Meet You in the Middle

by Devon Daniels

  When the elevator thuds to a stop, he leads me out with a hand on my back. “I’m just over here,” he says, nodding to the right, and I follow a step behind him until he stops in front of a sporty dark blue SUV.

  “I’m clairvoyant,” I poke as he pulls open the passenger door for me to climb in.

  I’m immediately enveloped by the Ben-scent of his car, the masculine tang of leather seats commingled with his signature cinnamon. It must be some sort of mints—Altoids?—and as he crosses around to the driver’s side, I inhale so hard I probably sprain my sinuses. Can you orgasm from a scent? Because I’m dangerously close.

  His car is pristine, lending credence to what he said about not using it much. There’s no trash lying around, no empty containers of food, and no clutter, just a jacket laid across the back seat and an old parking stub in one of his cup holders.

  “They say the car you drive says a lot about you,” I comment as he reverses out of the space.

  “So what does my car say about me?”

  That you’re a neat freak who smells orgasmic.

  “That you’re a sensible father of three who coaches youth soccer.”

  He laughs. “More like I’m six-four and need leg room.”

  I snoop in his center console and discover a sleeve of CDs that I immediately pluck out, seizing the opportunity to mock his taste in music. I am not disappointed.

  “Fall Out Boy!” I hoot. “Ja Rule!” He tries to grab it but I hold it out of reach. “Creed! Oh, this is too good.”

  “Those were from high school, okay? I haven’t bought a CD in years.”

  He maneuvers us up and out of the parking garage, turning out onto Eighth Street. It’s barely five o’clock and we still have some light left, but the sky is starting to turn.

  I hold up another one. “The Jonas Brothers?”

  “It helped with the ladies.”

  “You should burn some of these. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for you.”

  “Like I wouldn’t find a One Direction CD in your car.”

  “I wasn’t into One Direction,” I sniff. “I prefer the smooth vocal stylings of *NSYNC.”

  He snorts. “Same difference.”

  “Are you a Backstreet Boys fan, then? Is that where this animosity is coming from?”

  He shakes his head sadly. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Oh look, you’ve redeemed yourself.” I select Tim McGraw’s Greatest Hits album and pop it into the CD slot.

  “You know, I have music on my phone we can listen to,” he says, holding it up. “Cars have these fancy things called Bluetooth these days.”

  “Nope, we’re going old-school now.” I skip forward until I find “Just to See You Smile” and immediately start singing along. “This is one of my favorites,” I tell him, semi-apologetically. Been in the car two minutes and I’m already playing radio commando.

  “One of?”

  “Well, they’re all my favorites.”

  “Tim fan, huh?”

  “I’m more than a fan.”

  Ben gestures to the radio. “Do you two need some time alone?”

  That cracks me up, and I’m relaxing for the first time tonight. I spot his wallet in the cup holder and rifle through it like a pickpocket, pulling out his license.

  “Ugh, you actually have a decent license photo. I can’t even find anything to make fun of.” I hold it up to his face to compare. “Shorter hair, though.”

  He grimaces. “I know. I need a haircut, but I keep putting it off. I have no time.”

  “I could cut it for you.”

  “You know how to cut hair?”

  “No. But how hard could it be?” I flash him my winningest smile.

  “Oh sure, like I’m going to let you near me with a pair of scissors.”

  “Says the man who’s about to put a gun in my hands.”

  He pauses. “Touché.”

  The reminder of our final destination subdues me a bit, and he must notice because he steers us toward neutral topics for the remainder of our drive. We chat easily, and when our surroundings eventually turn rural, stretches of farmland and sheared cornstalks lining the road, we compete to see who can spot more cows and horses, getting progressively punchier until we’re giggling like a couple of four-year-olds.

  Eventually he slows and turns into a wide, dirt-covered driveway. A large brick and glass-front building stretches out before us, a sign announcing RIGHT ON TARGET TACTICAL glowing beneath the roofline. The range is the only structure around, fronting a wide-open field. A handful of cars scatter the lot. I might be imagining the storm cloud of doom looming over the building.

