My shotgun seemed unbalanced as I carried it toward the second station, weighed down with the unfamiliar feeling of playing from behind, and the scrutiny of the board of HBHC. The men were solemn, perhaps not wanting to break my concentration. They were aware I had to focus now. On the ride down, I’d worried about embarrassing her, and now I was in danger of looking like a fool.
Or perhaps the men were in awe of her, as I was, and were enjoying the show.
The second station repeated the same pattern as the first, only in a new location, and this time I hit each of the four targets.
As did Ms. Alby, and despite the cool weather, sweat clung to my temples.
We moved around the stations, laid out in the shape of a half-moon, shooting efficiently and not speaking during the transitions. Neither of us missed. Anxiety grew in my center as the number of shots we had left dwindled. I needed her to make a mistake if I had any hope of winning.
“You’re quite good,” I remarked as she squared her shoulders to the field and began her process. The shotgun moved from her ready position swiftly to her shoulder, and she spotted the places in the sky where she anticipated her targets would be.
It was absolutely a routine meant to clear her mind, like how baseball pitchers often groomed the mound and took a deep breath before delivering a pitch. Consistency was key, so I did my best to derail her concentration . . . but it was wasted. The girl had shut the world out, including me, as determination burned in her eyes behind the yellow-tinted glasses.
Once she finished filling the air with orange powder, she turned and delivered a glowing smile in response to my compliment. “Thank you.”
Two golf carts rolled down the path, one carrying the Powells and the other Royce and Marist. The two pairs climbed out and made their way toward the party watching from the couches.
“What’s the score?” Royce asked.
“Macalister missed L two,” Mitch said.
If that surprised my son, he didn’t show it. “And Sophia?”
“She hasn’t missed any.”
Marist’s expression skewed and while the volume of her voice was normal, she might as well have announced it loudly for all to hear. “Macalister’s losing?”
“At the moment,” I growled and stomped toward the seventh station beside the low house.
There were six shots left for me, and the game was more mental than it was physical. All I had to do was stay steady and focused, and I would be fine. Ms. Alby would miss; I was sure of it. Things had a way of working out for me, and if they didn’t, I found a way to ensure they did.
“Pull,” I called.
The shotgun was reassuring when it was firm against my shoulder, and I squeezed the trigger, enjoying the kick of the weapon when it fired. Overhead, the target split in two. I swung the barrel to the left, sighted the next bird and fired.
There was a sharp intake of breath from behind me. As she’d already demonstrated, Ms. Alby’s reaction time was faster than mine. It meant she knew what had happened a fraction of a second earlier than I did.
I’d missed.
Again.
Rage poured through my veins like lava, choking up my system and forcing a red blaze to sear across my mind. How the fuck had I missed? I broke open my shotgun with a violent crack and yanked out the empty casings, fisting them uncomfortably in my hand for a moment while I tried to compose myself. The discomfort helped center me.
I could live with the consequences of losing our wager, but defeat? That was much harder for me to handle. There wasn’t anything I hated more than losing. All the sins like incompetence or betrayal or death were simply different types of loss.
Ms. Alby’s feminine voice broke through my haze. “Do you want me to give you a tip?”
It wasn’t clear if she meant her offer in earnest, or if she was rightfully throwing my earlier hubris back in my face. It didn’t matter. I slammed new shells into the barrels and closed the break with a sharp snap, issuing the word as cold as the weapon in my hands. “No.”
My mindset wasn’t right. There was likely a voice inside me warning me to slow down and reset, but my pride was an open wound, and the only way I knew how to cover it was to reestablish my skill. To control and dominate.
“Pull.”
The game was mostly mental, and she’d already beaten me. When the target from the high house slipped past me—my third missed shot—it solidified my loss for everyone else. Unless she missed four out of her next seven shots, the great Macalister Hale was going to bested by some twenty-six-year-old girl.
I hadn’t shot this poorly in years.
No matter how quickly she moved, time dragged by, slowing with each shot she made. We shuffled to the final position in the center of the field, situated directly between the two trap houses. I finished out the round by hitting my final two targets then stood to the side to watch her as she completed her series.
Her legs were wrapped in black leggings, and the hem of her long black coat flapped subtly in the breeze. When she was my assistant, I’d instruct her to wear skirts and dresses. It wasn’t just that I liked my employees to look a certain way, but she had a nice figure. She should be using it to her advantage.
Men became weak around beautiful women.
Even I wasn’t immune, and Sophia Alby was a beautiful woman. She was focused and hard now, but once the game was over, I suspected she’d return to the bright, infectious girl I’d met at lunch earlier this week, with curious eyes and a mouth that could twist into debilitating smile.
I wanted to despise her as she made her final shots then exercised her option at the end. A perfect twenty-five, which I’d only completed a dozen times in my life. This girl had done it with so much finesse she’d made it look easy.
Across the lawn, the crowd of guests clapped for her. She nodded her appreciation while her spent casings were removed, and the bent, unloaded shotgun was placed across her shoulders. She pulled down her earmuffs to hang around the back of her neck and removed her shooting glasses, fixing her gaze on me.
As she spoke, her gloves were tugged off and pocketed. “Good game, Mr. Hale. Or should I say, boss?”
She thrust her hand out.
I’d lost, and my stomach was a bubbling cauldron of unpleasantness, but I refused to show it. I warmed up my tone just enough to keep the bitterness out as I took her offered handshake. “It’s Macalister. Congratulations, Ms. Alby.”
That same spark was there when we touched, and her voice went uneven. “It’s Sophia. And thank you.”
When she tried to pull away, I locked my fingers tighter around her. “Will you play another round?”
Sophia’s lips parted like she was going to speak, but she produced no sound. My hold on her seemed to have a paralyzing effect. It gave me a moment to solidify my plan. The only other person here who had skills like us was Damon.
Was she worried I was going to ask to redo our wager?
“Perhaps we can talk Mr. Lynch into joining us,” I added.
She practically jolted with excitement, and it broke loose her tongue. “I’d be happy to.”
I ended the handshake, turned, and strode toward the crowd. I’d lost the bet, but I’d do all within my power to even the score. If I couldn’t defeat her, someone else eventually would, and I’d enjoy seeing it. “Damon, you’ll play this next round.”