by Leslie North
With a shake of his head, he turned to put the box holding the additional inventory back on the shelf when the bells over the front entrance rang again. He said without turning, “Welcome to Ask Questions Later Firearms and Training. How may I help you today?”
“If I get the training, from you, will you sell me a gun?” a now-familiar female voice said.
Clint’s heart stumbled like a drunken sailor before he turned slowly to face the woman from the day before. She was back, that cute kid of hers still in her arms. Today, the boy was decked out in a pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt bearing the logo of the local NBA team. Good taste in sports. The kid stretched out a hand toward Clint and grinned, making a bunch of excited gibberish noises. At first, he panicked, thinking maybe the little guy mistook him for his father, but then Clint realized the boy was staring past him at the colorful poster of the Nevada desert behind him on the wall.
Clint couldn’t help grinning back at the little boy. He really was adorable, all big black eyes and curly dark hair, just like his momma. Before he could stop himself, Clint leaned forward on his elbows on the counter and started talking to the kid. “You like that picture, huh? Lots of pretty colors, right? I like them too. Reminds me of the desserts back in Kandahar.”
The woman cleared her throat and gave him a pointed stare. “Will you train me or not?”
He straightened and blinked at her a second. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she kept tapping one foot on the carpeted floor as if she were in a hurry. Given her nervousness the day before and the way she continued to periodically check over her shoulder, he knew something wasn’t right. Normally, the gun range was open to everyone during normal business hours, no appointment necessary. First come, first served. But she didn’t know that, and Clint wasn’t inclined to tell her either. Not yet, anyway. Not until he found out exactly what she was so scared of.
He gestured for her to follow him into his office. It was a particularly slow day again and he could monitor the front door through the camera feeds on the computer in his office. If anyone came in, he’d help them.
Once inside the small room, he closed the door behind them and took a seat behind his desk while she sat in one of the chairs in front of it. He’d not really changed anything in here since taking over from the previous owner. The walls were still the same plain beige and the carpet the same basic brown as in the store. The one addition he’d made was a large picture of his team, taken on the last day of their last mission together in Qatar. They were on a white sandy beach near Doha, all smiles after completing another successful assignment. He missed them all every day, but having their picture in his office helped a bit.
The kid seemed enraptured by the photo and Clint baby-talked to him again for a bit before glancing up to find the woman watching him with an odd expression—a mix of shock, suspicion, and softness. A strange tug pulled at his heart as Clint coughed to clear the weird constriction from his throat and pulled out a blank registration form. “Okay. Let’s get started then, shall we? This form is required by the state of Nevada prior to the sale of a firearm. Since your hands are full, I’ll ask you the questions and write down your answers.”
He glanced up at the woman and she nodded. “Great. First and last name?”
“Leila Ortiz.”
Clint jotted it down. “Age?”
“Twenty-five.” She adjusted the kid on her lap. “Will I be able to take the gun home today?”
“As long as you pass the background check and complete the requisite ten hours of training on the gun range, I don’t see why not.” He exhaled slow and narrowed his gaze on her. “Reason for purchase of firearm?”
She hesitated, so slightly that he would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely. “Safety.”
“Right.” Clint nodded and frowned down at the form. “There’s lots of ways to secure your home without bullets.”
“It’s not my home I’m worried about,” she said, under her breath, snuggling her son closer. “Why do you care?”
“No reason,” he said, shrugging while he looked up again, making eye contact. “Just curious.”
“Don’t be.” Her dark gaze turned steely. “I can take care of myself.”
“I believe you.” Clint felt a smile forming on his lips but suppressed it. He did admire a strong woman, though he didn’t think she’d appreciate him voicing that opinion at the moment. “I’m not trying to be nosy. It’s just that my knowing what your goals are for owning a firearm will help me ensure that you receive the proper training to use it. Someone who wants to shoot recreationally has different needs than someone who’s, say, trying to fend off a stalker. In the case of the second, you’d probably want to also get a permit to carry concealed.”
It was a shot in the dark, but one he hoped might get her to open up a bit more.
“No stalker. Just safety.” Her brisk tone effectively slammed the door on him. “The permit might not be a bad idea, though. Are there any more questions on that form I need to answer or can we get to the next step?”
They went through her social security number, address, and phone number, then Clint faxed the form off for her background check while they filled out her concealed-carry permit information then went back out into the showroom to pick out a firearm.
“You never did answer me yesterday,” she said, perusing the selections in one of the cases. “Which one is best for someone my size? My hands are smaller, so I’d need to take that into consideration.”
“Sure.” He moved around her in the small shop, careful not to brush against her, though he did catch her scent—fresh and floral with a hint of soap. Awareness prickled his skin before he shoved it aside and pulled out a gun from the display. “You mentioned Glocks, which are good, but honestly, for you I’d recommend the Lugar LC9. It’s 9mm, has a seven-round, single stack magazine, and is well-suited for smaller framed shooters and those wishing to carry their weapon concealed.” He placed it atop the glass display case along with a fresh magazine of bullets. “Should we go try it out on the range?” He checked his watch. “Probably another half hour or so before the background check’s complete.”
