He crosses his arms, his expression unimpressed and just a little too cool. “That’s why I’m making you do this. I need to see that you could reasonably defend yourself in the event that we were attacked. You want this so bad, so prove to me that you can handle yourself.”
“Fine! When can I do it?” I ask.
“We can do it now,” he replies, placing a Glock on the patio table between us.
A knot twists in my stomach. My last interaction with a gun at close range was less than desirable, and the one before that was far worse. I haven’t even considered picking up a gun since my weird panic attack at the shooting range.
Still, it might be the only way to get off this goddamn estate.
“Okay. I’ll do it,” I agree hesitantly.
Without a word, he stands up and begins to walk over to the range, exactly the same spot as before. He leaves the gun behind under the assumption that I’ll take it myself, which I do extremely cautiously.
Feeling the weight of the gun in my lap fills me with anxiety as I carefully wheel myself over the lawn towards the range. I take the long way to avoid the root that I’d been stuck on before, both to eliminate the possibility of dropping the gun, and to show Adas that I don’t need him nearly as much as he thinks I do.
When I meet him at the range, he points down the field to a cardboard cutout of a man in a suit. Jesus, even his target practice is wearing Hermes.
“I want you to aim for the head, then heart, then lungs. If you can do that, I’ll take you out for dinner tonight,” he says nonchalantly. It’s clear that he doesn’t expect me to pull this off, which makes me even more determined to do it.
He hands me a magazine for the gun, and I fumble around with it until it finally locks in place.
Next, he gives me a pair of headphones to cancel the noise as much as possible, which I guess I appreciate.
He holds me steady as I aim the gun, firing once and missing completely.
“You didn’t hit the target at all,” he scoffs.
My blood is ready to boil over. I force myself to breathe deeply, to cast off his comment and focus.
“You sure you don’t just want to try tomorrow?” he says in a patronizing voice.
“No, I’m going to do it now,” I reply, setting my sights on the target and aiming a few times before I finally fire again.
Twice in the head, twice in the heart, and once in the lungs.
I glare at Adas, who is completely dumbstruck.
“Goddamn, where did you pull that out from? Who taught you how to do that?” he asks, partially joking but mostly in genuine amazement.
“Allegedly,youtaught me. Or didn’t you, I don’t remember. Anyway, I passed my test. Where are we going tonight?” I ask, not trying at all to hide the pride and triumph in my voice.
“I mean, I’d say you can pick, but you probably don’t remember any of the places we used to go together. How’s Italian food sound?” he replies, relenting to my victory.
I pretend to consider for a moment, knowing fully that I’ve been craving lasagna for at least the entire month. “Yeah, that sounds fine, I guess.”
* * *
At seven PM,a stretched limo pulls up to the front of the estate to bring Adas and me to our date. Adas insisted that I wear a clingy red dress that he swears I’ve worn before, but there’s still a tag left on the inside of the seam.
Was I so careless not to remove the tags on my clothes before? At least I’m more diligent about it now.
On the way to the restaurant, Adas keeps pawing at my dress, playing with the hem as he hints towards fingering me while we’re still on the road.
Under regular circumstances, I’d want him to lift me out of this wheelchair and eat my pussy upside down. But since he decided to be an ass about me shooting that gun at his behest, I’m completely unreceptive to him.
It’s difficult, but if he thinks sex isn’t that big of a deal, then we’ll see how he really feels about it when I explicitly will not give it to him.
He’d probably lose his little mind.