AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I knew she wrote.
Anytime the kids were occupied, you could find her with her tablet propped up and a little keyboard on her lap, tapping away. I figured she did something with that skill to make money, since she was always home.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I agreed, even though the club would never be sending out emails. But the range might. And I knew right where to look for someone to help me with that. “What’s your guys plans for today?” I asked, getting her ammunition as she gulped down her coffee.
She was always taking the kids somewhere. The beach, park, that kinda shit.
“Have you stepped foot out there this afternoon?” she asked, waving toward the door. “It’s disgustingly hot. I think we are hitting the library, then spending the day in the air conditioning. Even Isaac was complaining about the heat, and he never seems to mind.”
“I’ll hold onto that for you,” I said, taking her coffee cup. “You know you’re gonna want a refill on your way out,” I reasoned.
“A man who knows the way to my heart,” she said with a smile as I passed her the gun.
“Yo, boss,” Amos said, walking out of the back in what had to be a rush for him, considering he was always going at an unhurried pace, like he had all the time in the world.
“What’s up?”
“I gotta take an hour,” he said, something tight in his voice.
He wasn’t asking.
But I nodded.
“Okay,” I agreed as he made his way to the door.
“Oh,” Lana said, watching him go. “Does that mean I can’t practice?” she asked.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, pulling the ‘out to lunch’ sign from under the desk, the one that had a little clock, so I could set the time for when we’d open again. “I’ll take his place this time,” I added, putting the sign on the door, then locking it. “Ready?” I asked, watching a slight hesitation in her. But she snapped out of it before I could ask what was wrong.
In the back, she went to her usual lane. Four. And I took Amos’s seat, trying not to seem like I was watching her as she put on her eye and ear protection, then loaded the gun.
She was getting better.
More confident, at least.
But if she was going for precision, she wasn’t quite there yet.
When she paused to take the magazine out of the gun, I moved forward, touching my hand to her hip so I didn’t startle her too much. As it was, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
My hand rose, moving one of the earphones off.
“Can I offer some advice?” I asked, squinting at her target.
“I mean… yeah. That would be great. I would like to do more than put a dent in the target’s golf swing,” she said, waving at the paper outline.
“There are three basic stances when shooting a handgun,” I told her, reaching for her hands as I moved behind her. The gun wasn’t loaded, but that didn’t matter for demonstration purposes. “You’ve been doing what we call the Isosceles,” I added, pulling her arms out straight, something that put her body in the isosceles triangle position.
“Is that wrong?”
“No, it’s not wrong. Each stance has its pros and cons. I just think this one is making you less accurate because it doesn’t control the recoil well. You flinch each time you shoot,” I explained.
“Yeah, I can’t seem to shake that,” she agreed, voice a little airy.
“There is also the Weaver stance,” I told her, reaching down to tap her shooting side leg. “Take this back slightly, and angle your support side toward the target. Good,” I said as she followed instructions. “Then your firing arm should fully extend,” I told her, touching the elbow until she straightened it. “And your support arm should bend,” I explained, tapping the inside of said elbow until it bent downward.
As I tried desperately not to think of how good she smelled, how soft her skin was, how close she was.
“And this is better because…”
“It controls the recoil,” I told her. “Give it a try. If it doesn’t feel right, I will show you the one I prefer,” I said, taking a much-needed step back.
Because everything in me wanted to grab her, turn her, and seal my lips over hers.
I backed all the way to the far wall, watching as she covered her ear, loaded her gun, got back into position, and shot.
And entirely missed the target.
Three times in a row.
Setting the gun down, she reached to pull her earphone off, and was starting to turn, but I was already there.
“Yeah, that’s not working,” I said.
“Did I do it wrong?”
“No. But everyone has different preferences,” I told her. “Let’s try the last one. This is called the Boxer, Chapman, or Fighter stance. No one can fucking decide on one name,” I said. “It’s basically the same as the last one, but your legs are shoulder-width apart with your firing side just slightly stepped back. The toe of your shooting foot should be at the instep of your support foot,” I said, tapping her shoes with mine until they looked right.
