17
After handing my assignment to my tutor, I enteredMilson Shooting Range on Google Maps, and once given the location, I put my car into gear and headed to the university gates. I have my handgun in my glovebox, still wrapped in a rag, and nerves are like trapped moths in my chest. The sun is shining, and it’s another hot day, but because I’m meeting the thief, whom I don’t entirely trust, I wear hot sticking jeans and a plain pink T-shirt that reads, Bonjour. I tie my long golden hair up in a ponytail to keep it out of my eyes when aiming at a target, and before I left for uni this morning, I forced myself to stare at the picture of me before or after I was raped that The Pig kindly left in my bag. The picture is my fuel to inflict revenge. The more I think about Gavin the Pig, the more I want to wipe him out first, before Lyons, but I need to keep focused on the original plan and stop being swayed by the existence of slimy fuckwits.
I wish I had someone to discuss this with, but Z is the only appropriate person I can think of. However, once I bring her into my plan, she’ll either talk me out of it or want to be part of it. I can’t have my bestie involved in this because if we get caught, she’ll be convicted of my crime. No, I’ll keep my head down and be a lone wolf. Nobody knows who hurt me because they threatened to kill me and my family if I squealed, so no one will suspect me when the first domino falls.
The shooting range is on the city”s edge in an industrial suburb near the Severn River Bridge. I can hear the river gurgling behind a line of tall trees blocking the view. I find a park and take a deep breath as I open the glovebox, take out the gun, and place it in my bag. A knock rattles against my window, scaring half to death.
Blake.
He opens my car door like a gentleman. “Corolla girl,” he says charmingly as if he could sell ice to Eskimos. He runs his eyes over my body, not in a sexual way, as if he’s searching for something.
“Hi,” I answer breathlessly, as my stomach is in knots.
“Bring your Glock?” he asks, stepping aside so I can walk ahead of him. His cologne permeates my senses.
“Glock?” I enquire, noticing that he smells lovely and is wearing nice black jeans and a button-down short-sleeved striped blue shirt. This caught me off-guard. I expected him to be in similar clothes to what he wore when he sold me the gun—a scruffy T-shirt and dirty jeans. “Oh, the gun? Yeah, I have it in my bag.”
“Let me see it,” he insists as we walk to the gun range entrance, but I cannot get over how good he looks. Is all this effort of me?
“Sure,” I answer, reaching into my bag. “I haven’t…um done anything with it.”
He gazes down at me under those black eyelashes and roughs up his thick raven hair as I glance at his firm muscles bulging from his shirt sleeves. “Nothing? Not even held it?”
“Well, no, because I can’t tell if it’s loaded, and I might accidentally shoot myself or, worse, someone else,” I explain as he creases that face into a devilish smirk. The thief is one hundred percent likable, I’ll give him that, but I bet that charm comes in handy when he wants to swindle old ladies out of their life savings.
“This is going to be fun,” he mutters sarcastically, and I give him a sharp look, which makes him smile even more.
The sounds of multiple tinny gun fire grace us as we approach the counter, and he pays for our concession with cash. The guy behind the counter taking the money cocks his eyebrows at Blake before raking his eyes all over me, grossing me out, before he grunts, “This your latest squeeze?”
“That’s no way to talk about a lady,” Blake quips and points behind him. “We’ll a couple of pairs of earmuffs.”
When we step out into the shooting range, Blake hands me the earmuffs, “Keep those ears protected. We wouldn’t want you to go deaf.”
“Just to make clear,” I blurt because it’s irritating me, so I have to get it off my chest, “this is not a date.”
Blake snorts, ushering me to a table against a wall. “Who said this was a date?”
I wiggle my finger up and down at him, “You’re just dressed-”
“You’re not my type,” he snaps, unwrapping the rag from my gun and then holding the silver weapon up to the light, then snaps open the magazine as if second nature.
“I’m not your type?” I won’t analyze why his sudden and blunt comment bothers me too deeply.
“Yeah, I mean…” looks me up and down. “Too tall and,” shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, “blond.”
