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“Take that little group over there,” Doc said, gesturing at row of old beer bottles. “If you can hit one, I’ll give you a quarter.”
Wow. There was something so inspiring about being so underestimated.
Right then I decided to do more than just hit the bottles. I was going to hit them with some style.
Fast and easy. Like a badass. And also: from the hip.
“Okay, little lady,” Doc said then. “Just try your best.”
My best?
Okay.
I flipped off the safety, stepped into a comfortable stance, pressed the rifle butt to my hip bone, and pulled the trigger with a BOOM!
The rifle had a hell of a kick, but the first bottle disappeared in a puff of sand.
But I didn’t even stop to enjoy it. As soon as I’d pulled the trigger, I was popping the lever out and back with a satisfying ka-chunk and then pulling the trigger again.
Another BOOM! And another bottle turned to dust.
Then another, then another, then another. BOOM—ka-chunk, BOOM—ka-chunk, BOOM! Right across the row, as the bottles exploded one after the other.
It was over almost as soon as it started.
Then I turned back to Doc with one final shift of the lever—ka-chunk. Nice and ladylike.
I flipped the safety, took the rifle off my hip, and said to Doc’s gaping face, “That was fun.”
I’d just revealed way too much about myself, and I should’ve been halfway back to Houston by now. But it was worth it.
That’s when I noticed something up the ravine.
It was Jack. Watching us. And from the admiring look behind those slightly crooked glasses, he’d seen the whole thing.
He gave me a little salute of respect.
And I gave him a little nod.
And now it was time to get the hell out.
