by L. A. Witt
“So, um.” Troy drummed his fingers on the edge of the bench, near the guns and ammo. “How different are they? From each other, I mean?”
“Different weights, different recoil, different grips.” I glanced at him. “You might find a nine-mill is more comfortable than the other. Some people don’t like thirty-eights.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“I like the thirty-eight.”
“Should I try both?”
“Well, for starters, I’m going to have you shoot the .22.” I pointed at the rented gun. “Just so you can get a feel for holding a weapon and aiming before we start getting into the higher calibers.”
He gulped. “Okay.”
I showed him how to load the magazines and then slipped one into the rented pistol. I squeezed off a couple of shots. A gun like this didn’t make a hell of a lot of noise—they were basically glorified pellet guns—but Troy still jumped.
“You sure about this?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. Can I try it?”
I dropped the magazine, cleared the chamber, and handed it over to him. “Here. Just hold it for a second and get a feel for it. Always keep it pointed down-range, and assume it’s loaded even if you know it’s not.”
He held the gun and just stared at it for a moment. His focus was distant, and my pulse shot up.
I put a hand on his arm, and he startled so hard he almost dropped the pistol. “Hey, easy.” I cupped his hands in mine to steady the weapon. Then I carefully freed the gun and set it on the bench. “Troy, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“It’s…” He took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s just a little weird.” He met my gaze, the yellow-tinted safety lenses doing nothing to temper the intensity in his eyes. “You know how they say just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you?”
I nodded.
“I’ve kind of been in denial, I think. About…what’s going on. This”—he put his hand on the gun—“means it’s real.”
Oh, now it made sense.
And talk about getting a bit too real. Whatever the fuck was going on, he didn’t think this was overkill but rather something that made him accept the reality he hadn’t yet explained to me?
“Do you, uh, want to keep—”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He set his shoulders back and then picked up the gun. “Just needed a minute to think about it, I guess.”
And just like that, he’d put it behind him. Considered it, processed it, filed it away. When he raised the gun this time, the only discomfort he seemed to have was the natural awkwardness of someone who’d never handle a weapon like this before. Even that didn’t last long, and when he fired the gun…nothing. No startle. No revulsion. Whatever he’d had to mentally face down and get over, he’d faced down and gotten over.
So he could learn to shoot.
So he could protect himself.
From what?
Something a lot more real than I would have liked, that was for sure.
After he’d gone through a couple of magazines with the .22, I picked up my nine-millimeter. “This one’s a higher caliber. It’s going to have a bigger recoil.” I slapped the magazine into the gun. “I’ll fire off a few just to give you an idea.” I took three shots, and Troy didn’t seem at all fazed this time, so I pulled the slide back and then set the pistol on the bench. “Want to try it?”
He nodded. “Sure. Yeah.”
I thumbed open another box of ammo and pulled out the tray. “Let’s load these up and I’ll have you try the nine-mill.”
After we’d loaded the magazines, I handed him the pistol.
“This one’s going to have some more recoil,” I said. “You’ll want to make sure your stance is good and solid. It’s not enough to knock you off balance, but some of the larger calibers will, so get the hang of it now, and you’ll be in good shape.”
He adopted the stance I’d shown him—feet shoulder width apart, leaning slightly forward, but when he raised the gun, it was a bit low.
I reached for his wrist but hesitated.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“You’re aiming just a tad low.” I grasped his wrist and tipped the weapon up slightly. “Try it like that.”
“I won’t shoot the target hanger?”
“No. See? Your shots are mostly in the lower half of the target. You can still come up quite a bit before the target hanger’s in any danger.”
“Oh. Okay.”
His eyes flicked toward the gun. So did mine.
And I realized I still had my hand under his. I quickly withdrew it, muttering, “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he murmured so quietly I almost didn’t hear him through my ear protection.
He kept the gun higher as I’d suggested, but he’d shifted his weight to his back foot, putting his center of gravity too far back. I curled my fingers at my side, debating crossing that line again.
“Here, you’re leaning back a bit too far.”
“I am?” He adjusted but went a little too far the other direction. “Is this better?”
“It’s…almost. You want to be…”
To hell with it—my comfort was less important than Troy having a good, solid stance. I touched his hip, pretending not to notice the way his spine straightened as I did, and telling myself the shudder I felt was his, not mine.
“Bring your hip back just a little.” I tugged at his hip slightly, and even through my ear protection heard the slight catch of his breath. I quickly withdrew my hand. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He shifted a bit. “Is, uh, this better?”
“Yeah.” Intending to give him another instruction, I took in a breath, but over the gun oil and metal and lead and powder caught the distinctly masculine scent of him.
Because I was standing close to him. Way closer than I needed to be. Way too damned close.
I forgot what the hell I’d been about to say to him. What the hell we were doing in the first place.
