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“Now we’re a matching set,” I say, admiring the word “Mine” left in wax burns across his skin.
“This mark won’t last as long as the one I gave you.”
My gaze meets his in the mirror. “It doesn’t matter. I’m inside you, Brian.”
I watch his Adam’s apple as he swallows visibly.
I turn to leave. “I’m going upstairs for lunch. Phyllis made cold chicken pasta today.”
4
MINA
Although Brian has made no official commitment to letting me go on any job with him, he is training me. There’s a lot more to this than I thought. The movies make it look so easy. If I have to hear him shout “Trigger control!” at me one more time, I’m going to lose my zen.
That’s something a lot of the movies, get wrong. You can never ever have your finger inside the trigger guard unless you’re intending to fire in that moment, and it’s so hard to break that habit when we’ve seen every movie hero with bad trigger control since forever.
This is also why we can’t watch most action movies together. Though a lot of newer ones about assassins get it right, and Brian likes those. The only dumber thing in movies is how sometimes they hold guns sideways like they think it makes them a badass.
I mean yeah, if you don’t want to hit anything useful. Also, you’d better be an expert sharpshooter if you want to go for a kneecap. Brian has told me repeatedly: Aim for center mass, then an immediate head shot in case they’re wearing body armor.
We’re on the house property outside the perimeter at a shooting range no one but me, Brian, and the trainers and owners of the house can get to, but even though they know about it, they mostly steer clear.
I mean would you want to sneak up on Brian while he’s shooting paper targets?
We aren’t shooting paper targets today. We’re shooting glass bottles. I’d worry about woodland creatures walking over the glass, but he has a makeshift outdoor shooting range fenced in with a high barbed wire fence. Though I don’t think it’s to protect the wildlife.
But I have to admit the sound of shattering glass is so much more fun than a hole in a piece of paper. Plus you can’t lie to yourself as much about “how close you got”. It’s pass/fail. Either you hit the bottle, or you didn’t.
I’m holding the 9mm. Brian is so close to me, standing behind me, helping be hold the gun properly. I prefer the smaller calibers. A 9mm has a kick that I’m always tensing up for.
“Relax your shoulders,” he says. “It’s not going to hurt you. It’s not going to jump back at you. You’ve got a proper grip, and I’m holding it with you.”
I take a deep breath and try to relax.
“Okay, good. Now, you’re going to take a breath, and as you slowly let it out squeeze the trigger, and the gun will handle the rest.”
“I need a minute,” I say, feeling suddenly claustrophobic.
I expect an argument, but Brian backs off. I holster the gun.
“You just holstered that gun hot, so if you don’t want to lose a toe, you’d better remember trigger control when you draw it again. I hope you never get shot, but if you do, it better not be by your own hand.”
His threat couldn’t be clearer.
I don’t bother making a smartass comment because if he hadn’t said it I probably would have done exactly what he’s warning me not to do, and the last thing I want is a trip to the ER from basic stupidity.
I pace back and forth in the field. I’m tired. We’ve been training for hours. I just want to collapse into bed, and it’s not even near sunset.
“You’re going to lose all this training with the adrenaline dump,” he says. I hate when he does that… reads my mind like that. He knows me too well and pays too much attention to everything. It’s like I can’t even have a private thought anymore.
“Then why even bother training?” I say. I need a break. He’s more brutal out here than he is in the gym.
“Because you’re still better than untrained. You’re always working at a handicap when it’s real, so we have to train enough to make up for it.”
“I didn’t get the adrenaline dump at Easter.”
“There also weren’t bullets whizzing past your head. You weren’t in a car chase. Nobody was running straight for you holding a knife. The adrenaline doesn’t always come, but it does even for me. There is no level of sociopathy that shuts off basic survival.”
