weekly since Krissy was murdered. I won’t ever miss another shot. If I didn’t miss that one shot, Krissy might still be alive. Anyone can tell me her death wasn’t my fault, but I will forever blame myself for not saving her. “You planning to shoot?”
He turns to face the target. He closes his left eye, opens it, and closes his right eye. He holds the pistol out in front of him and shoots aimlessly. The bullet grazes the outside of the target, and he grunts with annoyance.
He shoots off another three the same way, and I’m honestly shocked he doesn’t know how to shoot. My shock is turning into curiosity, though. Things aren’t adding up.
He suppresses a laugh and throws his head back. “This is so fucking embarrassing.” His cheeks are visibly red and you can’t fake that.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Here, I’ll show you.” I clear my pistol before placing it down next to me, being careful to follow protocol so Chuck doesn’t find a reason to throw me out. This is going to look ridiculous. I’m at least eight inches shorter than he is, trying to wrap my arms around his to show him how to aim. I point to the top of the pistol. “See this u-shape?” I point out the sites.
“Yeah.”
“Look through it.” I wrap my fingers around both of his biceps, which feel like stone beneath my touch. “Extend this arm out,” I say, pressing down on his right arm. “Now bend your left elbow slightly, while cupping the bottom of your right hand.” I shove my knee in between his legs. “Leave some space here for balance.” I’m more or less hugging him right now, and it feels . . . nice. Maybe even more than nice. I force myself to refocus my attention, and I take a step back. “Now take a breath, release, and when you feel yourself relax and all of the air is out of your lungs, slowly and steadily squeeze the trigger.” I place my hands over his chest, sending a thrill of nerves to coarse through my body at the slight touch of his hardened muscles.
The round shoots straight through the neck of the target. “Not bad for a beginner,” I say. Is that a smirk tugging on my permanent scowl? It can’t be. What is he doing to me? What. Is. He. Doing. To. Me?
He shoots a few more rounds. Most of them are scattered around the outside of the target, and a few make it in to the inside range. Nevertheless, all of them are better shots than the first ones he let off.
After an hour of releasing all of the steam my body has pent up for the past two weeks, we turn in our pistols.
“Nice shot, honey,” the attendant behind the counter says. Now he’s giving me compliments?
“I know,” I respond, before walking out the door.
For leaving the shooting range only sixty seconds ago, my brain is already bubbling. Thoughts prickle my mind and I feel out of control. I feel like my mind has taken over and I’m not responsible for what I’m about to do. Since I don’t have the ability to trust people, I sense eyes and ears in every hovering shadow, and my gut tells me Tango’s lying—likely lying about more than just not being able to shoot a weapon. I shove my hand into Tango’s chest and push him against the wall of the building. Caught off guard, he complies with my force. “Whoa!” He puts his arms up by his head. “Chill. Will ya?”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t know how to shoot. Tell me that was all an act.”
“Why does it matter if I can shoot or not?” His expression is firm. The skin around his cheeks doesn’t tighten, and he doesn’t lower his hands. But he’s not afraid of me. On the contrary, he keeps giving in to me. I want to know why.
I pull out the knife I swiped from the sandwich shop earlier, knowing it would bring me some kind of comfort. I’ve kept it in the sleeve of my fleece. I couldn’t travel with any weapons, and it was the first thing I saw that could be used if needed. I raise it up to his neck. “Tell me who you used to work for?”
His
He turns to face the target. He closes his left eye, opens it, and closes his right eye. He holds the pistol out in front of him and shoots aimlessly. The bullet grazes the outside of the target, and he grunts with annoyance.
He shoots off another three the same way, and I’m honestly shocked he doesn’t know how to shoot. My shock is turning into curiosity, though. Things aren’t adding up.
He suppresses a laugh and throws his head back. “This is so fucking embarrassing.” His cheeks are visibly red and you can’t fake that.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Here, I’ll show you.” I clear my pistol before placing it down next to me, being careful to follow protocol so Chuck doesn’t find a reason to throw me out. This is going to look ridiculous. I’m at least eight inches shorter than he is, trying to wrap my arms around his to show him how to aim. I point to the top of the pistol. “See this u-shape?” I point out the sites.
“Yeah.”
“Look through it.” I wrap my fingers around both of his biceps, which feel like stone beneath my touch. “Extend this arm out,” I say, pressing down on his right arm. “Now bend your left elbow slightly, while cupping the bottom of your right hand.” I shove my knee in between his legs. “Leave some space here for balance.” I’m more or less hugging him right now, and it feels . . . nice. Maybe even more than nice. I force myself to refocus my attention, and I take a step back. “Now take a breath, release, and when you feel yourself relax and all of the air is out of your lungs, slowly and steadily squeeze the trigger.” I place my hands over his chest, sending a thrill of nerves to coarse through my body at the slight touch of his hardened muscles.
The round shoots straight through the neck of the target. “Not bad for a beginner,” I say. Is that a smirk tugging on my permanent scowl? It can’t be. What is he doing to me? What. Is. He. Doing. To. Me?
He shoots a few more rounds. Most of them are scattered around the outside of the target, and a few make it in to the inside range. Nevertheless, all of them are better shots than the first ones he let off.
After an hour of releasing all of the steam my body has pent up for the past two weeks, we turn in our pistols.
“Nice shot, honey,” the attendant behind the counter says. Now he’s giving me compliments?
“I know,” I respond, before walking out the door.
For leaving the shooting range only sixty seconds ago, my brain is already bubbling. Thoughts prickle my mind and I feel out of control. I feel like my mind has taken over and I’m not responsible for what I’m about to do. Since I don’t have the ability to trust people, I sense eyes and ears in every hovering shadow, and my gut tells me Tango’s lying—likely lying about more than just not being able to shoot a weapon. I shove my hand into Tango’s chest and push him against the wall of the building. Caught off guard, he complies with my force. “Whoa!” He puts his arms up by his head. “Chill. Will ya?”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t know how to shoot. Tell me that was all an act.”
“Why does it matter if I can shoot or not?” His expression is firm. The skin around his cheeks doesn’t tighten, and he doesn’t lower his hands. But he’s not afraid of me. On the contrary, he keeps giving in to me. I want to know why.
I pull out the knife I swiped from the sandwich shop earlier, knowing it would bring me some kind of comfort. I’ve kept it in the sleeve of my fleece. I couldn’t travel with any weapons, and it was the first thing I saw that could be used if needed. I raise it up to his neck. “Tell me who you used to work for?”
His
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