clamping earmuffs on Stella’s blond bob and sliding a pair of clear shatterproof plastic safety glasses on her face. Lacey pointed to a sign: NO ADMISSION TO RANGE WITHOUT EYE AND EAR PROTECTION.

  “All right, all right, we’ll be safety dorks together.” Brooke helped Stella lift the earmuffs and stuff the soft plugs in her ears. Stella grimaced. “I bet I look like Adam Ant.” She realized they were all wearing their earmuffs now. “I SAID I MUST LOOK LIKE—”

  “I can hear you!” Lacey adjusted her own safety glasses. “You’re just muffled.”

  Brooke opened the door and led them to their lane in the middle of the busy range. She plopped her range bag on the floor at their shooting station. The narrow firing lanes were separated by carpeted partitions, and each station was a small open booth with a counter and a motorized line overhead to carry the target downrange. The staccato rhythm of target shooting filled the charcoal gray room. It was loud, even through the earmuffs, but not painful. The air was rich with the smell of gunpowder, and the floor was carpeted with brass cartridge cases.

  The lane was cozy for two, snug for three. Lacey watched over Brooke’s shoulder. Brooke pulled out the Smith & Wesson .22 revolver and showed Stella how to open the cylinder and check to see whether it was loaded. Stella reached for the gun. Brooke pulled it back.

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Stella yelled, earmuff to earmuff with Brooke. “Let’s shoot. But I want a bigger gun than a twenty-two. Like a real Dirty Harry gun.”

  “Your first shooting lesson is crucial,” Brooke said over the sound of muffled gunfire. “Safety rules first, then shooting skills. We start with this gun, or we go home.” She held it out of Stella’s reach. “Safety first. You with me?”‘

  They sized each other up. Stella nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “First rule: Assume all guns are always loaded. So always check, every time you pick up every gun, even a gun you unloaded yourself two seconds ago. Second rule: Never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to destroy. Never.”

  “Duh! Even I know that.” Stella’s pink fingernails were itching for the trigger.

  “This is a twenty-two-caliber revolver,” Brooke said sternly. “You can kill someone with this. I would be handing you a cap gun if I could.”

  “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

  “No. Honestly, I don’t, Stella. You’re a beginner. Are you ready to listen and learn?”

  “That’s why I’m here. My dad had guns, on account of he was a cop,” Stella explained. “But my mom used to hide them from him, on account of he was a drunken bastard. So I’ve been around guns, but I never actually had my hands on a gun. I’m just—you know. Excited, I guess. I’ll be good, I promise. Can we go on? Please?”

  Brooke relented and ran through the rest of her gun safety lecture. She watched as Stella opened the gun, checked the chambers, and loaded and unloaded the weapon until she had it down. Brooke was a good teacher, and Stella proved to be a quick study. Lacey was impressed.

  Brooke clipped a head-and-shoulders human silhouette target to a hanger on the target line, flipped a switch, and sent the target down the lane about five yards. Stella elbowed Lacey and pointed to another lane. Those shooters were taking aim at a full-size photo of Osama bin Laden.

  Brooke showed Stella how to control her breathing and align the front and rear sights and the target, and to let everything intersect before squeezing the trigger. Brooke loaded the .22 and quickly fired six rounds, double-action, as a demonstration. She reeled in the target: six little holes in the silhouette’s center X-ring. She handed the gun to Stella to reload while a fresh target went downrange.

  “It’s harder than it looks.” Brooke stepped aside for Stella.
“Take your time. And rule number three: Get your finger off that trigger till you’re ready to shoot!”

  Stella concentrated and slowly squeezed off a shot. “Whoa!” She stared at the .22 in her hand. “It jumped!”

  “That was recoil,” Lacey informed her.

  “Wow! That was so cool! Did I hit anything? Lemme do it again!”

  Lacey and Brooke watched Stella empty the gun downrange. Bullet holes were sprayed all over the target, but at least they were all on the target. Stella squealed for joy.

  Lacey’s turn. She chose the .357 and another target and a box of .38 target loads for the shiny stainless revolver. She suddenly had to fight a sharp wave of nausea. Her pulse raced. She flashed back to that afternoon. Instead of the black silhouette on the target, she saw Cecily’s lovely face, her slightly surprised look, the bullet hole in her head, the blood spurting from the wound, the blood spattering the car windows. She closed her eyes and lowered the gun, shaking.

  “Lacey, are you all right?” Brooke was right behind her. She put her hands on Lacey’s shoulders to steady her. “Take a deep breath. You can do it.”

  Lacey pushed the image of the dead woman out of her mind and steadied her hands. She lifted the gun back into position, aligned the sights, controlled her breathing. The target was just a target. She squeezed the trigger and felt the gun jump and twist in her hands, making a much bigger boom than the .22. A warm blast of gunpowder blew past her face. She lowered the gun again.

  Brooke reeled the target in and whistled. “Bull’s-eye,” she said. Lacey squared her shoulders.

  Now let’s see if I can do that again.

  Chapter 11

  “I rocked it, I totally rocked it!” Stella blew imaginary gun smoke from her trigger fingers, a pair of imaginary pistols. “Guys, I am so grateful you let me crash your party.”