She suspected she had her answer when she glanced across the table and caught him staring at her with the most unsettling, smoldering look.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You’re staring.”
“I like looking at women. So shoot me.”
She ducked her head to hide a smile. They were taking tentative steps toward each other, yet proceeding with caution. By the time dinner ended—and bless him, he cleared the table and did the dishes—Jenny was ready to admit it. She was a goner.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice this troubling new development. “I need to go out tonight,” he said.
And—fortunately again—he didn’t seem to hear the thud her heart made when it fell. “Oh. Um, okay,” she said. What else was she supposed to say? She was a visitor here, someone passing through. He didn’t owe her any explanations.
He grabbed his cell phone and slipped on his shoulder holster. Jenny pretended not to watch, but she couldn’t help herself. It was intriguing—maybe even sexy—to contemplate the idea that he wore a concealed weapon.
He caught her staring and grinned. “Want to come?”
“Come where?”
“To the indoor range,” he said. “Shooting practice.” He was a stickler for training in his department, and he practiced what he preached, explaining that he went to the indoor range at least once a week.
Shooting practice? “Maybe I will,” she said. “I’ve never thought about what it would be like to shoot a gun.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said easily.
She hesitated a moment longer. Did she want to learn, or was it just something she’d said so he wouldn’t think she was as boring as she actually was? And did he want to teach her because he liked her, or because he thought she should learn self-defense? She told herself to quit looking for reasons to turn him down. “I’ll get my things.”
It was a short drive to the indoor shooting range. The facility had two buildings, one with the range and the other with a classroom. In the classroom, he helped her gear up and showed her the gun she would be firing.
“This is a .40-caliber Glock,” he explained, and guided her through the way it worked. “Stance is the key to hitting what you aim at.” He lifted the gun two-handed in a movement that looked perfectly natural. “Now you try.”
All right, thought Jenny, feeling the powerful heft of the black, angular gun in her hands.
“Watch out for the slide when you hold it. How does this feel to you?”
“You’re going to think I’m one sick puppy—but it feels…sexy to me.”
He grinned. “That’s a good sign. It’s good for your confidence.”
In her Avalon P.D. sweatshirt, earmuffs and goggles, she didn’t look nearly as sexy as she felt.
“Close your eyes and raise the gun.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not loaded. You need to raise the gun with your eyes shut so you’ll learn what your natural arm position points to.”
She lifted the gun, opened her eyes and found herself looking at a big X on the classroom wall. He was incredibly fussy about her posture and position, adjusting the level of her extended arms, the angle of her chin, the placement of her feet, her grip, until she nearly burst with frustration.
“I feel like a poseable Barbie doll.”
He chuckled as he adjusted her stance again. “Firing Range Barbie. The all-American doll. I like it.”
He fussed some more, going over the trigger squeeze and the natural respiratory pause, which he said was the ideal time to squeeze the trigger, because she would be at her most relaxed. She tried to remember everything he was telling her. It seemed that shooting a gun required doing at least a dozen things simultaneously and well. “I’ve never had to work this hard to satisfy a man,” she said.
“It’s nice to know you’re willing to work at it. Now, quit flirting with me and concentrate.”
“I’m not flirting with you,” she objected.
“I feel flirted with.”
“Then it’s your imagination. I know better than to flirt with you. Now, show me how to shoot something.”
“Fine. Rule number one, you want to be a little more specific about what you’re going to shoot. ‘Something’ is too vague.”
“Whatever. I want to shoot one of those cutouts of a bad guy.”
“Then let’s go into the range.”
The place was divided into shooting stalls where people who didn’t need close supervision could practice. At the moment, only a couple of stalls were occupied. Other cops, Rourke told her, waving at them, and a few locals. She was surprised to see Zach Alger there with his father. Matthew was a big, barrel-chested man whose Nordic features made him look younger than he actually was. Father and son were in adjacent lanes, oblivious to anything but the shooting. Each shot went off with a popping sound that made Jenny wince. Rourke explained that the walls could stop any handgun round at point-blank range. “A .40-caliber bullet can penetrate a dozen layers of regular Sheetrock,” he said.
“Good to know. I won’t hide behind a wall if someone’s shooting at me.”
“The best defense in almost any situation is to fight. To fight, and never give up. But you need to know what you’re doing.” He gestured at the silhouette at the end of the range. He used something called a smart pad to cause it to move, and positioned it at the end of the alley. She prepared herself exactly as he’d shown her—arms extended, feet planted to align the arm with the target, grip, sight alignment, target alignment, breathing, then trigger squeeze. Don’t pull, he’d said. Squeeze.
She squeezed.
The gun recoiled violently in her hand, causing a reverberation down her arm.
“Follow through,” he reminded her, mouthing the words. “Don’t forget to follow through.”
After firing, you were supposed to align with the target again to improve the steadiness of your hand. She realigned, smelling the burnt cordite.
