paintbrush was good enough to relieve stress. Now, I’d probably snap one in half with my first stroke.
I reach into my bag and pull out a Sharpie and scribble the address of the nearest range on my hand.
I walk into the main living area, noticing Tango sitting at the breakfast bar with his phone. “Do you shoot?” I ask.
His forehead wrinkles with a downcast expression, questioning me. “Shots?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of shots?” he asks. I’m sure he thinks I’m talking about alcohol.
“9mm Rounds.”
He sucks in a mouthful of air and holds it, processing what I’ve said. “Well then.” A satisfied smile inches across the bottom of his cheeks.
“Can you shoot? Or are you going to sit in the observation room?” I question. I’m sure he knows how to shoot. He wouldn’t be a guard without that training.
“I’ve shot a couple of times. I’ll give it a try.” He stands up from the barstool and pulls his coat off the bar.
“A bodyguard who can’t shoot?” I know that’s a crock of shit.
“I’m not a bodyguard,” he corrects me.
***
He made us wait a couple of hours for a reason I was unsure of, but when we walked outside, he lead us through the parking lot and up to the front of a newer black pick-up truck. “Whose truck is this?” I ask, hesitating before following his lead and walking around to the passenger side. I figured we’d be taking a cab to the range.
“Mine.” I hear the pop of the locks unhinging from inside and we both climb in and settle into the nylon bucket seats. “I had it driven here, but it was running a bit late. It’s why we needed to wait out the last couple of hours,” he grins.
It smells like a combination of a pine air-freshener mixed with cologne. I’ve smelled worse in a man’s vehicle. Actually, it’s kind of nice. I sink into the seat and drop my purse to the floor. I’m usually stiff as a board when I get into someone else’s car. The inability to trust always seeps in, and it causes me to feel claustrophobic, but for some reason, I don’t feel like that at all in his truck.
He twists the radio knob and surfs the channels until he finds a country station. “Keep the windows closed,” he says, stifling a snicker. “I’ll be laughed out of this state if anyone hears this music.”
“I grew up in Texas, so this kind of sounds like home,” I say, offering up more information than usual.
He looks at me through the corner of his eye and clears his throat. “Yeah. I know.”
“I sort of wish you didn’t know everything about me.” I keep my focus on the blurred lines on the highway, suddenly feeling very exposed.
“I don’t know everything about you.”
“Seems like it,” I say gently, trying to keep my hostility at bay.
“How about I tell you what I know? Anything I don’t mention is something I honestly don’t know about you.”
“Sure.” I actually really want to know. Although, what I do know is this is where I find out if he really thinks I’m a cool chick , as he said, because he does know everything about me. Or, I find out he only thinks I’m a cool chick because he doesn’t know anything more than what is on the surface.
“Your name is Carolina Anne Tate. You’re five-foot-three, one-hundred-ten pounds, you have three freckles on your nose, shoulder-blade-length black wavy hair, one tattoo on your right arm, two on your left arm, and the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” His words pull me to look at him. But he’s concentrating on the road and won’t look back at me. He seems unaffected by his own words, as if it were a robotic description. Though, I doubt he describes all of his client’s eyes as beautiful.
After keeping my eyes locked on the carved edge of his jawline for more than a few seconds, I gather he isn’t planning to look back at me, and I turn my attention back out my window.
“Hmm,” I sigh. “Is that all?” Please tell me that’s all.
“Your mother died of breast cancer
I reach into my bag and pull out a Sharpie and scribble the address of the nearest range on my hand.
I walk into the main living area, noticing Tango sitting at the breakfast bar with his phone. “Do you shoot?” I ask.
His forehead wrinkles with a downcast expression, questioning me. “Shots?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of shots?” he asks. I’m sure he thinks I’m talking about alcohol.
“9mm Rounds.”
He sucks in a mouthful of air and holds it, processing what I’ve said. “Well then.” A satisfied smile inches across the bottom of his cheeks.
“Can you shoot? Or are you going to sit in the observation room?” I question. I’m sure he knows how to shoot. He wouldn’t be a guard without that training.
“I’ve shot a couple of times. I’ll give it a try.” He stands up from the barstool and pulls his coat off the bar.
“A bodyguard who can’t shoot?” I know that’s a crock of shit.
“I’m not a bodyguard,” he corrects me.
***
He made us wait a couple of hours for a reason I was unsure of, but when we walked outside, he lead us through the parking lot and up to the front of a newer black pick-up truck. “Whose truck is this?” I ask, hesitating before following his lead and walking around to the passenger side. I figured we’d be taking a cab to the range.
“Mine.” I hear the pop of the locks unhinging from inside and we both climb in and settle into the nylon bucket seats. “I had it driven here, but it was running a bit late. It’s why we needed to wait out the last couple of hours,” he grins.
It smells like a combination of a pine air-freshener mixed with cologne. I’ve smelled worse in a man’s vehicle. Actually, it’s kind of nice. I sink into the seat and drop my purse to the floor. I’m usually stiff as a board when I get into someone else’s car. The inability to trust always seeps in, and it causes me to feel claustrophobic, but for some reason, I don’t feel like that at all in his truck.
He twists the radio knob and surfs the channels until he finds a country station. “Keep the windows closed,” he says, stifling a snicker. “I’ll be laughed out of this state if anyone hears this music.”
“I grew up in Texas, so this kind of sounds like home,” I say, offering up more information than usual.
He looks at me through the corner of his eye and clears his throat. “Yeah. I know.”
“I sort of wish you didn’t know everything about me.” I keep my focus on the blurred lines on the highway, suddenly feeling very exposed.
“I don’t know everything about you.”
“Seems like it,” I say gently, trying to keep my hostility at bay.
“How about I tell you what I know? Anything I don’t mention is something I honestly don’t know about you.”
“Sure.” I actually really want to know. Although, what I do know is this is where I find out if he really thinks I’m a cool chick , as he said, because he does know everything about me. Or, I find out he only thinks I’m a cool chick because he doesn’t know anything more than what is on the surface.
“Your name is Carolina Anne Tate. You’re five-foot-three, one-hundred-ten pounds, you have three freckles on your nose, shoulder-blade-length black wavy hair, one tattoo on your right arm, two on your left arm, and the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” His words pull me to look at him. But he’s concentrating on the road and won’t look back at me. He seems unaffected by his own words, as if it were a robotic description. Though, I doubt he describes all of his client’s eyes as beautiful.
After keeping my eyes locked on the carved edge of his jawline for more than a few seconds, I gather he isn’t planning to look back at me, and I turn my attention back out my window.
“Hmm,” I sigh. “Is that all?” Please tell me that’s all.
“Your mother died of breast cancer
Similar Books
