“You ready?”
“If you let me go home without shooting this, I’ll let you put your dick in my mouth.”
Just as predicted, he grows against my back, but Ifeelhis no as he shakes his head. “No dice.”
“In the car.”
“Still no. Now stop fucking around. This gun is live. Breathe, Jessie. Deep in, deep out. Forget I’m here. Aim. Shoot.”
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I try to clear my mind, but I still feel his hand on my neck, the other rests on my hip. Instead of it making me feel controlled or crowded, I feel supported. Braced. He’s holding me up.
I slide my finger along the barrel, and grit my teeth when it reaches the trigger.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Find the button. Find the dog tags.
Squeeze.
The gun booms, and Kane’s supportive hands become apparent when I jump back and he catches me.
“Relax, beautiful. You did good.”
I lean forward with squinting eyes and search my target. “I missed.”
“You didn’t miss. Right side. Breast pocket.”
“I was aiming for the center dot.”
“And yet you hit the heart. That’s a kill shot, Jessie. Well done.” Before I get a chance to smile, or dance, or high five the air, he adds, “Now do it again.”
As six p.m. turns into eight, then nine, then ten, I understand some of what Kane and Spencer were saying at the front desk. The fifteen rounds Spencer suggested is used by each person that passes through a booth near mine. They stay for less than an hour, they shoot their rounds, they collect their target paper, then they leave.
But my rounds never end.
My arms turn to jelly, and my bladder fills with the chocolate milk I drank at our picnic, yet, I’m not released.
Four hours after I begin, when I’m sure I can hit anything, no matter how small or far away the target, Kane steps back and starts working on strapping guns to his thighs.
Strapping guns.
To his thighs.
Alex and Oz often have police issued guns on their thighs when in uniform, but Kane’s in jeans and heavy boots, with a muscle shirt and enough ink to fill thousands of pens. It’s different to Oz. It’s definitely different to Alex.
Despite the hour, and despite the fact he has to go toworksoon, when he meets my eyes, his sparkle playfully. His eye is still bruised from the fight, and his split lip still bleeds when we kiss, but when I look at him, I don’t feel the worry like I did a few nights ago. He looks dangerous.
His lips twitch. “What?”
“What time do you have to go to work?”
“Eleven. Why?”