“Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I’m sure you have better places you could be.”
He closed the locker. “This is important. You need to be ready.”
She followed him to the middle lane, where he set the supplies down on the counter.
“I like Jerry,” she said.
A smile flickered across Luke’s face. “Yeah. Jerry’s good people.” He pushed a button, and a used target rattled noisily to them from the end of the lane. He removed the old target from the clip that held it in place, talking as he worked. “I went to school with his kid brother. Jerry’s ex-Marine. Served in Iraq. Left the military with distinction.”
He held the target up so she could see how the holes were clustered in the center of the head and chest. She wondered if he was the one who’d put those holes there.
“He taught me to shoot. Now I’m teaching you.” He replaced the used target with a clean one, then pushed the button and sent the pulley rattling again as it swept the target to the far end of the lane. Once there, it seemed impossibly small.
Harper stared at it doubtfully. “There’s no way I’m ever hitting that.”
“You might surprise yourself.” Luke pointed at the gun, which lay on the metal counter. “Pick up your weapon.”
After a momentary hesitation, Harper lifted it, without enthusiasm. He showed her how to do all the things Jerry had just done—remove the bullet clip, check the chamber, ensure it was empty. He made her do it over and over until she could go through the motions with quick assurance.
“Now”—he motioned for her to face the target—“let’s look at your stance.”
Squaring her shoulders, she lifted the gun, using her left hand to brace her right wrist as she stared down the sights at the tiny target.
“Lower your shoulders—they’re up by your ears,” Luke advised, pressing down lightly on her upper arms. “Spread your feet wider to give you stability.”
He walked around her, looking at her critically. She was conscious of him behind her, looking over her shoulder. He placed his hands on either side of her waist, fingers firm against her body. “Straighten your hips or you’ll aim crooked.”
He was so close.
Swallowing hard, she did as he instructed.
“Now move your left hand from your wrist and cup it around the bottom of your right hand,” he instructed. “It’ll give you more support.”
Harper tried, awkwardly holding one hand with the other.
“No,” he said, “you need to cup it like…”
Standing behind her, he slid his hands down her extended arms, until his hands covered her own. His body was pressed against her back. She could feel the warmth of him against her. She had to fight the urge to sink back into his arms. Instead, she stood stiffly, as he lifted her left hand and arranged it around the hand holding the gun.
“The Glock has a powerful kick.” His breath stirred her hair. “This will brace you so you don’t lose the shot.”
When he let go and stepped back, she felt colder.
“Let’s try this for real,” he said, and for a second she didn’t know what he meant. But then he picked up the ear protectors and handed them to her.
Hoping her confusion didn’t show in her face, Harper hurriedly set the gun down and slid the headset on.
The ear protectors filtered out most sounds, but she could hear Luke’s voice, muffled but clear. “Line yourself up.”
Forcing herself to focus, she went through the steps he’d shown her, aligning her hips, spreading her feet, lowering her shoulders, raising her hands with the gun clasped firmly, finger light on the trigger guard.
Slipping on his own ear guards, Luke stepped behind her again.
“I’m going to help you get started.” He put his arms around her, holding her hands in his. “Finger on the trigger. Be ready for the kick. Fire when you’re ready.”
Lining up the sights on the target’s chest—because it was bigger than the target’s head—Harper peered down the barrel. She could feel Luke’s chest moving as he breathed in and out, and she found herself syncing her breath with his.
Goose bumps rose on her arms.
Exhaling slowly, she squeezed the trigger.
A huge bang split the silence. The gun seemed to leap in her hands, but Luke held her steady, barely flinching from the recoil.
“Again,” he said, his lips close to her ear.
Harper aimed at the target. Waited until she felt Luke breathe.
She fired.
This time she was ready for the kick. The gun moved, but only a little.
“Again,” he ordered.
She aimed and fired.
Dropping his arms, he stepped back. “On your own now.”
Harper kept her eyes on the black silhouette. When she pulled the trigger this time, the kick didn’t feel as bad. On her own, without Luke’s hands covering hers, she was holding the Glock steady.
She fired again and again. Until she heard his voice. “Stop.”
Harper lifted her finger from the trigger and looked at him questioningly. The air smelled of hot metal.
“Drop the clip, check the chamber, set down the gun,” he instructed. “Go through the steps.”
She did as he ordered. The gun was very warm now. When the empty weapon lay on the counter, he recalled the target. Removing it from the holder, he held it up to the light.
About half of her shots had missed the silhouette completely, but the rest hadn’t. A few holes were right in the middle of the chest.
“Not bad,” Luke said approvingly.
Harper stepped closer to see, her shoulder brushing his. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Let’s do it again and see if you can get a bit more accuracy,” he said. “But this is damn good for a first try. You’re a natural.”
Warmth spread through her. She was surprised by how much his opinion mattered, and caught off guard by how much she enjoyed shooting. The skill required—keeping her hands steady and her eyes focused—was strangely relaxing.
They went through the same process for another half hour until Luke decided they’d done enough. By then her aim was better. Most of her shots hit the silhouette.
“We can come back in a few days if you want,” he told her, as they stacked the gear back in the storage locker. “Get in a bit more practice.”
She lifted her head to smile at him. “I’d like that.”
Luke’s expression grew dark and serious. “I hate that you’re going through this. I feel so helpless.”
Harper looked for the right words to say but couldn’t find them. For a second, neither of them spoke. Moving slowly, as if unable to stop himself, he reached out and caught an errant strand of her hair and let it run between his fingers.
Every part of her felt that touch.
“I’m sorry we blew it,” he said quietly, out of nowhere. “I don’t think I ever said it before. But you knew, right?”
His unexpected honesty took the air from her lungs.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said.
“I always thought we’d find a way to make it work.” His voice simmered with suppressed emotion. “It seemed like it had to work. We just fit, you and me.”