But I need her to be prepared. We don’t know what Abraham has up his sleeve, including his alliance with the Barreras. I can’t be around every minute of every hour. I’d rather she have the ability to do something should the worst case scenario arise…
“Listen to me, baby. You don’t like violence. You don’t believe in it. I get it. I respect it. Not everybody does. But when it comes to survival, sometimes you’ve got to protect yourself. Just let me teach you, alright?”
“It’ll only be the beer cans?”
“Only the beer cans. Nobody’s around for miles. I’ll be here making sure nothing goes wrong.”
We spend a few minutes going over the Glock 48 I’ve selected just for her. It fits her hands and she’s able to grip it properly. I brief her about the different parts of the Glock and the basics of handling one.
Teysha’s attentive, if not palpably nervous with the occasional shake she gives. But she tries… she presses on even as it’s clear she’s uncertain about the lesson. I stand behind her and guide her hands around the grip, making sure her trigger finger’s positioned where it needs to be.
“Now, you want to line up the front sight in clear focus,” I explain, my hands still covering hers. “You want your breathing to be steady. Take a breath, exhale, hold, shoot, then repeat. There’s gonna be some recoil. Keep your elbows slightly loose, your wrists locked. Ready?”
“I… I think so.”
“I’m right here,” I rasp into her ear, so close I can smell flowers. I’d let it distract me if it were any other situation. Instead, I lower my hands from hers but remain where I am. Close enough for support if she needs it. “Go ahead. Make sure you’re in position and your front sight is good. Make sure your breathing’s steady. Make sure you’re ready. Then pull the trigger.”
Teysha replicates what I’ve advised… or does her best to.
The Glock 48 sits in the palm of her hands, her arms straight out, her posture tense. She lets out a soft breath, taking seconds in between. After the slight pause, she goes for it. She pulls the trigger, aiming for the line of beer cans.
None of them budge an inch.
Her shot’s gone astray, the bullet whizzing into the distance.
“It’s okay,” I reassure right away. “It takes practice. That’s what this evening’s for. Let’s correct some of your technique.”
My hands fall to her hips to draw them back, then I reposition the Glock in her hands. It’s sitting too high against her palm and needs to be more secure within her grip. I remind her about using her front sight before telling her to try again when she’s ready.
“You got this, baby. Just remember to brace for the recoil.”
Teysha shudders out another breath, gathering up more nerve, and then she pulls the trigger a second time. The bang rings out across the barren land, missing the beer cans by a couple inches.
“Better. That’s all that matters. Improvement.”
We work on it.
By her fifth shot, I’ve got her technique markedly better. I’ve got her wrist holding straight when the recoil kicks in, though her breathing still needs work. The bullet chinks the side of the farthest beer can, nudging it enough that it wobbles like a bowling pin.
“Good,” I say. “That’s good. Your aim is almost there. Let’s see you do it again.”
For the next hour, we practice shooting at the row of cans. The first time she hits one, her mouth drops open in shocked delight. She glances over her shoulder at me with twinkling eyes, like she’s checking if I just saw what happened.
I can’t help disguising my chuckle with a scrub of my jaw.
I’m not sure how it’s possible this woman found a way to be even more damn adorable than she already is, but she’s done it. The first beer can with a bullet hole starts a pattern of others. After a couple more shots, half the beer cans are knocked off the ledge. They fall to the grass, shriveled up hunks of aluminum.
Teysha flings her arms around me as soon as we’re done. Her body collides with mine and forces me half a step back as I catch her.
Our mouths lock in a kiss born of celebration. I hold her up as she clings to me, wrapping those silky, shapely legs of hers around my waist. We trade smiles in between small kisses, parting long enough to tease each other in the lead up to the next time our lips meet. Each time they do, the passion grows.
The heat rises as I suck on her bottom lip and she cards her fingers through my hair.
We’re forgetting about our surroundings. The deserted field we’re in slips away. The beer cans littering the dry grass are no more. Neither is the rest of the world as the sun fades and twilight scatters across the sky.
I grip her by the thighs, her ankles crisscrossed at my back, and I walk us toward the nearest pillar we have—the wooden fence we’ve used as a prop for the beer cans. I set her down on the top beam that happens to stop at my waist, just as our kisses pick up steam.
She’s clutching at the tuft of hair on my nape, her soft lips so damn delicious against mine. I’m barely containing myself, wedged between her parted thighs. My hands begin wandering as soon as she’s perched on the top beam.