“Is this—” Troy turned his head slightly, and he jumped when we almost touched. “Is this right?”
No, I’m pretty sure everything about this is very, very—
I cleared my throat and subtly drew back. “Yeah. You’re good. Lean forward just a touch, and you’ve got it.”
He adjusted his stance. Thank God I’d moved—that little shift in his hips would’ve made his ass rub against me, and nobody needed that to happen. Not here. Not between the two of us.
What the fuck is the matter with me?
I shook my head and inspected his stance, making sure he was holding the weapon correctly. Long fingers, black-painted nails, grasping—
“You’re good,” I said, almost choking on my own voice. “Try a few shots.”
The muscles in his forearm rippled slightly as he adjusted his grasp, as he curled his finger around the trigger and slowly applied pressure.
The gun went off. Troy wasn’t the one to jump out of his skin that time, though. The second shot reverberated through me, right down into my toes. I stepped back a little, ostensibly giving him some more space and totally not trying to keep him from seeing me jump.
Fuck. I really needed to get my head together. Troy was attractive as hell, but he was someone I had no business laying a hand on. Or thinking about. Too young, too rattled, and way too much my professional responsibility.
But as he fired away, hyperfocused and steady in spite of his earlier hesitation with the gun, I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering.
Troy pulled the trigger again, but it just clicked this time. He dropped the magazine, laid the gun on the bench, and faced me. “How was that?”
Hot.
“Good,” I croaked. “Excellent. How does it feel?”
He met my eyes. “Good. Can
I try the other one?”
“Sure. Yeah. Just need to load a—” I glanced at the stack of ammo boxes. “Damn. I forgot to get .38 ammo. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I left him at the bench. On my way into the shop, I paused in the buffer room, closed my eyes, and took a few breaths. Fuck. I was a mess, and I didn’t even know why.
The hell I didn’t know why.
Physical attraction notwithstanding, there was just something about Troy that drove me insane. He may have thought everyone believed he was crazy and that he was a coward, but I didn’t see that at all. I saw someone with the chutzpah to keep on keeping on even when he was scared shitless and didn’t think he had any genuine support. Not too macho to know when he needed help, not too proud to admit he was scared, but no way in hell was he hiding in his dad’s huge house.
I shook my head and pushed open the door. As I took off my hearing protection and approached the counter, I glanced at the window that looked out on the lanes.
Troy leaned against the bench, playing on his phone as a few strands of black hair fell over his protective glasses.
Damn it. He wasn’t my type. He was my responsibility.
And I was out of my fucking mind.
Several boxes of ammo, half a dozen rented guns, and God knew how many targets later, Troy set a Para Ordnance .45 on the bench and gingerly wrung his hands.
He’d been jumpy when we’d arrived but wasn’t so much anymore. Which was good—all the other lanes were occupied by now, and several people had brought what could only be described as hand cannons. I was pretty sure someone had a .44 magnum a few lanes over, and I thought I’d heard someone mention loading up a Desert Eagle. Because what indoor range was complete without some dickbag firing off .50 caliber rounds?
I flipped the switch and brought the target closer. “Wow. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”
Troy laughed. “I think I’d remember if I had.”
“True. But damn, Troy.” I gestured at the three holes he’d punched in the paper. “Most people can’t even hit inside the black their first time. This is a pretty tight pattern.” I turned to him and smiled. “Nicely done. You’re a crack shot.” I tossed an empty ammo box into the trash. “Keep that up, you might have to get competitive.”
Troy laughed, still wringing his hands. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
“How are your hands holding up?”
“They’re getting pretty tired.”
“Ready to call it a day?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He glanced at me. “Any chance I can talk you into doing this again?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You want to?”
“Definitely.” His small smile—shy? Something else?—made me shiver for reasons I refused to let myself think about. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
And repeated exposure to you with a gun and looking so focused makes Iskander crazy.
“Right. Definitely.” I forced a smile. “Well, let’s get all of this cleaned up and get out of here. Somebody else is probably waiting to rent this lane.”
After we’d cleared out the lane and returned the rental guns, we left the shop. On the way out to the car, he rubbed his hands gingerly.
“Sore?” I asked.
“A little.” He managed a slight smile. “I’ll be okay.”
“Well, don’t be surprised if they’re a little bruised tomorrow.”
“Good to know.” Then he stopped. “Iskander.”
I turned around. “Hmm?”
“Why are we here?”
I blinked. “So you could learn to shoot.”
His brow furrowed just slightly. “But I can’t own a handgun. I can’t carry one.”
“Not yet.” Why was his scrutiny making it so difficult for me to stand still? “But your dad told me you’re twenty-one in a few months. My plan is that by that point, you’ll be comfortable and confident with a gun if you choose to carry one.”
