The Walls Of Troy Part 12

The front part of the building was like any gun shop. Any wall that wasn't covered with firearms was covered with various stuffed critters, targets, NRA posters, and various displays of hunting gear.

Two steps in, Troy wrinkled his nose, probably from the scent of gun oil and powder. I didn't blame him-it was definitely an acquired taste.

Admittedly, had I walked in here alone and seen someone like Troy perusing the cases, I'd have rolled my eyes at the punk kid and hoped to G.o.d no one let him handle a firearm. Then again, when people saw someone like me perusing the cases, they called Homeland Security, so maybe I wasn't the only one with skewed preconceived notions.

The owner of the shop stepped out from the back room. "Oh hey. Good to see you again." He extended his hand over the case of rental Glocks and Berettas. "Alexander, right?"

Eh, close enough.

"Good to be back." I shook his hand. "We're going to rent a lane and try out a few pistols."

"Excellent." To Troy, he said, "Son, just need you to fill out these forms and show me some ID."

As Troy filled everything out, the owner put two sets of eye and ear protection on the counter. Smirking, Troy held up the earm.u.f.fs, letting them dangle off his finger. "So if I'm carrying, do I wear these all the time? You know, just in case?"

I laughed. "No, but if you really want to practice without them, go right ahead."

"Uh, no thanks."

"Thought so." I nodded past the counter. "Which targets do you want to use?"

Troy looked up at the wall, and his eyes widened. "Are those... They really use human silhouettes?"

"Sometimes, but bull's-eye targets work fine too."

"But...they use human silhouettes?" He met my eyes. "Do you?"

"Troy, I'm a cop."

"And you're here to teach me this for self-defense. Which means..." His eyes darted toward the targets again, and he put up his hands. "Look, maybe this isn't a good idea. I can't even stomach shooting a drawing of a person on a piece of paper. There's no way I could shoot an actual person."

"No one does this because we want to kill someone," I said, keeping my tone gentle. "This is so you can defend yourself." I pointed up at the targets. "The idea isn't that you're shooting some random person. It's someone who's coming at you and threatening your life."

Troy blanched.

"I know it's not an easy thing to think about," I said. "And hopefully, you'll never have to use anything I teach you in here. But this is the kind of knowledge you're better off having and not needing than needing and not having."

He closed his eyes and pushed out a breath, then looked up at the targets again. "But we can start with the bull's-eye targets, right? Just...until I get used to the idea?"

"Absolutely."

After I'd rented a lane and procured everything we needed, we put on our eye and ear protection, and I took him back into the range. I set everything on the bench, including the pistol from my hip and a rented .22, then pulled up my pant leg and took the other gun from the ankle holster.

Troy's eyebrows climbed as he stared at everything laid out in front of him. He watched silently while I hung up a target and sent the hanger out to about twenty feet in front of the bench. It was probably just as well we'd gone with the bull's-eye targets-even without the human silhouettes, he still looked a little green at the prospect of doing this at all.

"So, um." Troy drummed his fingers on the edge of the bench, near the guns and ammo. "How different are they? From each other, I mean?"

"Different weights, different recoil, different grips." I glanced at him. "You might find a nine-mill is more comfortable than the other. Some people don't like thirty-eights."

"Which do you prefer?"

"I like the thirty-eight."

"Should I try both?"

"Well, for starters, I'm going to have you shoot the .22." I pointed at the rented gun. "Just so you can get a feel for holding a weapon and aiming before we start getting into the higher calibers."

He gulped. "Okay."

I showed him how to load the magazines and then slipped one into the rented pistol. I squeezed off a couple of shots. A gun like this didn't make a h.e.l.l of a lot of noise-they were basically glorified pellet guns-but Troy still jumped.

"You sure about this?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Can I try it?"

I dropped the magazine, cleared the chamber, and handed it over to him. "Here. Just hold it for a second and get a feel for it. Always keep it pointed down-range, and a.s.sume it's loaded even if you know it's not."

