by J. C. Cliff
Deadly bullet? My eyes go wide with dismay as I shudder at the thought. “I’m not sure how I feel about all this. Can’t I use something less lethal?” I suggest with a worried expression on my face.
“If I give you anything less than this caliber, there is the likelihood of the bullet not penetrating the perpetrator, and then you wouldn’t have delivered a lethal blow.”
“What if I don’t want to deliver a lethal blow?” I ask with uncertainty. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
“Jules, this isn’t a game.” Travis eyes me solemnly, his voice stern. “We don’t shoot to hinder and maim; we pull the trigger to kill.”
I’m shocked; the palm of my hand flies up toward my face as I cover my mouth, and I gasp half-horrified through my fingers. “What the hell am I into, Travis?” I ask searching through the stone wall expression on his face. How is he able to act so calm, collected, and unaffected, while I feel like jumping up and down in freak-out mode? “Who would be after me to the point where they would want to kill me, and in turn, I would have to beat them to the punch by killing them first?”
I watch as the muscles in his jaw clench with significant intensity. He turns his head to the side and gazes out into the woods. I look to the edge of the forest too, but don’t see anything. He’s lost in his thoughts, staring far away at nothing in particular. After a moment of silence, he lets out a weary sigh and briefly closes his eyes.
He turns back to me, cocking his head to the side while he squints his eyes against the bright sunlight, his tone beseechingly imploring. “This is the part where I need you to run on blind faith. We just went over this, Jules. We discussed the need for you to trust me.” Desperation begins to line his voice while he shakes his head. “Please, I am begging you; do not put me in this precarious position. It will only continue to frustrate us both.”
God, I want to give him every ounce of my trust, but something keeps holding me back. It’s the unsolved puzzle surrounding me, and it’s full of danger apparently, but he’s right—if we’re going to make any forward progress, I need to give him something. I steal a deep breath and nod. “You’re right, but if you were in my situation, I’m sure you could understand why I have so many questions, especially since we’re talking about guns and killing.”
“You’re right, and you’re handling it a lot better than I ever could hope to.” He cups my cheek as his thumb tenderly strokes along my lower lip, and gazes into my eyes. “I’m very proud of you; I hope you know that. I think you’re a very strong and courageous woman, and I will never take your trust for granted. I’m not gonna let you down.” He then leans in, giving me a chaste kiss on my lips and whispers, “I promise.”
He pulls away from me, getting right back to business, and I already miss his tender touch. Picking up the gun, he starts talking about safety and goes over handling techniques, and after about ten minutes, I try valiantly to pay attention, but honestly, he could be speaking a foreign language right now for all I know. I don’t know, nor do I care about the differences between this caliber and that millimeter. It’s one thing to have a thousand bullets of different sizes, but it’s a whole other matter having to work between the metric system and whatever other system.
He’s talking about a 9 mm, and a .45 caliber, and a paraba-something…oh, my gosh. Just shoot me now. All I need to know is what bullet is supposed to go into what gun, and I’ll be good to go. I don’t need to know all the whys and wherefores; it’s just too much for me to digest. I wonder if all men are this way when it comes to firearms, getting overly technical, and veering off track by talking about what each sized bullet is capable of. Then my brain goes off on a tangent, wondering why we Americans didn’t adopt the metric system. Who invented all this confusion?
He’s so engrossed in telling me the semantics of...ah hell...I have no idea what he’s trying to say. Who am I kidding? I’m not even listening, and I can’t seem to focus. All I can do with any bit of concentration is lust after the man. His hard chest is now at my back, and his arms are wrapped around me as we face the target. Both of his hands are placed over mine while I hold the gun in my hands. Pointing the Sig at the target, he speaks instructions softly in my ear and my eyes flutter closed. His rich voice sends lascivious thoughts to the forefront of my brain. I nod as if I comprehend what he’s telling me. He really has no idea how sexy and distracting he is, especially when I get a whiff of his musky, masculine scent; it’s game over. He radiates a pheromone that must permeate into the cell structure of every woman within a hundred mile radius, and me being up close and personal, I feel dysfunctional at every turn.
