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My stomach tightens into knots at the thought, but I brush it away as the instructor fits us with protective eye and ear wear and then hands me a heavy black handgun.
It’s cool and solid in my hand, and I step up to the spot where I’ll fire from, focusing on the hanging target ahead of me—a black sheet of paper with the silhouette of a man drawn in white.
I stare at the silhouette. At the rounded shoulders, the lines of the neck, and the empty oval representing the head.
Unbidden, a pair of hazel eyes come into my mind. A forehead with deep wrinkles framed by salt and pepper hair. A round face with a small dimple in the chin.
The image is so clear, so real, that for a moment, I think I won’t be able to shoot. But my finger finds the trigger anyway, my other hand bracing the gun as I squeeze just like the instructor taught me.
There’s a loud bang, and the gun jerks in my hand as a small hole opens up on the edge of the target’s left shoulder.
A surprising pang of disappointment fills me.
I wanted to hit the face.
“Damn, Low! Nice shot.” Chase whistles as he sets up his own shot. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”
I shake my head, already lifting the gun to try again. The recoil is a bitch—or maybe I’m just a baby—but I don’t even care. My arms will be sore tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it.
River watches me with something warm burning in his storm-gray eyes as I shoot two more times, and then he takes a few shots of his own as the instructor steps in to correct a couple things in my technique.
The five of us stand in a line, and I lose myself for the next hour in the erratic pop, pop, pop of guns firing.
They were right. It is a good way to blow off steam.
And I get better with practice, managing to hit the target with more and more accuracy.
By the time we leave, my arms are shaking, but I do feel better. River slips his arm around my waist as we walk out of the building into the cold January air, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
I wonder for a second if he would’ve been allowed in the gun range if they knew he was partially deaf—if it would’ve been considered a liability or something—but it’s sort of a moot point, since he’s so good at hiding it that I’m sure none of the staff at the gun range even guessed.
Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze him back and tilt my head up to find his eyes.
“That was a good idea. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His lips find mine this time, and it feels… nice to kiss like this. Casually and openly, without thought or hesitation.
We all crowd back into Dax’s car and head to a diner nearby for a lunch of greasy burgers and French fries. Then we sit in the car in the nearly empty parking lot and pass around a joint as tiny snowflakes dance around in the air outside, too light and little to fall straight down.
Throughout everything, the guys have been careful never to call this a “celebration”. In fact, there’s been almost no reference to my birthday at all, except for by the twins this morning.
I’m glad. I don’t want a celebration. I don’t think I could celebrate right now.
But this is better than that anyway.
It’s a reminder that I’m not alone.
8
“Dammit. She didn’t know Iris at all?”
“No.” Lincoln shakes his head, wadding up his napkin and tossing it on the table. “She matched the description Savannah gave you—goes to Waverly, has a flower tattoo, but she’s not the girl we’re after.”
“Shit.”
My soft curse is nearly drowned out by the sounds of the lunchroom around us. The kings and I have taken over a table near a wall on the far side of the room, isolating ourselves so we can talk without worry of being overheard.
