Chapter Three
Vanessa
The catcalls started the moment I got out of the car.
I wore jeans and a short-sleeve t-shirt with two kittens curled against a dog on the front, but that didn’t matter.
The men gathered in small groups in the parking lot and out in front of the lodge-like building weren’t bothered by what I wore.
I was a woman in their environment, and to them, that meant they could treat me how they wanted.
The noises only grew louder when I pulled my pink gun case from the glovebox of my old Beamer. I ignored them. Sure, maybe getting it in such a bright bubble-gum-pink color was asking for it—though, really, it shouldn’t be—but I liked pink, and it was cute! So screw them.
There was only one way to shut them up anyway, and I intended to do just that.
More than a few meandered in after me as if that was their intention all along. I ignored them.
“Hey, Roger,” I said, waving to the range owner from where he sat behind his counter. “How are you doing today?”
“Doing pretty good, Vanessa. How’s Saturday treating you? A little early this week,” he observed good-naturedly, reclining back in the chair, his hands over his thick beer belly.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I told him, though I didn’t explain why.
The old owner didn’t need to know that my thoughts, sleeping and awake, had been dominated by a man I didn’t know.
Somehow, for whatever reason, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Vil.
Whoever he was. The mystery of why he wanted to talk to me was part of it, but my body hadn’t calmed down until I’d given it exactly what it wanted from Vil, only with battery power.
And even then, sleep had eluded me. His gorgeous face, and those odd eyes, so silvery-gray I had to wonder if he’d been wearing colored contacts.
Who are you, and more importantly, what did you want with me?
I disliked not knowing, but could it have been that important if he’d never returned?
Shrugging it off, I headed out into the range, minding my own business, pausing only to pull my ear protection—also pink, duh—over my ears.
Most of the men in the live-fire area were professional, and I soon had a paper target hanging in front of me and ready to go.
Then I slowly loaded the clip into the black pistol.
I was proud of myself. My hands almost never shook anymore while touching the gun.
A lot of hard work had gone into making sure I was steady and able to handle it.
Not for fear of the gun, I didn’t fear them, though I did respect them and what they could do.
My worries ran much deeper than that. Into the core of who I was.
You are not like him.
Shaking my head, I took a deep breath, the tip of the barrel of the 9mm pointed down and slightly to the side so that any misfires would head downrange. Away from harm. Because I wasn’t there to hurt people. I wasn’t like that. I was there to master my fear.
My thumb pushed the safety to off, and I brought it up, both hands wrapped around the grips. Slowly, I let out my breath, then squeezed the trigger. The gun rocketed up in my hands and then back down as I set myself. I fired again. And again.
You aren’t like him.
You aren’t like him.
The clip ran dry, and I put the safety on before setting the weapon on the flat surface in front of me.
Others were still firing. I let out a breath and then repeated the whole thing two more times until the paper target was well shredded in the chest. I wasn’t a competitive marksman, but I came there every Saturday and had for years.
I’d worked hard to be able to hit the target.
Finished, I packed everything up, left the firing area, and went back into the lounge.
“Three loads?” Roger asked, already having the bullets ready to go for me.
“You know it.”
“Sorry about them,” he said as I pushed the cash over the counter.
“Huh?”
He jerked a head over his shoulder. I glanced behind me. There was a gaggle of men staring at me while one of them pointed at the target I’d left on the range by accident.
“It’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “You know this isn’t the first time they’ve turned into slobbering fools over my marksmanship.”
Rob chuckled heartily. “Sure, sure. But I’ll have a word with them. Just because you have a pretty face and a nice smile doesn’t mean they need to stare mindlessly. That kind of control deserves respect, not lust.”
“Thanks, Roger,” I said, knowing his conversation would be pointless but appreciating it anyway. “You’re a good one. Wish more of them were like you.”
“Hey, careful with your flattery now,” he said with a laugh, holding up his hand to tap a well-worn wedding band. “I know I’m handsome, but I’m taken, young lady, so don’t you go getting any wild ideas.”
As he spoke, he ran one hand over his bald head, and the other patted his thick belly. We laughed together.
“Don’t suppose you have any single sons, do you?”
“Now, far be it from me to judge your interests, Van, but I think men in their fifties might be a bit old for you. Now, grandsons, on the other hand.”
I started. I hadn’t realized he was that old.
“But they’re all still in their mid-twenties, which, and now I don’t mean to be rude, I think that’s a bit young for your tastes.”
“You would be right,” I agreed. “But thanks for thinking of me, Roger. I appreciate it. I guess I’ll have to stay single for another few days at least.”
Not that I was interested in dating anyone, the question had just been idle humor. I wasn’t ready for that, and I didn’t see that changing any time soon, either.
If ever.