19. Stella
NINETEEN
stella
The acrid smell of gun smoke, a metallic tang mixed with something burnt, filled my senses as I made my way from the porch of the big house, crunching on gravel, to the shadowy coolness behind the barn.
Max had insisted on starting our shooting lessons immediately, taking Pops’ advice to heart.
I was hesitant, but reluctantly agreed. I longed for the day when the knot of dread in my stomach would loosen, replaced by the confidence to protect myself.
Realistically, I knew that one lesson on how to shoot a gun didn’t make me an expert, but I hoped it would give me a little bit of strength to know that I could protect myself.
It just so happened that a water main break near the boutique had shut everything down, giving me an unexpected day off. Though disappointed about closing, the thought of having uninterrupted time with Max brightened my mood.
Ray had already planned on having Charlie for the day, so she offered to keep her so that Max and I could work on some shooting lessons .
The sight that greeted me as I rounded the building was nearly pornographic.
Max was standing with his feet shoulder width apart and his arms raised as he aimed at a target approximately fifty feet away.
He looked ever the vision of lethality, and I leaned against the barn in an attempt to keep out of sight and avoid rubbing my thighs together to quell the ache settling between them.
Max’s faded Wrangler jeans clung to his muscular thighs as they flexed with each shift of his hips.
He wore a tight-fitting black tee tucked into his pants, accentuating his broad back.
To top off the sexy hitman visual, he had on a ball cap turned backwards and a pair of aviator sunglasses.
Over his hat was a pair of black earmuffs to dull the sound.
I watched with rapt attention at the way his body moved.
He was a source of strength and stability, a constant in my otherwise chaotic world.
He oozed effortless masculinity with the way he gripped the pistol in his hands.
I wondered what it would feel like to have that grip focused on me.
I knew that Max would never use his strength to hurt me, but I wanted those strong hands wrapped around my?—
“I can feel you staring,” he called from his spot, cutting off my thoughts as he took a deep breath, held, then pulled the trigger, effectively shattering one of the beer bottles lined up on the target wall, and my daydreams of him naked.
He handled the firearm with practiced ease, the smooth metal cool against his skin as he detached the magazine, placing the weapon and ammunition on the nearby table in separate spots.
I felt heat rising up my collarbones and across my face as he turned to look back in my direction.
Fuck, how long had I been staring ?
He lifted his sunglasses from his face and tucked them in the neckline of his tee, then removed the earmuffs, setting them on the table beside the weapon pieces. A wide grin stretched across his face, nearly splitting it as he saw my flustered reaction.
“You comin’ down with something? You’re lookin’ a little flushed there, Trouble.” he teased.
Clearing my throat, I steeled my spine and stomped toward him.
His low chuckle, a warm, comforting sound, followed me as I walked past him and stood where he’d been moments before.
I wouldn’t be the one to shatter the fragile, unspoken peace we had established, the quiet understanding between roommates that kept things strictly platonic… for now.
“Nope, all good. Teach me how to shoot this thing,” I responded briskly, not daring to meet his eyes, for fear that he’d see how much he had truly affected me.
My fingers brushed the cold metal of the gun before a hand clamped down on my wrist, halting my action. I shot a warning glare at Max. My eyes narrowed, and he immediately released his grip. He nervously lifted his ball cap and ran his fingers through his hair before dropping it back on his head.
Logically, I knew my reaction to him grabbing my wrist was unfounded. Max had never once made any move towards me that was anything less than gentlemanly. But, trauma overrides logic; rational thought processes become secondary.
“Before we get to the shooting, I want to go over some basic firearm safety. I also want to go over the inner workings of the firearm and proper handling.” He said authoritatively, acting as if I was a student in a class he was teaching on firearm safety.
Although the naughty teacher act was hot, the nuances of learning to shoot a gun, such as proper stance, breath control, and target acquisition, hadn’t occurred to me. I figured it was just pick up, cock, aim, and fire.
Sensing my hesitation, Max stepped beside me and pointed down at the weapon.
“Tell me what you see,” He commanded.