  As soon as he parks, I hop out before he can open my door. I’m ready to get this over with.

  “Hold up a minute.”

  I turn as Ben walks to his trunk and pops the lift gate, pulling out a nondescript black bag.

  “Oh God. Is that it? Your gun?”

  He smiles like I’m funny. “Yes. These are my guns.”

  “Guns? As in plural? More than one?”

  “Yes, I own more than one gun.” He slams the lift gate closed, locking the car with a beep. “Three, to be exact.”

  “Three? Why do you need three guns?”

  “I don’t need three guns. I wanted three guns, so now I own three guns.” He prods me toward the door.

  “You’ve had them in your car this whole time?”

  I’m panicking. I take in my surroundings, belatedly realizing the dangerous situation I’ve placed myself in. I’ve traveled off the grid to an unknown location with my sworn enemy and his three guns. What if I’ve been a long con, and Ben’s taken me to a secluded field in Maryland to finally off me? I should text Stephen my coordinates.

  I’ve probably been watching too much House of Cards.

  Ben’s talking, blissfully unaware that I’m picturing him in a perp lineup. “I normally keep them in my apartment, but I put them in the car earlier. I had a feeling if you saw me carrying them, you’d run screaming.”

  It’s disturbing how well he knows me. “You feel correct.”

  He smirks and raises an eyebrow as if to say, See?

  I let him guide me through the door, then take a guarded look around my prison for the next hour. At first glance, the room looks like a typical retail store—albeit for the firearm obsessed. Shirts with gun graphics and slogans like SUNDAY GUN DAY and KEEP CALM AND PACK HEAT are hanging on clustered clothing racks. Displays of trucker hats and aviator sunglasses flank a long, wide countertop.

  What is not typical are the rows upon rows of menacing-looking assault rifles, shotguns, and handguns crisscrossing the walls.

  I stop dead in my tracks. Nope. I can’t do this. I shuffle backward, inching toward the door.

  When he glances over his shoulder and sees I’m moving in the wrong direction, he pivots, walks back, and stops in front of me. “Kate.”

  “So, here’s the thing. I thought I could do this, but it looks like I can’t. You can go in there and shoot it up, that’s cool. I’ll just wait for you in the car. I’ll have Tim to keep me company, so we’re good. Seriously, I think I’m going to be sick if I stand here a minute longer. And that’s no big deal, I guess, since you’ve already seen me do that, but it’s actually pretty embarrassing for me and I don’t—”

  He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me a little, crowding my field of vision. “Kate, look at me.”

  I drag my eyes from the wall of weaponry to his face. My feet itch to run out to the car. Or maybe all the way home.

  “You are not going to be shooting those guns. Don’t even look at them.”

  I plead silently with my eyes: Please don’t make me do this.

  “You’re only going to shoot my guns. They’re much smaller and totally manageable for you. I know how to use them, and I’m going
to teach you.” His voice is calm and steady. “There’s no reason to be nervous.”

  I let out a brittle laugh. “Nervous doesn’t begin to describe what I’m feeling. Terrified, maybe. Disturbed. Sickened.”

  “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Then another. He waits patiently, and when I open my eyes he raises his eyebrows in question. When I give him a small nod, he takes my hand firmly in his and leads me up to the counter.

  “Ben, how you doing, man?” A tall guy in a baseball cap leans over the counter, doing that shaking-hands, slap-on-the-back routine guys do. Of course they’re on a first-name basis. How often does Ben come here? He probably has a frequent shooter card.

  “Hey, Rick, I’m great. How are you?”

  “Good, man, I’m good.” His eyes flick to me. “And who’s this?”

  “I’ve got a newbie here. She needs some eyes and ears.” Ben glances at me and squeezes my hand. “And could you give us a lane that’s away from other people? If you can.”