He held the gun and just stared at it for a moment. His focus was distant, and my pulse shot up.

I put a hand on his arm, and he startled so hard he almost dropped the pistol. "Hey, easy." I cupped his hands in mine to steady the weapon. Then I carefully freed the gun and set it on the bench. "Troy, talk to me. What's going on?"

"It's..." He took a deep breath and let it out. "It's just a little weird." He met my gaze, the yellow-tinted safety lenses doing nothing to temper the intensity in his eyes. "You know how they say just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you?"

I nodded.

"I've kind of been in denial, I think. About...what's going on. This"-he put his hand on the gun-"means it's real."

Oh, now it made sense.

And talk about getting a bit too real. Whatever the f.u.c.k was going on, he didn't think this was overkill but rather something that made him accept the reality he hadn't yet explained to me?

"Do you, uh, want to keep-"

"Yeah. Yeah." He set his shoulders back and then picked up the gun. "Just needed a minute to think about it, I guess."

And just like that, he'd put it behind him. Considered it, processed it, filed it away. When he raised the gun this time, the only discomfort he seemed to have was the natural awkwardness of someone who'd never handle a weapon like this before. Even that didn't last long, and when he fired the gun...nothing. No startle. No revulsion. Whatever he'd had to mentally face down and get over, he'd faced down and gotten over.

So he could learn to shoot.

So he could protect himself.

From what?

Something a lot more real than I would have liked, that was for sure.

After he'd gone through a couple of magazines with the .22, I picked up my nine-millimeter. "This one's a higher caliber. It's going to have a bigger recoil." I slapped the magazine into the gun. "I'll fire off a few just to give you an idea." I took three shots, and Troy didn't seem at all fazed this time, so I pulled the slide back and then set the pistol on the bench. "Want to try it?"

He nodded. "Sure. Yeah."

I thumbed open another box of ammo and pulled out the tray. "Let's load these up and I'll have you try the nine-mill."

After we'd loaded the magazines, I handed him the pistol.

"This one's going to have some more recoil," I said. "You'll want to make sure your stance is good and solid. It's not enough to knock you off balance, but some of the larger calibers will, so get the hang of it now, and you'll be in good shape."

He adopted the stance I'd shown him-feet shoulder width apart, leaning slightly forward, but when he raised the gun, it was a bit low.

I reached for his wrist but hesitated.

"It's okay," he said. "Go ahead."

"You're aiming just a tad low." I grasped his wrist and tipped the weapon up slightly. "Try it like that."

"I won't shoot the target hanger?"

"No. See? Your shots are mostly in the lower half of the target. You can still come up quite a bit before the target hanger's in any danger."

"Oh. Okay."

His eyes flicked toward the gun. So did mine.

And I realized I still had my hand under his. I quickly withdrew it, muttering, "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he murmured so quietly I almost didn't hear him through my ear protection.

He kept the gun higher as I'd suggested, but he'd s.h.i.+fted his weight to his back foot, putting his center of gravity too far back. I curled my fingers at my side, debating crossing that line again.

"Here, you're leaning back a bit too far."

"I am?" He adjusted but went a little too far the other direction. "Is this better?"

"It's...almost. You want to be..."

To h.e.l.l with it-my comfort was less important than Troy having a good, solid stance. I touched his hip, pretending not to notice the way his spine straightened as I did, and telling myself the shudder I felt was his, not mine.

"Bring your hip back just a little." I tugged at his hip slightly, and even through my ear protection heard the slight catch of his breath. I quickly withdrew my hand. "Sorry. Sorry."

"It's okay." He s.h.i.+fted a bit. "Is, uh, this better?"

"Yeah." Intending to give him another instruction, I took in a breath, but over the gun oil and metal and lead and powder caught the distinctly masculine scent of him.

Because I was standing close to him. Way closer than I needed to be. Way too d.a.m.ned close.

