18. Bullseye
bullseye
Deirdre
P lease don’t make this weird , I think as I place my driver’s license in the hands of the attendant. I’m not sure if I’m reminding myself or hoping he doesn’t. I don’t miss his crinkled brow or the double take as his eyes flit back and forth from the card to my face.
I can see those wheels turning and offer a soft smile to confirm his suspicions.
I am one of those Klarkes.
He nods and returns my identification, clearing his throat. I glance at his name tag. Jeb.
What kind of day are we about to have, Jeb?
“Alrighty. What’re you in the mood for, ma’am? Bullseye or silhouette? Handguns, rifles, shotguns?” he asks, pointing over to the guns displayed behind him.
“Paper bullseye, and I brought my own, actually.” He looks at me expectantly, and I clear my throat before I say, “A nine millimeter handgun.“
“Ahh. Good one. Need bullets?”
“Yes, please?”
He nods assuredly, reaching beneath the counter to search the case below.
“115 or heavier?”
“115 FMJ is perfect,” I glance around as I try to speak low enough so only he can hear.
His brows raise, and his hands feel around the case before landing on the target and my preferred brand of ammo. I nod, confirming my selection, and he returns to full height, setting the bullets and rolled poster on the counter.
“You know your stuff.”
“I do,” is all I offer in response.
He announces the total, and I reach into my handbag, thumbing through bills. I hold two twenty-dollar bills out for him.
He hands back the change, slides the box of ammunition across the counter, and watches me gather my things.
“Thank you, Jeb. Have a great night,” I say softly, placing my earplugs in my ears as I catch his response.
“You, too, darling. Holler if you need anything.” He tips his chin in the direction I’m meant to go.
I offer him a small smile and follow where he gestures toward the entrance to the range.
It’s spacious with many vacant stalls, and I walk past several, trying to decide which one I’d like to use once I secure my things in the locker room.
I slow to a stop when a familiar scent permeates, causing my brain to damn near short-circuit. My heart rate elevates, and I speed forward, not bothering to search for the source.
I’m not fucking stupid.
Whether it’s him or not, I’m here to shoot. I enter the locker room and quickly put my personal items inside.
On the way back out, I glance at the mirror, taking a moment to adjust my earplugs and the protective goggles I brought with me. Content with my safety equipment, I make sure my gun is secured in the holster on my hip and exit with my ammo and poster tucked under my arm.
The furthest stall calls for me, and I set down my things. It’s not my first time at a gun range, but it has been a while. Regina’s father, Angelo Biavati, is an arms dealer with shooting ranges back home. It’s where Dad taught us how to shoot.
Long before I became so against the ways of the family business, I used to love shooting with him. The pause before each shot felt like the world was standing still. But things are different now.
The weighted pistol rests in my hand as I load the magazine, cock it, make sure the safety is still switched on, and set it back into my holster. The target stares back, waiting to be used, as I will the thoughts in my head to cease.
My chest rises and falls as I part my feet, take my stance, and retrieve my gun.
I stretch my arms out in front of me, focus my aim, and pull the trigger, only to miss the bullseye.
By a lot. For some reason, my shots are veering left, nearly missing the poster entirety.
I release a breath, roll my shoulders back, and try again.
Another miss. I double tap this time, and my grouping is a fucking disaster.
I’m all over the poster, at this point. Everywhere but the center.
Fuck.
Frustration boils in my gut at my rustiness. Clearly I wouldn’t stand a chance against an attacker at this moment. And my couch can vouch for that.
Darius’s voice repeats in my head, “ It’s not like you’re willing to catch a body. You’re not a killer, Dee.”
I don’t want to be a killer, but I don’t like being seen as weak either.
I blink away the tears threatening to fall, securing the weapon as I try to clear my head.
My thoughts are halted when a finger taps my shoulder and startles me. The cologne I’ve become far too familiar with fills the space, causing me to look back and glance over at the source with annoyance.
It’s an aggressive scent, but oddly comforting, reminding me of thoughtful gestures and a smart ass mouth. My brow lifts as I turn to assess him from head to toe.
He’s a tall man, wearing a dad cap and sunglasses. With a smile, he motions to his earplugs like he’s taking them out. His facial expression seems foreign, as if he’s as out of practice smiling as I am when it comes to shooting.
I study what’s visible of his face; deep-brown skin, a full, neatly trimmed beard, and a deep scar through his upper lip.
Scar.