He held my gaze with one that was intense, but in a way that strangely contradicted the eyeliner and piercings. As if the person looking at me was the real Troy, not the one who acted as a mask to protect himself.
“Why?” he asked, barely whispering. “I mean, it’s your day off. And no one else has done something like this.” He gestured at the range. “Why are…” He pursed his lips, as if he wasn’t sure how to word the question. “I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong. I’m just not sure I understand why.”
I swallowed and took a step closer to him. “I can’t be with you every second of the day. And there’s going to be times when you don’t want me or anyone else with you. I want…I want to be sure you’re safe even when you’re on your own.”
“Thank you,” he breathed.
We locked eyes. When the hell had he moved? Because though I’d taken a step, I sure as hell hadn’t been the one to get us this close together. I swore we’d condensed an entire universe into just a few inches of space, the air between us thrumming with more energy than the parking lot around us could have contained.
We were almost touching now. Close enough it wouldn’t have taken much to bridge the gap, that was for sure, and being this close to Troy was unnerving. It was impossible to ignore why I was supposed to be here, because all I could think about was why I wanted to be here. Why he was too close for comfort, and why he was still too damned far away.
This was so wrong on so many different levels. It shouldn’t have been this difficult to look away from him, never mind this difficult to look at him. It damn sure shouldn’t have made me think about that moment when I’d been helping him correct his stance.
Troy took a breath. “You’re not humoring me.” His brow furrowed slightly. “You actually believe me, don’t you?”
I swallowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“No one else does.”
“Your father does. And from the sound of it, your therapist.”
“You know what I mean.”
I shifted a little and managed to subtly put a couple of inches between us. “Yeah, I do. And yes, I do believe you. I’ve got your back. It’s what I’m here for.”
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I was starting to think I didn’t have any allies except my dad.”
“You do. And even if the rest of the security team doesn’t believe you, they’ll still do their job. Anyone fucks with you? They’ll drop ’em before you even know what’s happening.”
“I know. I guess it just helps to know some people believe me.” He laughed dryly. “Since sometimes I’m the one who thinks I’m crazy.”
“You’re not.”
“Well, that’s debatable depending on who you ask.” He gave another quiet laugh, and it was a bit more genuine, so I laughed too.
Then we continued across the parking lot and got into my car. I put my pistol in the lockbox, and Troy tucked it under the seat.
As I put the key in the ignition, he said, “I’m curious about something.”
“Yeah?”
His scrutiny was unnerving, and I struggled not to look away. Finally, he said, “Would we still be doing this if you weren’t my bodyguard?”
“I wouldn’t be here at all if they hadn’t ordered—”
“I mean, if you weren’t getting paid to guard me, but you still knew. Would that”—he gestured back at the range—“still have happened?”
And suddenly I didn’t know if he meant the shooting lesson, or those moments when we’d gotten a little too close.
I swallowed. “If you’re asking if the only reason I give a shit about you is because I’m professionally obligated…” I raised my eyebrows.
He sat a little straight and nodded.
“In that case, yes.” I met his eyes. “Everything we did in there still would’ve happened.”
Our eyes locked.
Everything, I
skander?
Fuck. Fuck, that’s not what I meant.
Is it?
He dropped his gaze. “We should go.”
“Yeah. We should.”
We made it out of the parking lot and a few blocks down Virginia Beach Boulevard before Troy finally spoke again.
“By the way, whether it’s because it’s your job or not…” He turned to me. “Thank you.”
I glanced at him. “You’re welcome.”
And the rest of the drive was silent.
Chapter Ten
I had hoped that in the light of day, without the guns and the accidentally erotic movement, I’d see clearly again that I was supposed to be on the lookout for danger, not watching for that hint of a smile or the glint in his eyes that may as well have been hard-wired to every nerve ending in my body. Of course, that turned out to be as effective as pretending I’d never jerked off to thoughts of him and we had never exchanged any loaded glances in the back room of a library.
It was a valiant effort, I supposed, but I should’ve known it wasn’t going to happen.
Still, I made it through our classes, hanging on every word our professors said and noting them in longhand just to give myself something to concentrate on besides Troy sitting two feet away. All the way home, we listened to some country music, tapping our fingers and both focusing on the road, which saved us from trying to make conversation. A little awkward, but better than saying—or doing—something we shouldn’t have.
As soon as we got to the house, Troy went upstairs, and I headed into the security office to check out. The night guys were there—MA1 Johnson and MA2s Paulson and Hicks—so I shot the shit with them for a few minutes, but I didn’t stick around long since they had rounds to make and paperwork to finish.
I made it halfway to the front door, and stopped dead in my tracks.
Troy stood in the foyer, peering out the window beside the door, his face the very picture of concentration, and one of the dogs whining and fidgeting beside him.