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Twenty-Four
Declan
When Seamus hitthe target three times in the chest, I glowered at him. “How did you do that?”
At his age, I’d been hitting paper dicks with how low my shots were running, and while I was a lot better now, I was no Eoghan.
I’d exaggerated when I’d told Aela I was a crap shot, because in my world, a crap shot meant being put in a body bag ahead of schedule. But the idea was a good one. It was a way of giving my kid the power, and I was all for that.
Life always had a way of working out how you least expected it, so I wanted to make up for time lost as well as getting to know the real him.
The Seamus that Aela never really saw because she knew him inside out.
I could do a Da, be a prick, and shove my way into his life and make him listen, or I could be his friend.
I’d never been like Da. Never wanted to be. So being a friend was more than enough for me to be happy.
He grinned at me, a little cockily, but he deserved it. Neither was he embarrassed to admit the truth, “Practice.”
“Not skill, huh?”
He snickered. “Maybe a little.”
I shoved down the plastic glasses I wore and leaned my elbow against the stand on the gun range where we were firing shots.
The paper target was flying toward us, confirming what I already knew—Aela had made sure he was comfortable with a weapon. That had to have gone down like a lead balloon in Europe. They weren’t as gun happy as we were over here in the States, but I was glad. At least I knew he was safe.
Now I just needed him to turn twenty-one so he could get a license and carry.
When he eyed the small holes in the paper, he murmured to himself, “Not bad.”
I arched a brow. “Couldn’t have done much better. Three in the center of the chest? Not even the nine circle, but right in the middle?” I whistled. “You did good, kid.”
His nose crinkled, but I knew he liked hearing that.
My practice went down on the streets, but I’d keep this up if it meant getting some quality time with my boy. Especially since he seemed to enjoy it.
“Thanks.”
As he unclipped the target, I asked, “You want to grab a burger?”
He twisted to look at me. “Can we?”
“Sure thing.” I rubbed my hands together. “You got something in mind or can I pick?”
“You know the city better.”
“That I do.” I eyed him. “You like milkshakes?”
“Duh.”
I grinned. “Then I know the perfect place.”
As we finished up on the range, leaving with a tip of my head to the owner, the wife of an ex-Pointer who’d died back in the eighties and was an integral member of the Old Wives’ Club—a bunch of savages who were the wives of dead brothers—we headed for my car.
The alarm beeped as I unlocked the door, and when we climbed in, he carefully placed the folded paper target in the glove compartment.
“You going to show your mom?”