I take in his broad shoulders, big chest and arms. He could be ex-military, a retired football player, or an undercover Fed.
Except my family would never hire a fucking Fed.
Good job, Dad , I think to myself.
Whether he’s been hired to spy or protect me, at least he’s sexy.
Fuck me.
His brow arches over his sunglasses, and he smirks down at me.
Shit. Did I say that out loud or does he have a wire recording my thoughts?
Is that even possible?
I rush to apologize, but we speak over each other. The deep timber of his voice sends a chill over me, bringing me back to the other night when it was in my ear.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss. I didn’t think you heard me.” He pauses to lick him lips. “I couldn’t help but notice your form and wanted to offer some tips, if you’re interested.”
Miss? So he’s going to act like we don’t know each other.
Cute. I’ll bite.
A breathy laugh escapes me, lacking humor. “Thanks, but I?—”
“Are you a new shooter?” he interrupts. “Sorry to cut you off again. My manners escape me when I’m passionate about something.”
I bet, you nasty mother ? —
I shake my head to keep me from falling down that rabbit hole.
“If you plan to mansplain shooting, I’m not interested. Not a rookie, by the way. Just out of practice,” I tell him, trying not to roll my eyes.
He narrows his eyes as he works his jaw.
“You’re not hitting the target, because you’re shifting your weight to your heels.
It’s your balance, the aim is fine. Try again, but stand a bit taller and widen your stance to shoulder width.
Don’t be afraid of your weapon. You’re the one in control.
You’re always in control,” he orders in a gruff tone, eyes now on my feet.
I’m not a fan of obeying, but something about his voice makes me want to. I rationalize that I’m here to practice, so I may as well take the advice. I follow his instructions, positioning my body as directed.
“Chest out. Good g—” he stops and coughs.
What was he about to say?
“ Cono ,” he says softly. “ Bueno. Now, shift your weight forward. On your toes. You want to be able to move if need be while maintaining your balance and control. That recoil’ll fuck you up if you’re not careful. May I?” he asks, tilting his head toward the target.
I nod, giving him permission, and he approaches with caution, as he should. I am the one holding a gun right now. He settles behind me and palms my waist for a moment, and his touch singes me. As if he can feel it, too, he rips his hand away before I can react.
He has a surprisingly calm presence, despite how annoying he can actually be. When his touch graces me again to straighten my arms, I stay focused on my form and aim at the target.
“How’s that feeling?” he asks, his voice a near whisper.
When I don’t respond, he leans in closer and blows on my ear, sending heat to my core.
He’s diabolical.
“What cologne is that?” I blurt, ignoring his question.
For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore it, but he responds, “Dark Embrace by uh—I can’t think of his name, but he’s a liquor heir.”
“Like me?” I ask, cutting him off.
“Stay focused,” he urges in a firm voice, releasing me from his hold. He puts distance between us and expels a long breath behind me. “Go ahead. Take the shot.”
I remain on my toes and fire continuously, emptying the mag. Time slows as the bullets pierce the target, hitting the bullseye until it’s a gaping hole.
A relieved sigh escapes me as I switch the safety on and tuck the pistol in my side. When I turn behind me expecting him to be there, he’s nowhere to be found.
That motherfucker.
I tap the button to retrieve the poster, tossing it in the trash once I’m back in the locker room. With a huff, I snatch my things from my locker and dash out of the building.
Wearily, I peer around the parking lot, pressing the panic button on my key fob to draw attention to myself in case he’s waiting for me, but it seems like I’m alone.
I open my car door, peering into the backseat, and it’s empty, as is the passenger seat.
I slam the door shut and settle in, turning on the car before I whip out of the parking lot. That was him, without a doubt. A scar on his lip and that sexy fucking cologne. My hands grip the steering wheel roughly as I unpack this encounter.
That motherfucker knew exactly why I was there and offered tips on how to successfully shoot him.
At this point, I need to use my family’s resources to put some pieces together. I’ll just need to be vague.
“Call Angie,” I state, and the Bluetooth dials my cousin. Angelo Jr.—Regina’s older brother—is a consigliere, and if anyone is a vault in this family, it’s him.
“Deeee. Haven’t heard from you in a while. How you doing?” His jovial greeting fills every crevice of my car. I turn the volume down as I head home.
“I need you to look into someone for me,” I say, focusing on the road.
“What happened to your fucking manners? You greet someone when you call them,” he barks, his New York accent is very thick.
