Page 8 of Rescuing Erin

“All right, Mr. Dead-eye-dick. Fifty bucks for the tightest grouping at twenty-five feet?”

“I can’t take your money, Erin.”

“Well, that’s a relief because I’m not planning on giving it to you.”

“You do realize I spend a good amount of time at the range?”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Winner gets a five-minute foot massage.”

“No way. I hate feet. If you’re so worried about losing your money, we’ll do a five-minute shoulder rub.”

“You don’t like feet?”

“Are you stalling?”

His head lolled back, and his deep, belly laugh filled the otherwise silent range.

“All right, Miss. Ladies first.”

With a shrug, I pulled my hearing protection over my ears and loaded the magazine. I settled into a shooter’s stance and brought the familiar weight of the Smith & Wesson eye level and lined up the sights. I slowly took up the slack on the trigger before I squeezed off the full ten-round magazine.

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

“Eh. I pulled to the right on a few of those.”

I had a fist-sized grouping, meaning that all of my bullets had hit within a two-inch diameter on the paper target.

“Went straight for the heart, I see.” Colin shook his head and smiled. “Typical woman.”

He picked up the Sig Sauer and moved over in front of his target. He, however, did not slowly bring the gun up eye level like I did. He pushed the barrel in the direction of the target and fired in rapid succession. When he was done, he had a silver-dollar sized grouping. From the distance we were from the targets, it looked like there was a big hole where the bullseye used to be.

“Show off.”

“Warned you. You’re not gonna renege, are you? My back is killing me after sleeping on the too hard mattress last night.”

“Glad I turned down the offer of the master bedroom then. The spare room’s bed is nice and comfy.”

I wasn’t buying the story about the hard mattress. I’d seen the invoice for the new furniture on the kitchen table. It cost a bloody fortune. I’d furnished my entire apartment on what he’d spent on the bedrooms alone, and I didn’t have cheap stuff.

“Guess you got lucky,” he said, talking about my choice of beds.

“Right. I think you just want me to touch you.”

“Maybe.”

He removed the magazine and cleared his Sig before setting it back down on the bench and coming to stand next to me.

“You’re aiming,” he told me.

“Um . . . yeah. Of course I’m aiming.”

“At twenty-five feet you don’t need to aim. And if someone was coming at you and already that close there’s no time to line up your sights. Pick up the Smith.” I did what he asked, and he stepped behind me and wrapped his arms around me. His work-roughened hands covered mine, and he squeezed. “Tight grip. Keep your hands close to your body. Bring the gun up chest level and push straight at the target. Don’t worry about your sight picture. This close all you need to worry about is grip and trigger control.”

I was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying. I’d forgotten about his hands covering mine and was more focused on the fact his very hard front was pressed against my back. Heat from his body was radiating through the layers of fabric separating our bare skin, but it did nothing to stop the warmth from penetrating.

“Are you listening to me?”