by Marie James
“Except when someone talks to you? Then it’s okay to swing a gun in their direction?”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I know I’m seconds away from getting a good dose of her feisty attitude, but at least she isn’t near tears like she was a minute ago.
“Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. If you get distracted, finger off the trigger. Always finger—”
“Off the trigger. Yeah, I got it.”
“Good, now turn around and pick it back up.”
“I think I’m done.”
“You’ve only shot twice and neither of those times were on purpose. Let’s go. Turn around.”
Her eyes dart to mine, holding me captive for a long moment before she turns back to face the target ten feet down the range.
“Remember what I said. Put your thumbs like—may I touch you?”
“Please.” She shakes her head. “I mean, yes. That’s fine.”
I’m smiling like a damned fool when I step up behind her for the second time. I have to make sure that I keep my hips back a little further because her verbal slipup is causing my own physical reaction, and I don’t think she’d appreciate knowing it if I pressed it against her.
“That can’t be comfortable for you,” she says as she looks over her shoulder at me.
God, all I’d have to do is brush her hair a few inches to the side, and I’d have access to her neck. I just know the skin there would be soft, scented with her sweet body wash and sweat. I clear my throat as she turns her face back toward the target.
“It’s fine.” Perfect, actually. “You ready?”
She shakes her head but reaches for the gun anyway.
“Arms to here,” I tell her, lifting them a few inches higher. “Good, now move your thumb. Perfect.”
Her hands still have a slight tremble in them, but at least the weapon is pointed down range.
“Take a few calming breaths, but then hold it right before you squeeze the trigger. Fire when you’re ready.”
I’ve helped her get in position, and there’s no reason to stay right behind her, but I don’t step back. I don’t know that I could.
“One eye open or both?”
“Let’s just worry about getting used to pulling the trigger before lining up a shot.”
She nods slightly in understanding, the top of her head brushing my beard.
“When you’re ready,” I repeat as we stand quietly for a few minutes.
She fires. The bullet doesn’t puncture the target, but like I told her, we weren’t really focusing on that.
“Good. Now again.”
It doesn’t take her as long to fire the second time, and the third and fourth come in quick succession.
By the time the magazine is empty, her hands shake wildly, but she lowers the gun, placing it on the table in front of her before spinning around with a huge grin on her face. I know the tremble there now is adrenaline and thrill rather than fear.
“How do you feel?”
She swallows. “That was pretty cool.”
“Okay. Let’s load it back up and do it again.”
I step back, not offering to help as she discharges the magazine and begins to reload.
“Who taught you to shoot?”
“The Army.”
“Really? How long did you serve?” she asks as she slides the magazine back into the gun too softly, frowning when it pops back out. She hits it a little harder the second time, smiling once again when it clicks into place.
“Eight years. It seems like a lifetime ago.”
“Well,” she says as she places the gun back on the table to turn to look at me, “thank you for your service.”
I give her a quick smile, doing my best at trying not to watch her mouth when she speaks, but her lips are like a beacon, drawing my attention there.
“Are you trying to distract me to keep from shooting?”
She blinks, her pretty eyes flashing with mirth, before turning back around.
“Still need help getting lined up?”
“I think… I’d like some help.”
I step back in behind her, only this time when I touch her arms, my hands slide from her elbows to her wrists. I’m close enough to track her change in breathing pattern, and against my better judgment, I end up closer to her this time.
Her first three shots are fine, but the third manages to hit the line holding the target. She gasps as we watch the target flutter to the ground.
“Oh no,” she whispers.
“It happens more often than you’d think,” I tell her.
Thankfully, she puts the gun down before turning to face me, and I don’t immediately move away. We end up standing so close she has to crane her face up to look me in the eye. My fingers twitch to run them down her cheek or cup the back of her neck.
“Am I in trouble?”
I shake my head, words lost to me right now.
“I broke it.”
I watch as her eyes dart back and forth between mine, but for the life of me, I can’t find my own voice. Has she always been this gorgeous?
“Quinten?” She blinks again. “I’ll pay to have it fixed.”
“Hit the line?”
Her eyes snap toward Adam’s voice as he comes into the room, and it’s only then that I’m able to take a step back.
“Yeah,” I say, running my hand down my face and over my beard. My lips tingle with unmet need, leaving me feeling like I’m missing something.
“I’m going to walk her to her car. I’ll be back to take care of everything.” I turn and begin to walk out of the room, unsure if she’s even following me.
Chapter 12
Hayden
I sigh in frustration, closing my eyes for a solid minute before I open them again. When I type in the numbers again, it’s still wrong.
I’ve been working on this one account for the last hour, and it isn’t adding up. If I ever had a good reason to hate Mondays, this would be one.
I type in the numbers again. I’m coming up with the same total, but the account is still showing a different balance. I flip through invoices, checking those for the fourth time before finally giving in.