“Good,” I answer, stifling my annoyance at him for not liking tall blonds like me. Perhaps the tall blond trope is unfashionable with many men these days.
“The last thing a good man wants is a girl with legs so long, she could strangle him in his sleep.” He plants the magazine on the table before me, “Load it.”
“Good,” I answer, struggling to find a comeback to his ‘strangle men in their sleep’ scenario. It hadn’t crossed my mind that men worry about such things, so I focused back on the gun. “I haven’t practiced doing this,” hunting through my bag for the box of bullets he gave me.
“That’s why I’m here to teach you,” he states as a man fires several rounds at a target a few feet away from us. I put on earmuffs to block out the noise.
I figured out how to load the magazine with the gold bullets, and once I was done, Blake showed me where to slot the magazine back into the gun. It quickly dawned on me that I was holding a loaded weapon now and how lethal I had suddenly become. He made a sign with his hands for me to take off my earmuffs so I could hear him.
“Are you ready to take a shot?” he asks me, and I nod. “And…green eyes.”
“Green eyes?” I ask, unsure what he’s talking about.
“Green eyes aren’t my thing. Nor freckles and full lips,” he informs me.
“You don’t like freckles and full lips?” I ask, feeling offended but trying not to show it. I don’t want him to think I’m hurt by his lack of attraction to me.
“Nah, they’re overrated,” he says, flicking me a mischievous glance with his warm brown eyes. But you have a cute nose.”
My fingers automatically find my nose, and I drop my hand away when I realize it. “You’d date my nose?”
“Yeah, why not, if it’s attached to a short, dark-haired girl with thin lips and no freckles?” His words are like rubbing salt into a wound, and I don’t know why they trouble me so much. He’s a thief, a very charming and attractive thief with twinkling chocolate eyes, tanned skin, and rolled-out-of-bed hair, but a thief nonetheless. He does smell good today, but he’s clarified that bathing with soap and wearing nice clothes is not for me.
“So, what did you steal over the weekend?” I hit venomously.
He wears that smile well, “I’d have to kill ya if I told you.”
“Huh, you stole that much?” I tease, wondering if his threat is real because I barely know the guy. For all I know, he may have spent the entire weekend killing innocent people with a smile on his face.
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls. “Now, go stand in the firing bay and point that Glock at your target.” That smile of his washes away when he adds, “You’ve got to get used to it in your hands, or else your shot will be off. And I’m guessing you’d like to hit your target, not miss.”
I do a double take to read his face because his tone was on another level in the last comment. “I bought the gun for protection,” I remind him.
“From who?” he asks quickly.
“You have a suspicious mind, probably because you undertake lawlessness and think everyone thinks like you,” I say with conviction as I stand at the mark and startle when the man on the other side of the barrier fires several more rounds. I notice he hits his target every time.
“Hold the Glock in both hands,” Blake instructs, as his hands secure the Glock in my hold. He warmly caresses my skin as he guides my hands up to point at the target, then runs his palms up my forearms to correct my angle. Those earnest brown eyes full of life connect with my curious stare, and my skin prickles from his body heat with him standing so close to me.
I should be afraid of this thief, but I’m not. I should be cautious of his intentions, but his charisma is calming and reassuring, which I find odd and confusing. Perhaps he’s skillful at pulling the wool over people’s eyes, and that’s what he’s doing to me now, but I wish I could see a red flag with him like I usually do with other men.
“Squeeze the trigger when you’re ready.” He stands behind me, making sure my feet are flat on the ground and in direct line with the target, and then he secures the earmuffs over my ears again, and I sense him standing back. There’s a natural hesitation before I squeeze the trigger, and a bullet flies out of the gun, and I lose track of where it went.
The blast was quieter than expected, and the velocity was powerful even though the feedback wasn’t strong. This makes shooting far too easy, which is good, but I must get my aim right. I glance back at Blake, who smiles and nods toward the target, signaling me to shoot again. Holding my arms out in front of me, pointing the gun towards the target again, I squeeze the trigger again and then for a third time.
