“Oh, I didn’t realize…”
“I’m going to start you with a couple of nine millimeter semiautomatics and thirty-eight revolvers. The latter is easier to use, but slower to load. It’s a trade-off.”
“What do you have?”
“A Glock. Great guns, but not optimal for someone with a child. No safety. So we’ll look at some others that make more sense for you and your use around home.”
“All right.”
We arrive a few minutes later, and I rent her a small collection of weapons, buy her some ear protection, grab a few paper targets, then carry everything into the indoor range. At our station, I show her how to load and unload each. I demonstrate how to make sure each gun is empty of ammo and how to store both the firearm and the bullets. Then I make her put everything into practice, loading the weapon and completing all the steps to ready it for fire. When I’m satisfied she’s got the basics, I attach the target, then send it out into our lane with the press of a button. Not too far. She doesn’t need to be a sharpshooter, and none of the guns I’ve selected are built for that. She just needs to practice putting someone down in a relatively close-combat situation, in case nothing else stands between her and death.
Finally, I show her how to hold the weapon and how to stand, adjusting her shoulders down and ensuring her fingers aren’t anywhere near the trigger until she’s ready to fire. But touching her inflames me. I’m all around her, feeling her softness, smelling that hint of flowers on her that drives me half-crazy, and watching her seriousness. She wants to learn, and I’m getting the clue that when Amanda focuses she can be relentless.
“Good. There’s your target out there.” I point. “Breathe normal and remember that, in real life, you’ll be panicked. Your adrenaline will be rushing. It will be hard as fuck to focus. Remembering to breathe may be the one thing that steadies you in a crisis. It may mean the difference between life and death.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now give your paper intruder hell.”
She empties the first revolver and does fairly well. She doesn’t hit the person drawn on the target more than once or twice, but if he’d truly been someone invading her place, she would have at least scared the piss out of him. Ditto with the second revolver, though she had more control over that weapon, probably because she’s getting the hang of it.
“How are you feeling now?”
“Still a little jittery.”
“Revved up?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s just a fraction of what you’ll feel in a real-world situation.”
She nods, then loads her first semiautomatic, slamming in the magazine like a pro. “I’ll get this if I practice, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Then next time someone breaks into my house, maybe I won’t be so terrified because I won’t have to come so damn close to the crazy man as I did when I hit him on the head with a vase.”
“Let’s go again.”
I love the way she’s determined. I’d rather be the one taking care of her, but if she won’t let me, I’ll feel a shit ton better knowing she’s capable. And with her third weapon, she shows me she’s getting more proficient.
“This is the last weapon for you to fire.” I hand her the firearm and explain how it’s different from the last nine millimeter she fired. “The trigger may be a little stiffer, but the barrel is longer, so you’ll have less kickback.”
She wraps her small fingers around it with a frown. “It’s awfully big. And heavy.”
“It’s a double-stack, meaning there are two rows of bullets in the magazine, not just one. You may not need that for home security, but since they had this available as a rental, I wanted you to see the difference. Give it a whirl.” I point out to the fresh target I pinned for her. “Try for head and chest shots.”
I’d be happy if she hit the target anywhere on the body, but this will give her someplace specific to focus.
Amanda nods, then aims and fires. Instantly, I can see she’s adopting all the adjustments I’ve given her since we started—and it’s showing. By the time she empties the magazine, more than one shot has penetrated the paper intruder—one right between the eyes.
“You did fantastic,” I praise.
“That felt surprisingly good. This gun was actually the easiest to use.” She sets it on the counter, then smiles up at me.
She’s pleased with herself, and she should be.
“I thought it might be, despite its size.” I bring the target in and let her examine it, pointing out some of her best shots. “And you’ve never shot before?”
“Never.”
“Honestly, if we keep practicing, I think you’ll get proficient quickly.”
Her lips curl up more, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen her genuine smile. Not the one she pastes on to be polite. Not the one she gives me when she disagrees but doesn’t want to say so. Not the one she flashes when she’s keeping something secret. Not even the one she sends Oliver that shows how much she loves him. Best of all? This smile is only for me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
She frowns in confusion. “For what? Did I do something wrong?”
“When you look at me like that, I can’t resist you.” I palm her nape and seize her lips, falling into her pillowy softness and losing myself in everything that makes Amanda so lush and female.
She doesn’t hesitate or pull back. Instead, she opens and gives me total dominion over her mouth. It’s heady, and that does something to me because I know she doesn’t trust easily. I pull her closer, deepen the kiss…and wish like hell we were someplace alone.
The guy in the lane next to us, who I’m pretty sure is an off-duty cop, starts firing. Mandy jolts. I pull back with a frustrated groan, which is drowned out by the sounds of more gunfire, and try to hide
