Megan sat next to Quincy, and I plunked down beside her, my plate piled high with Kennedy’s barbeque ribs and Mrs. L’s corn on the cob, which had just become my new favorite thing. Taft and Kennedy were across from us, Mrs. L on my right.
Ford was in D.C. following up on a lead his–our old–commanding officer had given him. Lincoln had his hands tied when the dishonorable discharge had come down from the top but didn’t believe the reason behind it any more than the rest of us. So, he’d been giving Alpha Mountain jobs… and some intel. Hopefully, this one might give all of us a lead on Tully’s boss.
I’d tried to drop my hand on Megan’s thigh, but she’d moved it off–actually picked up my wrist and shifted my hand to my own lap. Yeah. It was that bad.
“Got any stories about Ford when he was younger?” Quincy asked.
Taft perked up and waved a rib in the air. “Yeah, he’s not here. I want to hear about that. Weird girlfriends. Bad haircuts.” He thought for a moment. “Mrs. L, please tell me Ford had a mullet.”
Mrs. L laughed. “I think I have photos of him with a bowl cut somewhere.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of our senior chief with a mullet. He had a good beard going now, but it wasn’t the same thing.
“Ford’s a few years older than me,” Megan said. “I moved away for a while, so I only remember him when he was young. I think we went to the same summer camp.”
“Where did you go?” Kennedy asked, and he wasn’t wondering about summer camp.
Yeah, I wondered that too. I took a sip of my beer.
Megan reached for the butter and jabbed her knife into the soft spread. As she coated her corn with it, she replied. “Seattle.”
“Your parents got jobs there?” Quincy asked.
Megan flicked her a glance and set her knife down after dousing the corn.
“It was just me and my dad, and yes, he got a job. A few actually.”
I was thankful my teammates were asking these questions. I wanted to know the answers, but all I was good for was sex. Asking questions outside of if she wanted it harder or deeper was pushing it.
“What brought you back? I mean, you’ve got to love it here if you gave up Seattle.”
“I finished the academy and wanted something quieter than a big city. I always liked it here.”
“And your dad?”
Her lips thinned, and she grabbed her tea glass and took a sip. “We’re estranged.”
“Who wants more potato salad? Get it before the mayonnaise turns,” Mrs. L said, picking up the bowl in front of her and passing it to Kennedy. As if she’d ever make something that would poison us.
“I’ve got a question,” I murmured.
She looked to me, those beautiful eyes snagging me. I couldn’t miss the wariness, and that meant she didn’t want to talk family any longer. So, I steered the conversation to the realm where I knew she’d engage. Happily. Firearms. Maybe I’d actually get a date out of her.
“So, where do the locals go to shoot?” I asked her. Mrs. L could easily answer–Ford, too, if he was here–but I wanted Megan to chime in. “You must have a firing range around here for the law enforcement officials to practice.”
Megan quirked a shapely brow at me. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind a little target practice.”
Kennedy’s brows slammed down, but he took mercy on me and kept his mouth shut. There was no need for her to know that we’d already had target practice two days ago here on the property.
“It’s out on Houghton Way.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Don’t you have your own targets here?”
“Oh, sure,” I said with a casual shrug. “But I was thinking about a little friendly competition.”
Megan lifted her chin, and her eyes–finally–met mine. “Oh yeah?”
Yup. I had her number.
“Uh huh.” I took a pull on the long-neck beer I was nursing. “How do you think your shooting skills rate? Think you could outshoot a SEAL? I mean, the kinds of calls you get out here in Sparks don’t require weapons. More like skills with rescuing kittens in a tree.”
“That’s the fire department,” she countered.
“So, you don’t even shoot a weapon then. It’s all for show.”
She considered me as Mrs. L made a funny sound then took a sip of her tea to cover it.
My woman liked to win, I knew that. Which meant she was assessing her chances before she jumped in. “You don’t think I can shoot?”
I shrugged. “It’s not a squirt gun in your holster, so I assume you have some skill.”
“You’re the one with the squirt gun,” she murmured.
Everyone heard and laughed. I took it in good stride because while she might be putting down my manhood, it was an acknowledgment that she was familiar with it.