“Yes, please.” She stared down at the firearm like it might explode in her face and adjusted the little boy in her arms. “Not sure what to do with him though.”
“Hmm. Hang on a minute.” Clint walked to the front door and looked over at the small souvenir shop down the way. The Native American woman who owned it had been in the area for longer than the gun range had been in business. Suzie was in her sixties and a grandmother. Her place looked as empty as the gun range right now. Maybe she would watch the kid for a bit. One short phone call and a few minutes later, an older woman with glasses and a long black ponytail walked in. “Hey, Suzie.” Clint waved her toward the back of the store where he and Leila were waiting. “Let me introduce you to my customer, Leila Ortiz. And this is her son…”
“Thomas,” Leila said. “Are you sure you don’t mind watching him?”
“Not at all,” Suzie said, grinning and presenting little Thomas with a handmade buffalo toy from her shop. “I’ve got two granddaughters about his age that I don’t see nearly enough. I’m happy to do it. Is he two?”
“Eighteen months,” Leila said, passing the little boy off to her. He snatched the buffalo and squealed in delight, shoving its head straight into his mouth and giggling. “He’s teething.”
“Well, that’s just fine.” Suzie bounced the boy in her arms and laughed. “We’ll hang out in here while you two go and take care of business. Don’t worry about a thing. He’s safe with me.”
Leila still seemed to waver a bit, but Clint did his best to reassure her. “She’s trustworthy, I promise. And we won’t be gone long. Just need to show you how to load the gun and fire it and make sure it’s comfortable for you to use. C’mon.”
Reluctantly, Leila handed over the diaper bag with Thomas’s things, and then followed Clint into the soundproofed gun range. Thei
r footsteps echoed off the long concrete room and the lingering scent of gunpowder hung in the air. Clint went through the mechanics of the gun and explained how to chamber a round and change the magazine. Then he showed her the safety and how to turn it on and off. Then he unloaded the gun and had her go through all the steps herself. He had her repeat it all back to him. Then, finally, they were ready to shoot.
“Okay. Rules to remember. One, always treat every firearm as if it’s loaded at all times. Two, always keep the firearm pointed in a safe direction, a direction where an accidental discharge would cause minimal property damage and zero physical injury. Three, always keep your finger off the trigger and outside the trigger guard until you’ve made the conscious decision to shoot. And four, always be sure of your target, backstop and beyond. Meaning always know what’s in your line of fire, even beyond the thing you’re aiming at. Understand?”
Leila nodded, swallowing hard.
“Good.” Clint moved in beside her, his own Sig Sauer in his hand to demonstrate. “You want to hold the gun high on the back of the grip with your dominant hand. This will give you more leverage against the weapon and help you control the recoil when you fire.” She tried to do as he asked and he moved in closer to shift her hand position. “Great. Okay. Next, place your support hand—the non-dominant one—firmly around the exposed part of the grip. All four fingers of your support hand should be below the trigger guard with your index finger pressed hard underneath it.” He adjusted her hand accordingly, doing his best to concentrate on the task at hand and not the warm curves pressed against him. Now wasn’t the time, or the place, or the person. It would be totally inappropriate to hit on a customer just because he’d been too long without a woman. “Like with your gun hand,” he lectured, struggling to stay professional, “you want your support hand as high up as possible with the thumb pointing forward, roughly where the slide meets the frame. Your two hands should fit together, like a puzzle.”
“Wow. This is a lot more complicated than I expected,” Leila said, giving a low chuckle that Clint felt clear to his toes. “Way more than point and shoot.”
“Told you.” He grinned over at her, his heart squeezing with warmth at her return smile. It was the first time he’d seen her look happy and it was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. He inhaled sharply and forced his mind back to business. “Right. Okay. We’re ready to assume the extended shooting position. You want to stand with your feet and hips shoulder width apart. This will allow you to fire the weapon with stability and mobility. Then raise your weapon toward your target.”
He pointed toward the paper target at the end of her lane and she did as Clint asked.
“You really know a lot about this stuff,” Leila said as he moved behind her to adjust her stance. “You were in the military?”
“Yep. Navy SEAL for around fifteen years.”
“Impressive.”
“I hear that a lot,” he joked, leaning in to make another small adjustment to her arm position. His front pressed to her back and she turned slightly, putting their mouths mere inches apart. His gaze dropped to her soft pink lips and time seemed to slow slightly.
If they’d met under different circumstances, if they’d known each other better, he might’ve kissed her then.
As it was, he stepped back and exhaled slowly, gathering his scattered thoughts together. “All right. Back to business.” He didn’t miss the pink tinge to her cheeks. Seemed he wasn’t the only one feeling this instant connection between them. “Aiming your gun.” He talked her through the steps, waiting for her nod of understanding each time.
“Now, we get ready to fire.”
“Pull the trigger?” she asked.
“Not yet. And you don’t actually pull it. It’s more of a squeeze or press. Apply constant, increasing pressure on the trigger until the weapon fires.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder and he nodded, sliding on a pair of protective ear phones and handing her some as well. She put them on then he mouthed, “Go for it.”