“A gun?” I asked incredulously, with a quirk of my brow.
Exasperation caused him to let out a heavy, theatrical sigh; then, hands planted firmly on his hips, he let his head droop. I could tell this was going to be a long day if I’d already annoyed him. Why did the thought of ruffling his feathers fill me with so much excitement?
“Yes, Stella. It’s a gun. But, it’s more than that,” he said as he picked up the main component of the gun. I didn’t know the exact terminology, but enough TV had taught me it wasn’t loaded, and I presumed it was safe for me to handle.
“A gun is more than just a hunk of metal. It is a dangerous object used to injure, or in extreme cases, kill.” He held the weapon out in his large hand for me to take. The cool, smooth metal of the gun barrel rested in my palm, its weight surprisingly substantial.
“You need to always keep in the forefront of your mind that this gun is dangerous. That might seem like common sense, but having a slight fear of weapons is healthy. The more complacent you become in your handling, the more risk you run of injuring yourself or someone else without meaning to.”
His voice was low and lethal as he walked closer, the scent of gun smoke and leather clinging to him. He stood behind me, the warmth of his hands enveloping mine as we held the weapon together. My heart rate spiked at the feeling of his large palms encompassing mine .
Using his pointer finger, he regaled all the key components of the gun and what they did, his breath coasting along my ear as he gruffly spoke.
His deep knowledge of marksmanship was comforting, and I felt at ease knowing he was going to be the one teaching me.
Having seemingly mastered the weapon’s inner workings to Max’s standards, we moved on to stance and handling.
“One thing you always want to remember is to never point the firearm anywhere you’re not okay with shooting,” he preached, holding the weapon down at his side. “If you’re raising your weapon, be prepared to pull the trigger.”
I nodded and watched him load bullets into the magazine with deft fingers and push the magazine back into the handle of the gun. With his weapon securely at his hip, finger away from the trigger, he moved me aside so he could take my spot.
He gave me his extra pair of slightly too-large earmuffs with a subtle nod to put them on, the cool leather a subtle contrast to the heat that was coursing across my skin, then put his own back on.
He positioned his feet shoulder width apart, instructing me on the proper stance with his free hand as he went along. His voice was muffled by my ear protection, but I still managed to understand his instructions.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he raised his arms, the gun steady in his hands as he aimed it towards the target, the silence broken only by the rhythmic beating of my heart.
He walked me through the proper grip, all while keeping the barrel of the pistol trained down-range and his finger off the trigger.
With a nod backwards of his head in a silent instruction to back up, he steadied his footing and gazed out towards the target, cocking the gun and raising it in front of him.
He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. The stillness that washed over him was eerie as he trained his sights on another bottle.
He was ever the vision of calm and stability. Slowly releasing his breath, I saw him move his pointer finger to rest on the trigger and pull. The gun kicked upwards with the force of the bullet releasing and in the blink of an eye, another bottle shattered.
He unloaded the magazine once again, setting it down on the table beside us, and motioned for me to step up for a turn. With shaky hands, I reached down and grabbed the frame, putting the magazine back in its rightful place.
I mimicked Max’s motions in keeping my finger off the trigger and the weapon aimed at the ground. I nervously traded spots with him as he moved to stand behind me. He slipped the earmuffs from my ears so I could hear his instructions.
Pressing his warm chest against my back, he slid his hands down my arms to help me lift them into the proper stance.
A loud, frantic thumping filled my ears, the sound of my own heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t sure if my heart was beating out of my chest because I was holding a weapon designed to kill, or because Max’s body was pressed tight against mine.
He used his booted foot to kick my feet apart, and I shifted them into a shoulder-width distance, attempting to ignore the jolt of pleasure from being manhandled. He twisted my hips a tick to the right and before righting my ear protection, leaned down to murmur in my ear.
“You’ve got all the power, Stella,”
I caught his double entendre and steeled my spine. His words hung in the air—a fragile promise of his safety and his heart, now resting entirely on me. He believed in me enough to know that I wouldn’t hurt him. I wasn’t as confident, but I trusted him.