Now, I was six weeks into my recovery. More than ready to get training again. As much as I could, anyway. Still no actual shooting allowed.
And no word yet on the pictures we’d shared with River from our visit to Donny Phelan’s mansion. But I thought I was showing admirable patience, thank you very much.
Dean pushed back that unruly long hair of his. It kept slipping into his face, though he’d tied it back in its usual knot. “This is my Knight’s Armament SR-25. The same weapon I used for Marine Force Recon missions as a sniper.”
“You were Force Recon? I didn’t know that.” Just one more small detail about Dean’s life that he occasionally dropped like breadcrumbs.
He nodded, eyes still on the disassembled rifle. “For a while. As a sniper, this weapon was my best friend. I took it with me when I became a strategic asset carrying out less official assignments.”
His fingers traced across the matte black pieces in their foam nests.
We were in the living room, and this space was much cleaner than before, all the tools and sawhorses put elsewhere. But aside from the addition of a couch, it was still sparsely furnished. Plenty of room to move.
Room for the memories that were no doubt filling Dean’s mind, too.
“Youareokay with this, right?” I asked. “I want to learn, but…” As far as I knew, he still hadn’t actually held a gun in years.
But holding a weapon wasn’t the same as firing it. Firing it wasn’t the same as aiming a kill-shot at a living person.
Loopholes, right? These days, I was living in the loopholes. Sharing a home with Dean, though we couldn’t ever really be together. Touching him when we were out in public, while knowing it meant nothing.
“I’m good, Keira. I promise.” With no further hesitation, Dean lifted the barrel from the case. “Let’s go over the architecture of this fine precision weapon, piece by piece.”
He showed me the upper and lower receiver, the bolt carrier group. The Leopold Mark 4 scope and the suppressor.
It sure wassomething, watching Dean smoothly assemble and take apart the rifle. Everything the man did was sexy to me, but when he was using his warrior jargon and being all proficient?
Maybe I had a competency kink.
“Keira? Did you get that?”
“Um, yep. Clockwise. Got it.”
“I’m not boring you, am I? Should we break for lunch?” He was smirking, so I smirked back.
“Nope. I can keep going. I can go as long as you can.”
His smile turned more devious for a second, heat flaring in his eyes. Then it was gone. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying.”
After Dean finished my introduction to the KAC SR-25, he opened up a second case. The contents of this one were more familiar to me.
A Glock 19 and a SIG Sauer P226, both with threaded barrels for suppressors. And a whole bunch of wicked-looking knives.
Dean lifted the knives and identified them, one by one. “Benchmade Nimravus fixed blade. Gerber Mark II. Folding Emerson CQC-7.”
“You’ll show me how to use them?”
“When you’re ready. I’ll show you anything you want.”
He’d said that in a husky, deep voice. Dean’s eyes were intent on the knives, so I didn’t think he was flirting or making some kind of innuendo. But my brain still wanted to make it dirty.
Just friends, I reminded myself.
Just. Friends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dean
