He motions for me to come closer. “Feel how I’m gripping it. You can close one eye or keep both eyes open, whatever feels more natural for you.”
Great idea. I’ll just drape myself over him and close my eyes. That won’t be problematic.
I eye him doubtfully but step closer and mimic his stance. I press myself against his right side, laying my arm over his to simulate his grip. I’m locked into his body like a puzzle piece, my front to his back, closer than a shadow. I pray he can’t feel my heart hammering through our flimsy cotton layers. When he looks back at me in question I nod like I’ve got it, but spoiler alert: All I’ve got is a raging case of Ben-lust.
Once I move away he fires a couple of rounds, the bullets hitting the target right in the outlined chest box. I jerk-jump like a dancing marionette after each one. He sets the gun down on the counter calmly and turns to face me.
“Okay. Your turn.”
My anxiety ratchets up as we switch places. I stare the little revolver down like it’s my evil adversary. I’m just about to pick it up when I feel Ben’s hand squeeze my shoulder and I nearly leap out of my skin. I spin around, exasperated, and he’s holding out my jacket. Oh.
I turn and he helps me shrug it on, but when I go to zip it up, my hands are trembling so much, I can’t line up the zipper. After a couple of tries, he stills my hands and zips me up himself. He fusses over the collar, untucking my hair from the back, his fingertips repeatedly brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. Everywhere he touches me, I burn. I’d shatter a thermometer if it got close. He may as well be undressing me for how my body is reacting.
Before I register what’s happening, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my temple.
You’ve got this, he mouths, his breath whispering across my cheek. His hand is still on my neck and I. Am. Deceased.
“Remember, you’ll only be nervous at first. In a minute, you’re going to tell me how easy this is.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, my voice shaky.
He kissed me. It may have been the most chaste kiss in history, but it was a kiss.
He turns me so I’m facing the target again. I pick up the gun and glance at Ben, and he nods encouragingly.
Let’s get this over with.
When I squeeze the trigger, time slows down. My whole body tenses and the split second it takes to fire feels like an hour. When the gun finally discharges, it’s so loud and the kickback so powerful that I gasp. I look at Ben, shell-shocked and dazed.
“You did it! How’d it feel?” He’s grinning, pride palpable on his face.
I just blink at him, wide-eyed.
“Go again. Do the rest.”
On autopilot, I comply, squeezing one eye shut and firing the remaining bullets in the cylinder. Well, that wasn’t so bad.
He reels in the paper target and inspects it. “You hit the target three times. That’s great.”
I peer over his shoulder. “I missed the body entirely!”
“Nah, you grazed the shoulder there,” he says, pointing. “That’ll cause some bleeding.”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t need the color commentary, thanks.”
He smirks. “Again?”
“Sure.”
He reloads me, and I do it again. I focus on the outlined chest area—the one he hit perfectly with both his test shots—and I quickly determine that my shots are going high and wide and adjust my aim accordingly. I do better this round, actually landing two inside the box.
“Do you want to try one of the other guns? They’re automatics, not revolvers.”
I appreciate that he’s letting me decide. “If you think I can handle it, then . . . okay. Sure.”
He moves to his case, smiling to himself as he rummages through it.
“What’s with the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin?”
It falls a little. “Nothing.”
I set the revolver down on the counter. “Spill, or I stop.”
“Fine, I just already feel better, seeing you do this. It’s like you’re safer.”
It’s such an odd statement. “Why are you so obsessed with my safety?”
“Someone has to be.”
A classic nonanswer. I change tacks. “How did you learn so much about guns?”
“Where I’m from boys go hunting starting pretty young, so I don’t really remember a time when I didn’t know how to shoot. But I got more into it when I was about seventeen.” A muscle tightens in his jaw.
“Why?”
“None of your business, Katie Cat. Now, focus, and let’s see if your aim improves with this one.”
He passes me the now-loaded gun, and I set up my shot, aiming for the head this time. When in Rome . . .
The blast of this gun is louder and stronger, and I’m knocked back by the recoil. I see now why he wanted my skin covered. The shell casings—or flying brass, as he’d called it—eject up and out, and I flinch when one hurtles toward me.
“Wait, I see what’s happening now. When you close your eye, your arms are moving. Let me show you.”
He circles behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and holding the gun out in front of me.
“Look along the sight line. Do you see it? Your feet should be about hip width apart.” He nudges my foot over a bit with his. “And you’re a little stiff.”
I wiggle my hips from side to side to loosen up, inadvertently brushing against him in the process, and that’s when I feel it:
His erection, hard as a tent pole and pressing into my backside.
I freeze, eyes pancake-wide, glancing back at him before I can stop myself. He springs away from me like he’s been scalded.
“You—it—you’re ready to shoot now. Your form looks good,” he stammers; then his face goes white. He pivots abruptly and moves to the bench, effectively obscuring his front from view.
I stare at his back for a second, unsure what to do. I’m not about to shoot this gun without him standing next to me. He appears to be shuffling things around in his case with no sense of purpose. I want to laugh, but I take pity on him and turn back around.