He’s not actually pissed, but he’s half Italian and was raised to be far more polite than I was, apparently.
I huff, “Hello, Angie. I need you to look into someone for me.”
“That’s better. You got a name, date of birth, or plate number?” he asks, keys clacking in the background on his end.
“I don’t, actually, but I do need your help.”
“Are they local? Work in the area? Gimme a physical description,” he suggests.
About that…
“I don’t know what he looks like. His face is always covered,” I confess in a low voice as the click of my blinker fills the space.
“What? The fuck do you want me to do, then?” I wince at the incredulity in his tone.
Fuck it.
I think of something else I need to know.
“Um, is there anyone assigned to look after me in Austin?”
“Yeah. A couple of guys, actually. The Pineros. Regina’s people. Is anyone giving you trouble?”
“Not exactly, but—wait. Regina hired them? Not my dad?” This may not be the information I called for, but it’s definitely enlightening.
“Nah. Uncle El says he’s backing off. So, Gi stepped in. The guy you’re asking about. Do you like him or is he a problem?” he asks. “Cause this is different, cousin. The Pineros don’t fuck around. We can’t just take one of ’em out like we do in our city.”
Fucking Gi.
“Um. I don’t think he’s that kind of problem. He’s pleasant, but annoying. Since Regina vouches for them, he must be all right,” I reason, more to myself than Angie.
“They’re good people from what I’ve heard, but the Cartel goes by a different set of rules than we do.”
Ya think?
“Yeah. I get that, but the Cartel thing makes me nervous.”
I really don’t understand that. How can I want to go legit and fuck around with somebody in the Cartel? I literally can’t.
His tone softens as he says, “Look, I can hear the wheels turning in your head. Do me a favor and don’t do anything stupid. Get me a phone number to trace, an occupation, or a car make and model? I’m good, but I can’t pull something from nothing. So, help me help you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise me you won’t fuck him before I do a background check?”
“I promise,” I lie. “I’ll get more information and send it to you.”
“Right on. Love you,” he says.
“I love you, too, Angie.”
The line disconnects as I pull into my garage.
I don’t waste any time shutting the door behind me and walking inside.
I peel off my clothes on the way to the shower, thankful I live alone, even if I have an audience.
When I finish, I trot around in my robe and resume where I left off on my latest audiobook.
I’m soon distracted by my phone lighting up with text messages from him.
Scar
I didn’t follow you, I promise.
Lie again.
Scar
Seriously, I go there whenever I need to blow off some steam after a long day.
I tried to leave you be, but you’re a terrible shot when you’re anxious.
I’ve never seen bullseye posters with couches on them but one of those might help.
You want to help me be a better shot so I can do more than clip you next time?
Scar
You could’ve done it right there and didn’t.
Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts?
Scar
Speaking of thoughts…What did you imagine me doing when you came the other night?
This man is an absolute idiot, and I don’t know how to respond to that. I had a feeling he watched me, but hadn’t mentioned it until now.
Go fuck yourself, Scar.
Scar
That’s not what you said earlier. Lol
I cannot help the chuckle that escapes me at how ridiculous this man is. I mean it, I’ll miss his stupidity when he’s gone. My phone chimes with another message.
1 attachment from Scar.
He wouldn’t send a selfie, but still my heart races at the possibility. My index swipes to open the thread, and it’s a photo of him in his balaclava.
A familiar sight, however, it’s rolled up to his nose with a pair of…I zoom in to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me, because that can’t be panties in this man’s mouth. Surely, not the panties I haven’t been able to find recently.
Except those are my panties.
Oh fuck.
Heat rushes over my body, and I clear my throat to snap out of it. The other night was a one-time thing, and I can’t let him think it’ll happen again.
I can’t have a relationship with this man. I don’t even know him, and the last thing I need is for a man to derail me again. I feel somewhat better that he’s one of Regina’s guys, but what if he’s more murderous than she is?
Another text rolls in, grabbing my attention and withering at my restraint.
Scar
I wish they were the ones you’re wearing now, but these will do. Goodnight, Doe.
I know what I’ll be dreaming about.
You’re a nightmare.
Scar
Keep telling yourself that, mi beba.
I set my phone on the nightstand to charge, draping the blankets over myself when it hits me that I do sleep better when he tells me goodnight.
I’d rather not read too much into that, but if the circumstances were different, maybe we could’ve had a shot. If only.