After shoving everything on that account into a folder, I head toward my boss’s office. He doesn’t bother to look up from his own work when I tap on the doorframe. This is nothing new. He’s not a jerk, but he’s a little aloof most days, focused on his own work.
“I’m having trouble with the Grimsson account.”
His head snaps up, and I wonder if maybe he was so fixated on his own work that he didn’t hear my knock.
“Why are you working on the Grimsson account?”
I tilt my head in confusion. “Because I’m the accountant.”
He holds his hand out, and it takes a few breaths before I realize he’s wanting me to hand over the folder.
“Don’t worry about this one,” he says when it’s in his hand. “I’ll figure it out. It’s a little more complicated than the others.”
“Okay,” I tell him and turn around to leave before I open my mouth and remind him that I’m very good at my job.
Chances are there’s a missing invoice or paperwork that was misfiled because I know my calculations are correct. If the man wants to spend another couple of hours clearing it up, let him.
I grab my purse the second I get to my desk and leave for lunch. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been annoyed since driving away from Quinten Thursday night. One minute, he’s a foot away looking down at me like he’s barely able to resist pressing his lips to mine, but then he’s giving me a rough goodbye from five feet away.
Lunch consists of a quick drive-thru meal because I spent half of my lunch hour trying to get the numbers on that stupid account to add up correctly, but I find time to call Parker to see if she wants to go to the gun range with me after work for practice.
She claims she has to work, but I get the feeling she has other plans. Or maybe I’m just annoyed at being turn
ed down. I hate doing things by myself, but these days, I hate going home alone even more.
When my workday is over, I try not to think about Quinten and the possibility that he might be at the gun range. I mean, the man works for Blackbridge Security, not full-time at the gun range. Even knowing that doesn’t keep the disappointment from creeping up when I walk inside and don’t see him.
The guy at the counter is a different man from the one who witnessed my embarrassment last week, and he tells me the same thing Quinten did when I broke the line the target was on.
“Don’t worry about it. It actually happens all the time.”
I give him a weak smile, wanting to blame Quinten for standing so close and making me more nervous about his proximity and how much I enjoyed it than actually firing the gun.
Once I was over the initial fear, pulling the trigger was actually thrilling. I wanted to do it over and over, but that sense of wariness never left. It’s why I’m back today. I’ve always been a good student and doing something and not being able to perfect a skill stresses me out.
I know I’m not going to turn into a gun-slinging badass overnight, but maybe with practice, I can actually hit the target instead of breaking the machines.
There is one other man in lane two when I enter the room and head for lane six. He doesn’t even bother to look up at me. I flinch when he shoots, and I wonder if I’ll ever stop doing that. I know to expect it, but the sound, even with my protective earmuffs on is startling.
I juggle the basket the gun and ammo are in along with the target, wondering just when I lost confidence in my actions. Even earlier, walking into the building, I nearly tripped over the curb because I was too busy looking around the parking lot. Something about the setting sun and the way shadows danced over the cars in the lot gave me the creeps.
I scoffed at the police officer that came to the house the night of the break-in. She’d handed me a card with information for a local support group for people who had experienced the same type of victimization. I thought it was ridiculous, wondering why people were so anxious about something like that happening to them. Those were thoughts of an angry woman, a woman that was livid that her favorite picture frame was found busted on the living room floor. That woman was ready to go out and look for the man herself.
Then the adrenaline and anger washed away, leaving me with fear and anxiety, and regret for having thrown that card into the trash with the glass from that very picture frame I was so angry about.
There’s less tremble in my hands when I load the bullets, and by the time the magazine is in the gun and I have it pointed down range, I’m livid at the fear some stranger has been able to instill in me.
I breathe the way Quinten suggested, holding my breath in the second it takes for me to pull the trigger. I fire over and over, not pausing except to check my breathing until the slide locks back indicating that the magazine is now empty.
I reload and do it all over again.
After the third magazine, I move the target back to me and take pride in every one of the tiny holes in the paper. They’re scattered with not even an ounce of consistency, but it’s better than every shot going wide. I send the target back down the lane and reload.
I do this several more times until it becomes hard to tell which holes were there from the previous time.
I grow increasingly frustrated that there’s no regularity to my shots.
“How’s it going?”
I startle, dropping the bullet in my hand when I hear the male voice.
Dropping the magazine, I spin around, only feeling mild comfort when I see Jude’s smiling face.
“Hey,” I say weakly, for some reason feeling a little weird to be speaking with him without Parker or Quinten around.
“I just came to practice,” he explains when I shift awkwardly on my feet. “Do you need any help?”
“I—umm. I can’t seem to hit the target every time,” I confess.
“Well, finish loading, and I can give you some pointers.”