“Did I hit the target?” I ask Blake, who shakes his head amusedly and signals me to try again.
I squeeze the trigger twice and am about to squeeze the third when Blake taps me on the shoulder to stop, lifts the left earmuff, and breathes into my ear, “That’s good, but you’ve got to get used to it.”
He’s so close to me that I must suppress an urge to grab his tanned forearm and hold it as a comfort. I wonder what he’d do if I seized his hand and held it close. “Okay,” I answer.
He wavers for a few seconds, still holding my earmuffs away from my ear, and I turn to look at him square on to see what his hold-up is. Those eyes run over my lips and eyes, the lips and eyes he says he’s not attracted to before he says directly, looking at me in the eyes, “Now imagine that target has the face of someone you hate on it.”
I drop my eyes as four faces come into my mind. When I glance up again, the intelligence behind his eyes scrutinizes my face. I nod, “Okay.”
“Got someone in mind?” he asks, cocking his raven eyebrows.
“I do,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says, fixing the earmuff back over my ear.
This time, when I raise my arms to point the gun at the target, Gavin the Pig’s face is there first, probably because it was only two days ago when I saw him. Imagining that smug, vile man in a cop’s uniform, I pull the trigger and hit the target, but several inches away from the bullseyes.
A cloud of rage comes over me as The Lion’s face appears, and I squeeze the trigger again, hypnotized and in a zone of destruction and satisfaction. Four shots. Four bullets. Four men.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
And they all fall down.
Blake lays his hand on my shoulder to pause my shooting fury. I lower my weapon, and he removes my earmuffs again. “Brilliant,” he champions me, sounding impressed. “You hit the target. I hate to be the guy you were pretending to shoot because you just planted several holes in his head.”
“Good,” I sigh, and Blake’s eyebrows cock mischievously.
“Maybe you’re in the wrong career. What are you studying at college?” he asks, taking the Glock from my hand.
“I don’t remember telling you I’m going to college, Blake?” I snap, trying to catch him out.
“Zara told me,” he quickly states.
“Oh? Have you two had a conversation about me?”
He grunts, smiling with those eyes twinkling, “Don’t flatter yourself, Corolla.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Tall, blond, full lips and cute nose is not your thing,” I hit back hotly.
“No, I said I like your nose,” he chuckles. “Green eyes are not my thing.” He holds up the handgun. “Another round?”
I nod.
“You’ll have to load the magazine again,” he proudly explains. It’s good practice. The more you do it, the faster you’ll get.”
I take the gun from his hand and sit back down at the table where the box of bullets is to be reloaded. “Plant biology and botany is what I’m studying.”
He takes the seat opposite me. “Flowers?”
“Yeah, and trees and herbs and mosses and…” I blabber, click the magazine out of the gun, and start loading the gold bullets as he oversees in silence.
Once I’ve loaded my Glock, Blake says, “Do you want to get a beer after this round?”
I dither a little conflicted. “Um, I’m underage.”
He frowns. “You don’t look it?”
“No, I mean for drinking. I’m only nineteen,” I explain.
A delicious smirk slides across his dial, “Don’t worry about that. I’ll buy the beer, and they won’t ask your age.”
“Are you going to take me to a crook’s joint so you scoundrels can gather to chat about your ‘jobs’?” using air quotes for the word ‘job.’
He glares at me with narrowed eyes, though his mouth is curved into a smirk, “Is that a yes or no?”
“Sure,” I answer slowly, “since it’s not a date.”
“Definitely not a date,” he assures me, which is so freaking annoying. “Blond hair.” Making a cringe face.
“It’s more golden than platinum,” I argue, and his nostrils flare at my obvious irritation by his comments. He’s got me exactly where he wants me, except I’m the one with a loaded gun.
Striding up to the firing bay with more confidence than before, I point the gun toward the target and squeeze.
One for The Lion.
One for The Pig.
One for The Crow.
One for The Snake.