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I recall our talk in the cabin, and what he told me about feeling good about yourself. “I’m not saying you are wrong, but I can’t change in a drop of a hat. Makeup and clothes feel like a security blanket to me.” I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that, even to myself. Dallas has a way of drawing things out of me.
We make our way to the elevator, and I type in the code that takes us straight to the gun range. The elevator door opens with a bing, and I’m met by the familiar smell of gunpowder and the sound of rounds being fired. Music to my ears.
I glance over at Dallas. His shoulders are relaxed, his face content. He looks just as happy in this environment as I feel. It’s funny what kind of stuff calms us compared to normal people.
“Welcome back, Ms. Grant,” Pete, the range master, greets before turning to Dallas. “Mr. Adler, long time, no see.”
“Hey, Pete. We want to blow off some steam, so get us big guns and lots of ammo.”
“Big guns, and a shitload of ammo coming right up.”
I give Pete a megawatt smile, excited about being here and having some fun. That smile fades when Ginger—Pete’s assistant—speed walks over to us. She is known to flirt with anything with a set of balls and seeing the way she is ogling Dallas on her way over here lets me know today is no different.
“Well, hello there,” she says seductively, never tearing her gaze away from Dallas. “I haven’t seen you here in forever.” She draws out the last word like a teenager, batting her eyes at Dallas like she is trying to blow out a fire with her lashes.
I don’t even know why it bothers me so much. I have no claim on Dallas. So what we made out earlier. That meant nothing. Or at least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. We’re just having fun. Fooling around a bit. Same with Griffin. No strings attached. Always.
Yet, when Ginger places her flimsy hand on Dallas’s forearm while she laughs at something he says; I want nothing more than to chop her stupid fingers off with a meat cleaver.
Okay, maybe I’m overreacting a bit.
Or maybe not.
“Are we here to shoot some guns or for endless small talk?” I snap, making Ginger giggle, and Dallas lift one eyebrow at me.
“Go ahead and take booth eight,” Pete offers. “I’ll get you a good array of guns and ammo brought over momentarily.”
Dallas and I both nod and make our way to booth eight.
“What was that about?”
I shrug, as if it didn’t really bother me that much. “I just don’t like how handsy she gets with everybody. It’s unprofessional.”
“Are you sure that’s what it was about?” Ugh, why can’t he let this go?
“Let’s just shoot, okay?”
“We don’t have any guns yet.” He points out the obvious.
“Then let’s just not talk.” I fold my arms across my chest, signaling that I’m done talking.
Unfortunately, Dallas is not. “You know, my grandparents were married for sixty-five years and people always asked them ‘What’s your secret?’ My grandfather used to say, ‘You really start loving someone when you tell them something you are scared of sharing, and they react in a way that calms you. That’s when that person becomes a safe haven. And every time that happens, you love them a little more.’”
I stare at him, unprepared for his sudden deep words of wisdom. I’m not sure what to say. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and look around the room uncomfortably.
Luckily, Pete approaches us, pushing a metal cart packed full of different guns and ammo. Thank fuck.
“I brought you some rifles, and two handguns each, new armor-piercing bullets, and I’m going to set up some special exploding targets for fun.”
“Music to my ears,” I say, glad Pete interrupted the awkward silence.
Dallas shoots me a glance that says ‘we’re not done talking about this’ but luckily he lets it go for now. Sliding on my ear protection, I grab the Glock from the cart and load it quickly. I step up to the window and aim at the human-shaped target, aiming for the head. My finger slides over the trigger as I take a breath in. On my exhale, I pull it. The gun fires, ricocheting inmy hand as I fire again and again until all fourteen bullets of the extended magazine have ripped through the center of the target.
“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” Dallas mumbles next to me, making me laugh. He could say the same about most people here, but I’ll take the compliment.
When it’s Dallas’s turn to shoot, I enjoy watching his muscles flex under his dark shirt, and I catch myself fantasizing about taking it off later and running my fingers over every ridge.
We spend the next two hours shooting every gun Pete brings us, trying out different types of ammo and interactive targets. Then we do the same with an array of rifles, and just for extra fun, we try out a crossbow.
