I hold up another one. “TheJonas Brothers?”
“It helped with the ladies.”
“You should burn some of these. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for you.”
“Like I wouldn’t find a One Direction CD in your car.”
“I wasn’t into One Direction,” I sniff. “I prefer the smooth vocal stylings of *NSYNC.”
He snorts. “Same difference.”
“Are you a Backstreet Boys fan, then? Is that where this animosity is coming from?”
He shakes his head sadly. “You’re hopeless.”
“Oh look, you’ve redeemed yourself.” I select Tim McGraw’sGreatest Hitsalbum and pop it into the CD slot.
“You know, I have music on my phone we can listen to,” he says, holding it up. “Cars have these fancy things called Bluetooth these days.”
“Nope, we’re going old-school now.” I skip forward until I find “Just to See You Smile” and immediately start singing along. “This is one of my favorites,” I tell him, semi-apologetically. Been in the car two minutes and I’m already playing radio commando.
“One of?”
“Well, they’re all my favorites.”
“Tim fan, huh?”
“I’m more than a fan.”
Ben gestures to the radio. “Do you two need some time alone?”
That cracks me up, and I’m relaxing for the first time tonight. I spot his wallet in the cup holder and rifle through it like a pickpocket, pulling out his license.
“Ugh, you actually have a decent license photo. I can’t even find anything to make fun of.” I hold it up to his face to compare. “Shorter hair, though.”
He grimaces. “I know. I need a haircut, but I keep putting it off. I have no time.”
“I could cut it for you.”
“You know how to cut hair?”
“No. But how hard could it be?” I flash him my winningest smile.
“Oh sure, like I’m going to let you near me with a pair of scissors.”
“Says the man who’s about to put a gun in my hands.”
He pauses. “Touché.”
The reminder of our final destination subdues me a bit, and he must notice because he steers us toward neutral topics for the remainder ofour drive. We chat easily, and when our surroundings eventually turn rural, stretches of farmland and sheared cornstalks lining the road, we compete to see who can spot more cows and horses, getting progressively punchier until we’re giggling like a couple of four-year-olds.
Eventually he slows and turns into a wide, dirt-covered driveway. A large brick and glass-front building stretches out before us, a sign announcingRIGHT ON TARGET TACTICALglowing beneath the roofline. The range is the only structure around, fronting a wide-open field. A handful of cars scatter the lot. I might be imagining the storm cloud of doom looming over the building.
As soon as he parks, I hop out before he can open my door. I’m ready to get this over with.
“Hold up a minute.”
I turn as Ben walks to his trunk and pops the lift gate, pulling out a nondescript black bag.