I’ll just give him a minute.
Chapter 22
So why do you go to a gun range in Maryland? Surely there are closer ones in the city.”
We stopped for dinner at an Italian place halfway back to DC, though what had seemed like a good idea at the time—we were both starving and inhaled our meals—is now making me pause. Our cozy corner table, replete with white tablecloth, candlelight, and Frank Sinatra crooning seductively in the background, is only encouraging my romantic fantasies. It’s easy to imagine we’re on a date.
“It has a tactical setup outdoors. Moving targets, real-life obstacles, the whole nine. I’ll have to take you back when the weather’s better.” I don’t miss his sly grin.
“Nice try. I’m a one-and-done.”
“I saw the look in your eye. You were enjoying yourself. Admit it.”
I enjoyed his hands on me, that much is true.
“I admit nothing. And on Monday, I go back to campaigning for gun control. Don’t think you’ve turned me,” I warn as I sip my wine.
“Oh, I’ll turn you. It’s just a matter of time.”
The cocksure way he says it makes me pause. Is Ben trying to convert me? Is that his goal here?
“I cannot be turned,” I say firmly.
“We’ll see. You know, you took to it really quickly. I bet you’d dominate in a self-defense class. I’d do it with you, if you wanted.”
“Self-defense class? Ben, stop. You’re so overprotective. I feel sorry for your future wife.”
I regret the words as soon as they’re out. I wish I could cram them back down my throat. He tenses and straightens, avoiding eye contact as he fiddles with the candle in the center of the table. I may as well have poured a bucke
t of ice over our heads.
I push my wineglass away. “It’s time for you to tell me what this overprotectiveness is really about. Every time I ask, you deflect and evade.”
“Deflect and evade, huh? You’ve been watching too much CNN.”
I fold my hands in front of me, pinning him under my gaze. His smirk falls away when he realizes he’s not getting out of this without talking. He sips his beer, staring at a point somewhere over my right shoulder. I’m about to snap my fingers in his face and shout Benjy! when he clears his throat and speaks so softly, I have to lean forward to hear him.
“When my sister was in college, she was date-raped at a fraternity party.”
I gasp and recoil, my hand flying to my mouth. I was not expecting that.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to—”
He waves me off. “No, you’re right, I can be a little nuts about things and I’ve taken it out on you, so . . .” He trails off, shrugging as if to say, It is what it is. “It’s a story I’m sure you’ve heard before. She liked the guy, they were drinking, he didn’t stop at no.”
The raw pain in his voice clenches my heart.
“Shelby didn’t tell us right away, but she ended up coming home a couple months later. She was a mess. My parents made her report it, but there wasn’t anything the police could do at that point. It wasn’t like there was any proof.” His voice is flat.
“Ben, I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for your sister. For your whole family.”
“I was a senior in high school at the time. I was so filled with rage. I wasn’t there to protect her and there was nothing we could do about it. Just completely fucking helpless. I wanted to murder the guy. Still do.” His mouth tightens. “Anyway, that’s when I got more into guns.” He flicks his eyes toward mine, then away.
An icy fear grips my insides. “Did you . . . confront him?” Images flicker across my mind like some bad revenge movie. By the look on his face, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ben tells me he killed the guy and buried him in the backyard.
“No. I was enraged—I’m still enraged—but I knew it wouldn’t change anything. Not that I don’t picture his face on that target. Shooting was more about channeling my anger. I needed an outlet, to feel like I was taking control back.”
“I get it.”
“It was a rough time for my family. He got off scot-free while Shelby walked around like a zombie for two years.” He white-knuckles his beer.
“I don’t know what to say.” I can’t believe I forced him into telling me this. I am the world’s worst person.
“There’s really nothing to say. There are a lot of bad guys out there.”
Realization dawns. “This must be why you get that look on your face every time I mention my sorority.”
“I’ve never been much for drinking.” He nods toward the half-full pilsner glass he’s been nursing.
Memories fall into place like dominos. His agitation over my walking home alone. The insistence that I carry a weapon. Showing up at the bar that night—and his visceral anger at the “slimy barfly” who was circling me. His anger at me for dismissing his concerns. It all makes a sad sort of sense now. What I’d thought was overprotectiveness and chauvinism was actually fear; scar tissue from a deep wound. The righteous indignation I’ve spent weeks indulging evaporates in a puff of smoke.
I’m not used to seeing him like this. The Ben I know is a rock, a bulletproof tower of strength and fortitude. Resilience is his currency. In contrast, the man in front of me seems to have shrunk. His shoulders sag as if they can’t bear the weight of this memory. His eyes are empty, devoid of their usual playfulness and spark. I wonder how often—or even if—he talks about this, with anyone.
I’m not sure what to say to comfort him, so I reach out and take his hand, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. He gives me a tight smile that’s more of a grimace, then wraps his big hand around mine and squeezes. I don’t let go.