I forgot what the h.e.l.l I'd been about to say to him. What the h.e.l.l we were doing in the first place.

"Is this-" Troy turned his head slightly, and he jumped when we almost touched. "Is this right?"

No, I'm pretty sure everything about this is very, very- I cleared my throat and subtly drew back. "Yeah. You're good. Lean forward just a touch, and you've got it."

He adjusted his stance. Thank G.o.d I'd moved-that little s.h.i.+ft in his hips would've made his a.s.s rub against me, and n.o.body needed that to happen. Not here. Not between the two of us.

What the f.u.c.k is the matter with me?

I shook my head and inspected his stance, making sure he was holding the weapon correctly. Long fingers, black-painted nails, grasping- "You're good," I said, almost choking on my own voice. "Try a few shots."

The muscles in his forearm rippled slightly as he adjusted his grasp, as he curled his finger around the trigger and slowly applied pressure.

The gun went off. Troy wasn't the one to jump out of his skin that time, though. The second shot reverberated through me, right down into my toes. I stepped back a little, ostensibly giving him some more s.p.a.ce and totally not trying to keep him from seeing me jump.

f.u.c.k. I really needed to get my head together. Troy was attractive as h.e.l.l, but he was someone I had no business laying a hand on. Or thinking about. Too young, too rattled, and way too much my professional responsibility.

But as he fired away, hyperfocused and steady in spite of his earlier hesitation with the gun, I couldn't stop my mouth from watering.

Troy pulled the trigger again, but it just clicked this time. He dropped the magazine, laid the gun on the bench, and faced me. "How was that?"

Hot.

"Good," I croaked. "Excellent. How does it feel?"

He met my eyes. "Good. Can I try the other one?"

"Sure. Yeah. Just need to load a-" I glanced at the stack of ammo boxes. "d.a.m.n. I forgot to get .38 ammo. Stay here. I'll be right back."

I left him at the bench. On my way into the shop, I paused in the buffer room, closed my eyes, and took a few breaths. f.u.c.k. I was a mess, and I didn't even know why.

The h.e.l.l I didn't know why.

Physical attraction notwithstanding, there was just something about Troy that drove me insane. He may have thought everyone believed he was crazy and that he was a coward, but I didn't see that at all. I saw someone with the chutzpah to keep on keeping on even when he was scared s.h.i.+tless and didn't think he had any genuine support. Not too macho to know when he needed help, not too proud to admit he was scared, but no way in h.e.l.l was he hiding in his dad's huge house.

I shook my head and pushed open the door. As I took off my hearing protection and approached the counter, I glanced at the window that looked out on the lanes.

Troy leaned against the bench, playing on his phone as a few strands of black hair fell over his protective gla.s.ses.

d.a.m.n it. He wasn't my type. He was my responsibility.

And I was out of my f.u.c.king mind.

Several boxes of ammo, half a dozen rented guns, and G.o.d knew how many targets later, Troy set a Para Ordnance .45 on the bench and gingerly wrung his hands.

He'd been jumpy when we'd arrived but wasn't so much anymore. Which was good-all the other lanes were occupied by now, and several people had brought what could only be described as hand cannons. I was pretty sure someone had a .44 magnum a few lanes over, and I thought I'd heard someone mention loading up a Desert Eagle. Because what indoor range was complete without some d.i.c.kbag firing off .50 caliber rounds?

I flipped the switch and brought the target closer. "Wow. Are you sure you've never done this before?"

Troy laughed. "I think I'd remember if I had."

"True. But d.a.m.n, Troy." I gestured at the three holes he'd punched in the paper. "Most people can't even hit inside the black their first time. This is a pretty tight pattern." I turned to him and smiled. "Nicely done. You're a crack shot." I tossed an empty ammo box into the trash. "Keep that up, you might have to get compet.i.tive."

Troy laughed, still wringing his hands. "Yeah, we'll see."