I glance to my right and wish I hadn’t. He’s even sexier in a ball cap. The bill of his hat is pulled down low over his eyes, and as he lifts his chin up, his sparkling green eyes pierce mine from underneath it and I lose my breath. I spy those soft, kissable lips begging me to run my tongue across their opening and to slip in...
“Jules...are you listening?” Snapping me out of my daydream, I blink my eyes several times as his voice phases back in. It’s not until he places his thumb on top of my lower lip, pulling it out from between my teeth that I even realize I was biting it. I feel his chest vibrate against my back as he lets out a hearty chuckle at my expense. “Damn, baby. If you look at any man the way you just looked at me, you won’t need a gun. You’re a lethal weapon in your own right.”
I blush red and find myself averting my eyes, looking to the ground in front of me. He lets go of my hand and lifts my chin, forcing me to look up at him. A sexy grin plays on his lips as he leans forward and lightly captures mine in a slow, seductive, and wet kiss. “You’re so damn sexy when you blush, you know that?” he mumbles against me, and I shiver, once again allowing him to turn my brain to mush.
We wind up spending the next hour shooting at practice targets and going over self-defense strategies. Then he tells me we will eventually exchange out paper targets for human-shaped ones to get me used to the ‘real thing’. When I ask him why, he tells me killing a ‘target’ becomes more automatic when you practice on more than just paper, turning more instinctive so when push comes to shove, I will be able to run on autopilot and fire the weaponry without giving it a second thought. I understand what he’s saying and why he’s doing it, but I don’t like it, not one bit.
By the time he’s packed away the gun case and puts it away, we’re both drenched in sweat. He was right; it has gotten more miserably muggy outside. The air is stiflingly humid. He reaches into a cooler and pulls out a bottle of ice-cold water, and my mouth suddenly goes dry as I watch the water drip from the plastic bottle. I eye the bottle with thirst as he unscrews the lid then hands it to me. As I take a long drink, letting the crisp liquid quench my dehydration, he asks, “Do you still feel like baking yourself outside?”
I take one last swallow and hand the bottle back to him. “I think the oven timer went off thirty minutes ago, and I am well done.”
I watch as he gulps the drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat with each swallow. Then I notice his entire throat, and how it has sweat beads trailing a path down the thickly roped muscles in his neck. He looks like he could be in a Gatorade commercial. I quickly glance over him head-to-toe and think to myself, He is definitely all man. Just the mere sight of him stirs something inside me, and even though we just made love a few hours ago, I feel like I want him again, sweat and all.
When he drinks the last of the water, he puts the empty container back inside the cooler, grabs another full bottle, and then slams the lid shut. He turns to me and tilts his head to the side, his lips curving into a warm smile, showcasing his stark white teeth. “You did a fantastic job today, Jules. You had some really good shot groupings; you’re a natural,” he says encouragingly.
“Thank you, Travis. It helps that you’re a patient instructor.” You’re also a very distracting instructor.
“Well, we’re going to practice this every day, and sometimes twice a day. The more you become familiar w
ith this gun and how to shoot it, the more it becomes second nature to you to handle it with proficiency.”
He nods his head with a slight jerk toward the woods as he holds out his hand, inviting me to take it. “Come on, I want to show you something.” As an afterthought, he pauses, turns around, and grabs an aerosol can from his bag on the picnic table. “I almost forgot; you’re probably going to want some bug spray,” he says, wearing a wide grin.
My eyes grow wide. I didn’t even think about those mammoth bugs being underfoot. Travis shakes his head and chuckles. “It’s not what you’re thinking. This is tick repellant.”
I close my eyes and let out a pained sigh. “Lovely, just lovely; something tells me I’ve never been a big outdoorsy kind of girl,” I complain as Travis begins spraying me down. When he’s done with the task of protecting me from the creatures of the wild, I take his hand and we start walking…and walking…and walking. I feel as if I’ve hiked a country mile through thick terrain, even though I know it’s only been about five minutes, but it feels like forever since it’s so hot outside. Even though we’re out of the direct sunlight, and the trees overhead are providing much needed shade, the air is just as humid since the coastal breeze is gone.