She resumed her stance, squinted, and fired, jolting slightly then grinning as the reverberation of the discharge echoed through the gun range. Leila pulled off her headphones and squealed with joy, just like her son had earlier. “I did it!”
“You hit the target. Good job. Not center mass, but flesh wounds can hurt like hell.” Clint couldn’t help laughing along with her. Her enthusiasm was contagious. “Okay. Let’s try it again. See if that gun’s the right fit for—”
The button he’d set up in the shop for customers to get his attention when he was on the range buzzed loudly, cutting him off. Suzie’s face peeked through the window.
Clint rushed over to answer it. “Yeah? Everything okay?”
“Yes. Everything’s fine with us.” Suzie bounced the happy boy in her arms. “There’s something wrong with your vehicle though,” she said to Leila. “We went outside for a minute and it looks like your tire’s flat.”
“Damn.” Leila clicked on the safely on her weapon and handed it to Clint. “I just had the tires changed a few months ago. There shouldn’t be any problems with them.”
Tires went flat all the time—any bit of debris on the road could get wedged inside them and cause damage. Clint knew that. And yet, some instinct told him more was happening here. Something connected to Leila’s desperate need for a gun, her skittishness about telling him the truth. The way she was obviously terrified. The flat tire was probably nothing…but if it turned out to be something, he wasn’t going to let her face it alone. He kept hold of his firearm and followed her toward the front door. “Let me take a look for you and see what’s going on.”
“This was deliberately slashed,” he said, crouching beside the right front tire. From his tone, he didn’t sound surprised at all, which only increased the dread boiling inside Leila. Clint stood and put his hands on his hips, squinting at her through the bright sunshine. “Want to tell me what’s really happening here?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then glanced over at her son, still in Suzie’s arms. He was giggling and playing with his toy like he hadn’t a care in the world. She wanted to keep it that way. Would do anything, make any sacrifice to make sure Thomas grew up safe and happy. Having help with that would be such a relief, such a burden off her shoulders. But Clint was a virtual stranger, even if he had been kind and helpful so far.
No. She wasn’t ready to take that next step with him yet. Maybe not ever. She’d learned the hard way to keep her secrets well-hidden. Leila shook her head and focused on her mangled tire. Damn her vindictive ex to hell and back again. “What’s happening is I need to figure out how to get this fixed pronto. I have to get to work later.”
Clint frowned, his expression clearly stating that he saw right through her bullshit answer. He shifted his weight and crossed his arms, his muscles working beneath his tanned skin. He wasn’t built like someone who spent hours in the gym, toning their bodies and guzzling protein shakes to within an inch of their lives. No. Clint was built like a man who used his body for good, hard, honest work and he had the tanned, slightly weathered skin to go with it. He’d mentioned being a former SEAL. That would certainly account for his appearance and fitness level. She forced her gaze away from his taut thighs and the way those faded jeans of his perfectly moulded to them as he said, “Where do you work? I can take you. Shop’s slow today anyway, so it’s not like I’d be losing any business. We can call a tow truck to take your vehicle to the nearest tire shop.”
Leila thought about lying to him outright, but that wasn’t her nature. So, instead, she waved him off with a vague, “I work at the dental clinic in town. And don’t worry about it. I’ve got a spare in the trunk. If you can help me get that on, I’ll be fine. Thanks though.”
“The cut on that tire is pretty deep,” he pressed. “Looks like maybe they used a knife. Maybe we should call the police and report it. It’s vandalism, if nothing else,” he said, watching her closely. Too closely for Leila’s comfort. Those blue e
yes of his were far too perceptive.
She did her best not to fidget as heat prickled her cheeks that had nothing to do with bright sun above. “No. No police. I’m sure whoever did this is long gone by now.” Liar. “Seriously, you’ve gone through enough trouble on my behalf today, with the shooting lesson and all. Like I said, if you can just help me get the spare on, that would be great. I’ve got it from there. I’ll take the car in to the tire shop once I’ve gotten paid next week.”
Clint was silent for a long moment, long enough to make her think that perhaps he wasn’t going to drop this. But then he sighed and cursed under his breath. “Fine. I’ll get this tire changed for you and then we’ll discuss your next lesson.”
Her heart tripped with gratefulness and anticipation. She clicked the button on her key fob to open the trunk with shaky fingers. “Next lesson?”
“Yeah,” he said, rummaging around to find the jack and her spare, along with a tire iron beneath the panel in the floor. He pulled them out then got to work. Leila did her best not to stare at his perfectly-formed butt or the hint of smooth tanned skin on his lower back peeking out from beneath the hem of his T-shirt. This was crazy. She had her ex stalking her and her young son to consider, and yet she was allowing this man, this stranger, to get her all hot and bothered. Not good. Not good at all.
He continued, forcing her to concentrate on his words and not his hot bod. “Today was just a basic introduction. If you want to become competent with handling a firearm, you’ll need practice and additional training. Safety first. Always.”
Finally, something they could both agree on.