Axel bumps my shoulder gently. “Come hang out with me while I start dinner?”
I smile, my heart feeling light. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
I stand there stunned as Axel suddenly rushes past me, taps my arm, and yells, “Tag—you’re it!” He sprints from the room, cackling like a maniac.
“Oh, you’re dead,” I laugh, already tearing after him.
We race down the stairs, laughter echoing off the walls. I’m hot on his heels as he barrels into the kitchen, slides to the fridge, slaps it with one hand, and yells, “Base! I’m on base! I’m safe!”
I skid to a stop, hands on my hips. “Cheater!”
He turns, grinning like the devil himself. “We never said therecouldn’tbe bases.”
“And we never said therecould! That’s not how this works!”
“That’s exactly how this works,” he argues. “Creative interpretation of the rules is the backbone of any respectable tag game.”
“You’re just a big, fat cheater, Axel Harrington.”
He shoots me a wink. “And you’re just a tiny, cute loser, Lina Harrington.”
I gasp, mock-offended, and flop onto one of the stools at the counter. “Rude.”
“You love it.”
Unfortunately, I do. My cheeks hurt from smiling, but I don’t stop.
Chapter 18
For the past week, Ben’s been on a mission. He says learning to shoot is a crucial part of my self-defense training. So today, we’re hiking deeper into the woods on his property for target practice.
Axel and Johnny both mysteriously had other plans, which screams of Maryanne’s doing. I’m sure she orchestrated this little solo adventure so Ben and I could have some “father-daughter bonding.” Which is great in theory, except for the fact that so far, it’s been awkward as hell.
I trail behind him, trying to focus on the scenery instead of the tension. The sun is warm on my face, and a cool breeze toys with the ends of my hair. Tennessee’s finally catching its first breath of fall. Leaves are shifting into cozy hues of orange and red, and the air is crisp enough to make my lungs feel clean. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. And under normal circumstances, I’d probably enjoy it.
I can’t stop staring at the black case Ben carries. Inside is his Glock 19. He showed me before we left, just so I’d know what I’d be handling.
Joe, ironically, never taught me to shoot. He was the sheriff back home, but he didn’t want his girls knowing how to protect themselves. Probably because if I had access to a gun back then, I would’ve used it. More than once. He liked us scared. Docile. Helpless.
I won’t be that girl again, and Ben’s helping making sure of it.
We reach a small clearing already scattered with half-shot soda cans and busted targets.
“Damn it,” Ben mutters. “Guess the boys didn’t clean up last time.”
He sets the case on a wide tree stump and opens it, lifting out the Glock. He checks something with practiced ease, keeping the muzzle aimed at the ground.
“Rule number one,” he says, voice calm but firm. “Always treat every firearm like it’s loaded. Never point it at anyone, even if you’re sure it’s empty. Never put your finger on the trigger unless you’re going to shoot. When you’re just carrying, aim down and keep your finger out of the trigger well, like this.”
He demonstrates, then hands it over.
I try to copy him, but the second my finger so much as brushes the trigger guard, he barks, “Finger off the trigger!”
I jump and instantly drop the gun.
It hits the dirt with a dullthud, and we both freeze.
“Well,” I say, deadpan. “This is going great.”