The woods are so thick, and I’d bet they’re almost as dense as any jungle in South America. I look off to the side every now and then, catching glimpses of tunnels going through the thick underbrush. How bizarre. As I walk behind Travis, I yank on his shirttail, my eyes too fixated to remove them from the large burrows trailing off into the forest. “Travis, who made these deep channels through the woods?”
“Baby, I’m not sure you really want to know the answer to that question.”
Okay, now he has my curiosity piqued, and I do want to know. I tear my gaze from the greenery and look up at him. “Tell me, please.”
“All right...” he pauses, sounding as if I’ll be sorry for asking, “…bears actually make those tunnels. That’s how they make their way through the thick underbrush.”
“Bears!” I exclaim. I can feel my heart slam inside my chest at the thought of one jumping out of those holes.
Travis laughs at me, finding my fear of bears amusing. “Don’t worry; they feel the same way, and don’t want to run into you either.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better,” I retort. Even though he has a pistol, being out here in the wild has me thinking this isn’t one of Travis’ brighter plans, and I second guess why he has me out here in the first place. “Where are we going anyway?” I ask, feeling the sweat roll down my back.
“Patience, baby. We’re almost there.”
I look up from the trail momentarily, pausing from my job of bear watching to admire Travis, who is now a few steps ahead of me, and notice his drenched shirt. I grin from ear to ear at the sight before me as I move my gaze to his fine ass. I would walk 1,000 miles in the smoldering desert as long as this fine specimen stayed in front of me the entire way. His broad, muscular shoulders are outlined in his wet, stretchy t-shirt, and his strong legs and thighs are like a gladiator’s. Holy hell. All of his muscles are flexing and exuding sheer strength and power with each step he takes.
Travis glances over his shoulder and catches me ogling him. His shoulders shake as he chuckles. “If you don’t watch where you’re going, you’re going to trip over a rock or a tree limb, darlin’.”
Mmm, falling may not be such a bad thing. If I trip, I may just tumble right into his fine physique. “Wouldn’t you break my fall?” I tease.
“Every damn time, baby, every damn time.” The way he says it, professing his guardianship over me, warms my heart and makes me smile on the inside.
Eventually, we come to a stop in the middle of nowhere, and as I look around, I see nothing but more bushes and trees. “Travis, is this a joke? Is this what you wanted to show me—the middle of the woods?”
“No, Jules. What I want to show you is over here.” He grabs me by the hand and takes a few more steps toward some thick bushes. My forehead crinkles; I’m so confused. I’m about to ask what he’s doing, but before I get the chance, he bends over and moves some branches out of the way, revealing a hidden keypad.
I gasp and take a step back as I watch him punch in a special code. Through the thick bushes, he uses his hands to search for something just below the lock. He grabs a large metal handle, which is camouflaged with different shades of foliage, hiding itself perfectly within the bushes.
I realize the bushes are fake when he begins to open a flora-covered door. Who in the world has this kind of stuff? Well, apparently Travis has this kind of stuff. Is this what I think it is: a hidden shelter? I have to ask myself just what kind of person Travis is that he would need to have an underground bunker. An uneasy feeling begins to wash over me as I shake my head at the thought. Is he the reason trouble is following me? Is this why I have to learn how to defend myself? For some unknown reason, perhaps out of a previous habit, I find myself clutching at the medallion around my neck.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be here; I feel the need to turn and run, but I don’t know where to go. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, trapped in a hall of locked doors. I’m only able to go through one door, which is Travis’, because I don’t have the key to my memory. I’m out in the middle of God-knows-where, deep in the woods with a man I truly don’t know, and I’m seemingly at his mercy. My stomach twists in a knot, not knowing what to think. I’m so confused and torn inside over what to do.
