when you were nineteen. Your sister died a couple years later. And you haven’t seen your father in three years.”
My sister died? That’s not exactly how I’d put it. “Is that all?”
I feel the brakes compress as we near a stoplight. He turns his head and his eyes center on mine. “Yes.” He didn’t blink, twitch, or stall. He’s being truthful. If there’s anything I’ve been raised to do well, it’s to read someone’s facial expressions. He’s a challenge, but I have to think his lack of nerves is a telltale sign of truth.
“What did you do before my dad hired you?” I ask while I have his eyes still locked on mine. Dad always said, eyes are the best lie detector on the human body, and he still hasn’t blinked.
As I assumed he would, he twists his head forward and almost simultaneously, the light turns green. He turns the music up and pulls his sunglasses down from his head, placing them over his tell- all eyes. I can’t obtain a fucking thing from him. Maybe he trusts almost as little as I do, which probably won’t make this working relationship any easier.
We pull into a dirt lot, and the silence between us enhances the crunching of the gravel below his tires. The pines overshadowing the building tell me this place is for locals—this place wouldn’t be found unless someone was looking for it.
Without any exchange of words, we enter into the shooting range. I place my hand down on the front desk and pull my license out with my other hand. My eyes scan the back wall, admiring all of the weapons. My focus stops on my favorite: “the 40 Cal Smith & Wesson, please.”
The man studies me before complying. His dark eyes, chiseled jaw, and starched flattened shirt and pants tells me he’s either seen his day in the military or in some kind of law enforcement position. He’s looking at me as if he wants to get inside my head, like any other law enforcer I’ve ever met. He clears his throat and sucks his breath in, puffing his chest out before leaning over the counter onto his elbows. My lip unintentionally curls at the close proximity he’s claimed toward me. “Seems like an awfully specific request from a girl like you.”
“And what kind of girl am I exactly?” I chuckle once and stand up straight, crossing my arms over my chest.
He pushes off the counter and turns to the back wall and retrieves the weapon. With his fingers bent around the neck of the pistol, he places it down on the counter. “Keep the handgun in front of you at all times. Don’t point it at yourself or anyone else. If we see you doing this, you will be removed at once. Please confirm that you agree to this policy.”
“I agree.” I reach for the pistol as he releases his grip.
“I’ll have the same,” Tango says. Maybe he really doesn’t know much about shooting. If he did, I’m sure he’d ask for something larger or more powerful—typical guy move.
The man asks for his ID, but he doesn’t study his face or try to read his thoughts. He mindlessly pulls the pistol out from behind the counter and places it down gently. He doesn’t recite the policy or ask him to agree.
Whatever. Let it go, I have to tell myself .
“I’m Chuck. If either of you have any questions or need anything, give me a shout.” He leads us to two side-by-side alleys and hands us each a pair of safety glasses and ear protection. “Have fun.”
I waste no time lifting the pistol, squinting my right eye closed, aiming, and releasing. With each shot, my body relaxes a little bit more. Once I’ve gone through my first round of shots, I remove my glasses and reload. I notice Tango hasn’t shot one round. He’s watching me intently, studying me.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“That was pretty crazy.” His focus moves from mine over to the target. Fifteen rounds put down range and hitting center mass of the target. “You practice a lot?”
“Yes.” I insert a fresh magazine and rack a round into the chamber. I’ve practiced
My sister died? That’s not exactly how I’d put it. “Is that all?”
I feel the brakes compress as we near a stoplight. He turns his head and his eyes center on mine. “Yes.” He didn’t blink, twitch, or stall. He’s being truthful. If there’s anything I’ve been raised to do well, it’s to read someone’s facial expressions. He’s a challenge, but I have to think his lack of nerves is a telltale sign of truth.
“What did you do before my dad hired you?” I ask while I have his eyes still locked on mine. Dad always said, eyes are the best lie detector on the human body, and he still hasn’t blinked.
As I assumed he would, he twists his head forward and almost simultaneously, the light turns green. He turns the music up and pulls his sunglasses down from his head, placing them over his tell- all eyes. I can’t obtain a fucking thing from him. Maybe he trusts almost as little as I do, which probably won’t make this working relationship any easier.
We pull into a dirt lot, and the silence between us enhances the crunching of the gravel below his tires. The pines overshadowing the building tell me this place is for locals—this place wouldn’t be found unless someone was looking for it.
Without any exchange of words, we enter into the shooting range. I place my hand down on the front desk and pull my license out with my other hand. My eyes scan the back wall, admiring all of the weapons. My focus stops on my favorite: “the 40 Cal Smith & Wesson, please.”
The man studies me before complying. His dark eyes, chiseled jaw, and starched flattened shirt and pants tells me he’s either seen his day in the military or in some kind of law enforcement position. He’s looking at me as if he wants to get inside my head, like any other law enforcer I’ve ever met. He clears his throat and sucks his breath in, puffing his chest out before leaning over the counter onto his elbows. My lip unintentionally curls at the close proximity he’s claimed toward me. “Seems like an awfully specific request from a girl like you.”
“And what kind of girl am I exactly?” I chuckle once and stand up straight, crossing my arms over my chest.
He pushes off the counter and turns to the back wall and retrieves the weapon. With his fingers bent around the neck of the pistol, he places it down on the counter. “Keep the handgun in front of you at all times. Don’t point it at yourself or anyone else. If we see you doing this, you will be removed at once. Please confirm that you agree to this policy.”
“I agree.” I reach for the pistol as he releases his grip.
“I’ll have the same,” Tango says. Maybe he really doesn’t know much about shooting. If he did, I’m sure he’d ask for something larger or more powerful—typical guy move.
The man asks for his ID, but he doesn’t study his face or try to read his thoughts. He mindlessly pulls the pistol out from behind the counter and places it down gently. He doesn’t recite the policy or ask him to agree.
Whatever. Let it go, I have to tell myself .
“I’m Chuck. If either of you have any questions or need anything, give me a shout.” He leads us to two side-by-side alleys and hands us each a pair of safety glasses and ear protection. “Have fun.”
I waste no time lifting the pistol, squinting my right eye closed, aiming, and releasing. With each shot, my body relaxes a little bit more. Once I’ve gone through my first round of shots, I remove my glasses and reload. I notice Tango hasn’t shot one round. He’s watching me intently, studying me.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“That was pretty crazy.” His focus moves from mine over to the target. Fifteen rounds put down range and hitting center mass of the target. “You practice a lot?”
“Yes.” I insert a fresh magazine and rack a round into the chamber. I’ve practiced
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