Forty-One #2
It sits in its case beside a magazine in the same color, and a squat, fat cylinder that looks like a barrel extension resting in its own compartment. I lever it out with one finger, wondering what it is, then I realize just as he speaks.
“No gun is complete without a silencer.”
I let it drop back into place. “Why would I need a silencer?”
“For shooting quietly,” he replies, perfectly straight-faced.
That’s so… him.
“Don’t worry,” I say sarcastically, “when I shoot you, I’ll want you to see it coming.”
He only smiles, dimples flashing, and sets the box of rounds down beside my gun. He shows no concern as I fill my magazine then insert it and cock the weapon. I’m armed and dangerous, but he only nods down the lane.
“Let’s see what you can do. Go for a tight grouping.”
“Are you trusting me with a gun that has bullets in it while you’re standing next to me?”
“Do you want to swap the prison I keep you in for a six-foot cell?” He nods to the ceiling. “There are cameras in here.”
Was that a joke?
“Better company in prison,” I mutter, pulling a pair of ear defenders on. Then I take aim the way Lucy showed me: feet wide, both arms extended, weight forward.
“Stop,” he says, before I even fire a shot.
“What now?”
His hands come to rest on my waist, fingers brushing bare skin between my jeans and top as he turns me. “Angle your body like this.”
My breath catches, my skin tingling, nipples hardening. He’s close enough to smell his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot, always so subtle. I find myself inhaling deeply through my nose.
No. Bad Amelia.
“Not what I was taught,” I mutter to distract myself.
“Mmm. This is better.”
If I had to choose between Lucy and Van Wyk to teach me, I guess I know who has more experience. “All right.”
“Push your ass back more,” he murmurs.
I do as he says, and he’s so close behind me, I immediately press into his groin, rubbing against his cock.
“Give a girl some space,” I say, my voice catching.
He chuckles softly but doesn’t move, and I have to decide whether to hold my ground or step away.
Stepping away feels like losing. I hold my ground.
“Now lean into it, weight forward,” he murmurs into my ear.
I flick my head away in irritation. “How the hell am I supposed to do that with my ass back?”
“Oh, that’s not part of the stance.”
I straighten swiftly, giving him a glare which he completely ignores, then lean forward like he said. The position does feel more comfortable than the one Lucy showed me.
“Why this one over the other?” I ask as I aim down the sights, the rose-gold barrel catching the lights beautifully.
“Better recoil management, and you’re presenting a smaller profile.”
That’s a very him answer. “Paper targets don’t shoot back.”
“No, but why learn a bad technique that you’ll have to unlearn later?”
Fair. I squeeze the trigger, firing my first round.
The recoil makes me flinch, but there’s a hole in the target, down and to the left of center. Not bad, not great.
“Good,” he says, even though it wasn’t. “This time, squeeze the trigger gently.”
He keeps giving me tips as I empty my first magazine, each shot better than the last. Then he gives my ass a slap. “You’ve got it. Keep practicing.”
He disappears into his own lane, and a moment later his paper target flies past my own, heading out on the rail. I ignore that, focusing on my target while trying to remember all the tips he’s shared. A while later, there’s a cluster of holes and only a few stray shots.
“That’s my good girl,” he says coming around from his lane. “How did it feel?”
“Better,” I grudgingly admit, ignoring the good girl comment and the way it affects me. Stupid, stupid reaction.
“Did you like your present?”
“Yes.” And now I have a gun.
I palm a couple of bullets as I put it back empty into its case, sliding them into my jeans pocket while he’s not looking. I never know when I might need to defend myself.
“Here,” he says, unclipping my sheet and passing it to me. “Keep that, and you’ll be able to see your progress.”
His own sheet is still on the rail, and I glance at it as we walk past. Then do a double-take, coming to a stop. There’s a neat line of holes, not a single shot out of alignment, and it makes the shape of a heart with an arrow through it, Cupid style.
He did all that at twenty-five yards? The man isn’t just dangerous, he’s lethal.
And he has a sick sense of humor to go with the rest of him.
We walk back to the car, and I’m quiet. It’s not just the beautiful gun he bought me, it’s his mood, the heart he drew in bullet holes without saying anything, and the way my skin still tingles from the feel of his hands. This isn’t the Van Wyk I know.
Who is he?
“You can practice in the yard back home,” he says as he gets in behind the wheel, and passes me the box of bullets we never opened. Fifty rounds to go with the two I snuck out.
I stare at them and the gun case I’m holding. He’s either the most confident man alive or the most reckless.
“Why would you give these to me?”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“…No…” I’d be insane to say yes.
“Well, then.”
His self-assurance is irritating. “Maybe,” I amend.
He grins, dimples flashing. “Well, then.”
“Fifty rounds,” I say pleasantly, “and my aim is so bad. I wonder how many shots it would take?”