As Travis enters the bunker, I shift on my feet, having the urge to flee. He has to go down quite a few steps first, and then he reaches out to the wall and switches on a light. I stand on the other side of the threshold, shaking my head. Travis must see the growing panic in my eyes, because he stretches out his hand for me to grab, and in turn, I take another step backward.
“Sweetheart, trust me,” he pleads. “What you see is what you get with me; remember that. Think about all of the steps I’ve taken to keep you safe and take care of you. I’m not the enemy here, Jules.” He pauses briefly. “If I were, you sure as hell would know it.”
Now that I can believe, hands down. He looks like someone you don’t want to piss off, and the way he’s staring at me right now, I can’t tell what’s crossing his mind. I notice how he holds these stone-faced expressions sometimes, remaining impartial to his circumstances so he gives nothing away. He’s a master at it too, and sometimes it puts me on edge…like right now. When I don’t step forward, he continues to reason with me, softening his expression. “If I was the enemy, would I give you your own gun and teach you how to use it? Let alone show you my secret bunker?” Well, he does have a valid point there.
I shake my head. “No, but I’m getting a bit flooded with so many new and overwhelming things, Travis. You’re overloading me, and they’re not simple things for me to digest either. They’re huge.” I begin ticking off the growing list on my fingers. “In the midst of me remembering nothing about myself, I’m trusting you, running from bad people who apparently want me dead, learning how to shoot and kill with a pistol, and now you’re showing me an underground shelter, which I’m sure very few people in this world actually have.” Then I use my hand to dramatically draw a huge circle in the air over his hideout. “This...this is not normal, Travis,” I cry out.
I watch as he lets out a heavy sigh and briefly closes his eyes, and then he looks at me with remorse. “I know I’m throwing a lot on you, sweetheart, and you’re right; none of this is normal; if I could rewind time and change things, I would, but I can’t. I will tell you again, however, that you are a very strong and courageous woman. I’m showing this to you so I can help keep you safe. You’ve come this far; please don’t give up trusting me now.” He holds out his hand again for me to take, and I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the growing anxiety that wants to surface.
I let go of the medallion and reach out with my hand before I change my mind. Immediately, he pulls me down the steps and into his arms, holding my head tigh
tly against his chest. I can hear and feel his heart thumping hard against my ear, which strikes me as odd. I’m the one who’s stressed out. I didn’t think me questioning his motives at every turn would have him so uptight, but apparently, me trusting him is huge. I feel his lips as he keeps them firmly pressed to the top of my head, his deep baritone voice lined with regret as he tells me, “Oh, God, Jules. I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I promise there will be a normal for us soon.” His voice sounds almost pained, yet relieved I haven’t given up or lost my ever-loving mind over all this weirdness.
His continuous reassurances at every turn make me feel a hundred times better, and I relax in his arms. Suddenly, I realize the room temperature isn’t stifling hot in here as it should be, seeing how this was a closed up bunker and the fact it feels like a hundred degrees outside. My brows furrow together in question as I steal away from his arms and begin looking around the room in wonder. It feels comfortable and cool on the inside. “Do you have central air in here?” I ask in amazement.
He shakes his head. “We do, but there’s really not much need for conditioned air, since it’s built at least ten feet underground. The temperature stays pretty constant, even though we couldn’t bury the entire bunker. We had to pile mounds of dirt over the roof, making it a hill above us.”
“What is this place?” I ask, stepping directly into a little kitchen. I look around in awe; it looks as if someone buried a single-wide trailer into the earth. I expected spiders, cobwebs, and a cold concrete floor, but this is rather posh for a refuge. It’s fully furnished and outfitted for someone to actually live in. “And who is we?” I ask distractedly.
Travis moves up the stairs to shut the metal door with a final thud that reverberates throughout the room, and at the sound, I turn to face him.
“This shelter is a ‘turn-key’ kit,” he explains. “Stryker, a couple other buddies, and I purchased this model from a company a few years back. They’re the same guys who went in on the cabin with me.” He waves his hand around the room, gesturing to the space around me. “You could probably go so far as to say this is our personal reconnaissance hideaway.”