I do as he says, and thankfully he doesn’t step in behind me like Quinten did on Thursday. Jude stands to the side, observing as I get in my stance and aim.
“The key to consistency is finding your dominant eye. So look down range with both eyes open and pick a spot on the target. Close one eye and then the other. The eye that maintains the same position of spot is your dominant eye. Practice it now while looking down the sight lines. Good. Now which eye is dominant?”
“The right,” I answer after doing what he said a handful of times.
“Okay, now line up that spot with your left eye closed.”
“I didn’t pick the center of the target,” I mutter.
“That’s fine. You can practice anywhere on a target to get the most use out of it. That’s why those smaller targets are in the corner. When you’re ready, fire.”
I do as he said, semi-confidently shooting until the magazine is once again empty. I press the button to bring the target back to me, but once again there are so many holes from my previous shooting that I don’t know which ones are from this last round.
“Let’s get you a new target, and go from there,” Jude says, reaching in the lane next to mine and grabbing his target rather than going back out front to get another one.
“A zombie?” I ask, looking down at his target of choice.
He shrugs before handing it over. I like that he doesn’t just urge me out of the way to pull my old target and replace it with his. He’s really a sweet guy, and nothing like Quinten who is more likely to be found with a scowl on his face rather than a smile.
Too bad I don’t feel even a blip of chemistry when he’s near, no matter how much Parker tried to push him onto me that night at the bar. I know what she was thinking. He’s shy and awkward, and so am I, but that isn’t going to work out like she planned.
For some reason, I have a thing, probably fleeting, for his grouchy best friend.
“Ready when you are,” Jude says, clearing his throat and making me realize I’ve just been standing here staring at him.
My face is flushed, and I pray he didn’t take the attention the wrong way and turn back to the task at hand.
I want to bounce up and down after emptying the next magazine and counting the holes in the target. I hit it with all but one shot.
He’s grinning at my enthusiasm.
“I didn’t hit the spot I was shooting at but look!” I count them out as if the man can’t see them clearly himself.
“That’s great. My only observation is that you’re pulling up just a little before each shot because you’re anticipating the recoil. After shooting enough, you’ll no longer do that and be unstoppable.”
I repeat the process until all of my bullets are gone, and each time I get a little better. I’m not a marksman by any definition of the word, but I am more confident. By the last magazine, I hit the target with every shot.
“Thanks so much for your help,” I tell him as I place the gun back in the basket to take back to the front. “I owe you a couple targets.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his hand going to the back of his neck as his cheeks turn pink.
Oh God, what do I say if he asks me out?
“So, umm… Your friend, Parker, the one that was at the bar the other night, isn’t here today?” he asks as if I have a million friends and need the clarification.
I roll my lips between my teeth to fight a smile. Of course he’s going to ask about Parker. Sadly, my best friend would chew this sweet man up and spit him out.
“She had to work,” I tell him. “But maybe you’ll get the chance to see her Thursday at class.”
He nods, his eyes darting away.
“Have a good night.”
“Stay safe,” he says to my back when I walk away.
The dread I felt walking into the building hits me in the face the second I step outside and rush to my car. The sun has fully set and instead of creepy shadows bouncing around, I�
�m met with total darkness. I’m left feeling cold and scared once again.
Chapter 13
Quinten
“It’s simple, Mr. Dickerson. Stop hiring hookers, and the media will stop reporting that you’re hiring hookers.”
I sigh into the phone receiver. It seems like great advice to me, but what the hell do I know?
“I think a better solution to the problem would be to sue the news station.”
“Because you have a good case for a libel suit?”
“Yes.”
“The media is printing lies about you?”
“Well—”
“Last time I checked their site online, they had a video of you picking up a hooker in south St. Louis two nights ago.”
“She’s a friend of the family,” he counters.
“And you have proof of that?”
He remains silent.
“I don’t keep records of transactions with hook—I mean friends. Whose side are you on?”
“You’re the client, Mr. Dickerson, but you make it hard to help you when you continue to do the same thing over and over.”
“It’s a free country,” he grumbles. “I don’t understand why people are concerned with who I spend time with.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering what Deacon would say if I told him that I plan to drop this man as a client. Working with him is seriously starting to make my skin crawl.
“Back to the point at hand. You can’t sue the news station if you were, in fact, picking up a prostitute.”
“Then I need a different resolution.”
“Any suggestions?”
“I need you to find me a reputable escort service.”
“Blackbridge Security isn’t that type of company. Have you considered using dating apps?”
“I don’t have time for that shit.”
I don’t have time for your shit.
“We’re not going to find you an escort service, Mr. Dickerson, and I don’t know that our services are right for you if that’s the expectation. I’ll forward your case information to Mr. Black, and we can go from there.”
“It’s an honest transaction. I’m not forcing them to get in the car with me. The sex industry—”