  “Sure, I’ll put you at the end.” He nods at me. “She gonna be all right? She doesn’t look so good.” Gun Range Rick is very astute.

  “She’s a little nervous, but she’ll be all right.” The glance Ben shoots me is laced with pride. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

  Well. That puffs me up some. Time to woman up, Kate.

  “She can answer for herself, thank you.” I throw my shoulders back, cracking my neck like a prizefighter. “And I’m fine. Point me to this eye and ear protection.” I see Ben hide a smile out of the corner of my eye.

  Rick fits me with a flesh-colored over-the-ear headset that looks like noise-canceling headphones, only uglier. The clear goggles I’m supposed to wear cover more than half my face and aren’t very comfortable but, according to Ben, are totally necessary.

  I strike a pose. “How do I look?”

  He smirks, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “Like Ballistic Barbie.”

  Rick gives us a couple of papers to initial and when I make a crack about signing my life away, he eyes Ben warily. Humor is wasted on Rick, apparently.

  I follow Ben through a door and into a small room that appears to operate as a sort of soundproof antechamber. Once we’re inside, Ben shuts the door behind me, and just as I’m registering how close we are in this tiny, enclosed space, he opens another door directly in front of us and I’m bombarded by a cacophony of terrifying noises, sights, and smells.

  If I was scared before, this sends me into overdrive. The sound of rapid gunfire assaults my senses and I’m jolting in fright every time I hear a blast, which is about every two seconds. If they’re this loud and terrifying with the headphones on, I shudder to think how quickly I’d go deaf if I took them off. The stench of gunpowder—the same sulfuric smell I’d previously associated with fireworks—singes my nostrils. Thanks for ruining Fourth of July for me, Ben. Spent shell casings litter the floor, and my boots kick a path through them as Ben leads us down the row.

  How in the fresh hell did I get here?

  I abandon all pretense of bravery and glue myself to his back, clutching his sweater like a frightened kid at a haunted house. He steers us down an alley that’s lined by partitioned stalls on our right and a long bench to our left. There are plenty of other people here, mostly men who look exactly as I’d imagined: law enforcement types with buzzed heads, stocky guys in muscle tees. I see a couple of women, including an elderly grandmother type with a shock of white hair, and I’m intrigued by her in spite of myself. They all ignore us as we walk by.

  Ben stops at lane twenty, the last cubby as Rick’s promised, and sets his case down on the bench. He unzips it and pulls out a gun that’s not much bigger than the palm of my hand. I feel an acute sense of dread.

  “This is a revolver. It’s the smallest gun I own. It actually folds in half, so it’s a good choice if you wanted to carry a concealed weapon. It would fit in your pocket or your purse. It’s the right type of gun for a woman who foolishly insists on walking home alone at night.”

  I roll my eyes. “Concealed . . . do you carry a concealed weapon?”

  “Not generally, no. There aren’t a lot of places you can carry in DC due to federal building restrictions. But in Texas . . .” He trails off.

  “What about Texas?”

  “People bring guns to church.”

  I blanch. “Have you ever had a gun on you without me knowing it?”

  “No. Though God knows I’ve needed one.” He winks, then holds the revolver out to me. “Enough stalling. Take it, get a feel for it. It’s not loaded.”

  I don’t reach for it. “Or maybe not? How about I just watch you for a while? I think that might be better.” More visually appealing for me, at least.

  “Kate, are we feeling a little . . . gun shy?”

  I groan. “Did you google gun puns or something?”

  “I may have been gunning to use a few.”

  I pause. “How many more do you have in your arsenal?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re loosening up. This is good.”

  “Hardly.”

  He grabs my hand and holds it out, palm up. “Kate, take the gun.” And here I am, holding a gun for the first time.

  It’s surprisingly light, closely resembling a child’s toy, making me even more concerned about the perverse world we live in where kids play with realistic-looking toy guns. I turn it over in my hand and curl my finger into the trigger, testing the catch and release. It looks like a gun Bonnie Parker would slide back into her garter post-heist.