He clears his throat and shakes his head, as if jogging himself loose from his melancholy. “Anyway, I’m not some seventeen-year-old kid anymore. And I won’t let something like that happen again to—well, I just won’t let it happen again.”
I’m certain he’d been about to say someone I care about. I wish he’d just let himself say it.
“Now you know why I get so pissed when you blow me off.”
My response is instant. “I won’t blow you off anymore.”
His eyebrows arch in surprise. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, squeezing my hand again.
“Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me all this.”
He nods in acknowledgment, then exhales a long, slow breath, like he’s exorcising a ghost. I watch his shoulders relax, a calmness spreading over him. Is my acquiescence the reason for this lightness? Is it possible I hold this much power over him? If so, it’s a relief—I feel like he holds so much power over me that it’s like a balancing of the scales.
I cough, trying to dislodge the ball of emotion clogging my throat. “So how is your sister doing now?”
His face lights up. “She’s great, actually. It took her a couple years to get right, but she eventually transferred schools and finished her degree. She works in finance also, for an investment bank in New York. And she married a great guy. He worships the ground she walks on.” He smiles. “As he should.”
“That’s fantastic. And wow, so many math brains in your family. Quite a group of supernerds,” I tease.
“You should hear us when we get together. You’d be bored to tears.”
I chuckle at the thought of them talking animatedly over the dinner table about . . . numbers. “You guys sound really close.”
He flashes his signature boyish grin, and it’s a sure sign the heaviness has passed. “We are. It was just the two of us growing up, so we sort of had to be. Oh, and she just told me—I’m going to be an uncle.” He beams with pride.
“Wow, congratulations! Something tells me Uncle Ben will be a big spoiler.”
“Oh, it’ll be obscene. I’m thrilled for her. So are my parents, obviously. First grandchild and all.” He tips his head back to drain his water. “It should get my mom off my back for a while.”
I smile wryly. “I know the feeling.”
“She keeps asking about you, you know,” he says casually, crunching some ice in his teeth.
“Oh yeah? And what do you tell her?”
He eyes me over the rim of his glass. “Honestly? I have no idea what to tell her.”
Alarm bells start ringing in my head. That was a warning shot, and I can tell by the way he’s holding eye contact he wants to see how I’ll respond. Will I run with it or punt?
But before I can decide, he beats me to it. “You ever wonder what might’ve happened if our first meeting had gone differently?”
My eyes widen, but he just sits there, all casual nonchalance, his expression impassive. He’s cool as a cucumber. Meanwhile, I’m trying to prevent every thought from playing out on my face like some melodramatic street mime.
He’s looking at me expectantly—I’m not off the hook this time. He wants to hear me say it.
“Sure, sometimes. I think it’s only natural.” When he looks at me blankly, I clarify. “You know, the whole When Harry Met Sally thing.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“What? I thought that movie was a rite of passage.”
He sits back. “Enlighten me.”
“The basic premise is that men and women can’t ever really be friends, if you . . . uh, find the other person attractive. Because . . . well, for obvious reasons.” I flush.
“I see.”
A heavy silence settles between us. Awkward, party of two.
“So, you’re saying we can’t be friends, then.”
I arch an eyebrow.
&
nbsp; “Since you’re so attracted to me.”
I snort. “How did I know that was coming?”
“It’s okay, you can admit it. I won’t make things weird.” His sly grin liquefies my insides.
“Stohhhp.”
“Seriously? I tell you you’re strikingly beautiful and I can’t even get a Ben, you’re not entirely hideous?”
“Ben, you’re not entirely hideous.”
He slants me a look.
“If you need your ego stroked, why not go ask Corinne?” I blurt before I can stop myself. Guess I’m doing this.
His brow furrows. “Corinne?”
“Yeah, you know, tall, brunette.” Frigid as a freezer. “Aren’t you two dating?”
He stares at me blankly. “Why would you think that?”
Because she told me so.
“She . . . alluded to it,” I reply haltingly. “And I’ve seen you two together. And Stephen saw you out to dinner one night.”
He looks taken aback.
“It makes sense; you two have a lot in common,” I rush to add, lest I seem like some stalker who’s been tracking his every move. May he never find out about that video.
He nods slowly, lips pursed like he’s thinking it over. “Have you ever gone out to eat with a male colleague after work? Say, John Conrad, perhaps?”
I pause. “Perhaps, but—”
“And are you dating him?” His eyes hold a sharp intensity.
“I see what you’re getting at, but John’s not running around telling people we’re together.”
“Well, whatever she told you is false,” he says, looking annoyed. “I’m not dating Corinne.”
“I think you and I might have different definitions of what dating means,” I say bluntly.
He cocks a brow. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just imply I’m some sort of male slut. I’m not dating her, romantically or otherwise.”
He’s monitoring my expression closely, so I keep my mask of indifference firmly in place. But inside? I’m soaring. Pure, unadulterated joy surges through my veins. I want to stand and do a cheer. I want to run a marathon. I want to cannonball into his lap and nest there.
Meet You in the Middle Page 21