  “How do you load the bullets?”

  I practically have to shout the question. The cracks of surrounding gunfire coupled with the noise-canceling headphones make it nearly impossible to communicate. As it is, I have to stand about an inch away from him and read his lips when he speaks to me. Not helping my anxiety: having to stare intently at Ben’s mouth.

  He reaches into his case and pulls out a box of bullets, shaking a few into his hand. “You load them one at a time into the cylinder here. This is the hammer. You have to pull it back before you can shoot.” He toggles it back and forth to demonstrate. “Remember, you should only be pointing the gun at the target, or it should be down on the counter with the safety on. Always keep the safety on. You don’t want it to go off accidentally.” He hands the revolver back to me. “Now, let’s run through your posture and get the feel of shooting.”

  He crosses behind me and then his hands are on my hips, nudging my leg over to widen my stance, positioning me at just the right angle.

  Christ on a cracker. I hadn’t even considered this. Are his hands going to be all over me for the next hour? My poker face is going to get a serious workout.

  “Since you’re right-handed you’re going to hold it like this.” He demonstrates, grabbing my arms and clasping them in front of me, placing my right index finger into the trigger and curling his fingers around my left hand to show me how to brace the butt of the gun. Then he moves behind me again and stretches his arms around mine, holding me in position. Every inch of his body is wrapped around mine.

  Welp, I was wrong before—this is what hell feels like. Lady parts on fire, surrounded on all sides by a man I’d like nothing more than to roll in sugar and eat for dessert. A bead of sweat forms between my breasts and slides down my belly. This sweater was a mistake of epic proportions.

  I will myself to calm down; I’m shaking and I don’t want the gun to slip out of my hands. “What happens if I accidentally drop the gun?”

  “It could go off.”

  “What?!” I nearly drop it right then.

  “Calm down. You’re not going to drop it.” He looks entirely unconcerned.

  “You don’t know that.”

  When I hear his voice next, he’
s speaking into my right ear from behind. I jolt at his proximity.

  “Now practice shooting it. Since it’s not loaded you won’t feel a recoil. When you shoot for real, there will be a kickback. That’ll be the scariest part for you. I can’t really explain how that feels until you experience it for yourself.”

  He finally steps away and I let out an unsteady breath, then set my feet in the stance he’s instructed and look to him in question. When he nods his approval, I slide my gaze back to the target, close my eyes, and squeeze the trigger.

  “Not bad. You should probably keep your eyes open, though.” He’s laughing. “How did it feel?”

  “Like I’m Olivia Benson on Law & Order.”

  He laughs again and I relax another inch. Making Ben laugh is like a drug. I crave the sound, each hit feeding my habit.

  His mouth still twisted in a smile, he picks up the bullets and loads them into the chamber. “All right. Now we’re going to try that with ammunition.”

  “Oh no. No, no, no. I’m not ready for that yet. You need to go first.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, considering. “Okay. If that’ll make you feel more comfortable.”

  He moves to his bag and pulls out another gun, this one a little bigger. I step closer to inspect it.

  “What is this gun? How is it different?”

  He smirks. “Getting interested now, are we?”

  I make a face, but the truth is I am interested now. I’m naturally curious—a lifelong learner—and my inner nerd demands to know everything there is to know about something. I realize with sudden clarity that I want to impress Ben. Sure, I didn’t want to do this, but now that I’m here I have a new goal: dazzle him with my sniper-level marksmanship.

  Ben takes my place at the counter and lines up his shot. It’s strange to see him in this mode: so serious and authoritative and un-Ben-like. He looks as comfortable with a gun in his hands as he does discussing exemptions and withholdings.

  “Do you see how I’m holding this? Firmly, with both hands, but don’t choke the trigger. A light touch is all you need.”

  Choke the trigger. Light touch. Good God, must everything he says sound so sexual?