“The only one responsible for me, is me,” she said firmly.
“I know that intellectually, but it’s not going to stop my gut from feeling that way.”
She crossed her arms at her waist and tilted her head. “I think I have some antacid in my purse.”
He grinned at her response. One of the reasons he’d followed her blog, other than the occasional picture, was her sharp wit and humor. “I’ll give that a try when we get back upstairs. Ready to shoot?”
“Yeah.” A softness entered her eyes, and her shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch, releasing some of the tension she’d been holding.
That tight spot between his shoulders relaxed in response. “This way.”
He led her down the hall, past the elevator, and waved his wallet in front of the badge reader, unlocking the door.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen anyone use a badge,” she said.
“We have to use them to enter and exit the garage. Graham and Paige were adamant about the security of the armory and range.”
“Welcome to my inner sanctum,” Jeremy said, arms outstretched. “I’ve got you set up on lane five. M4 and M9 are already at the station.”
“Do you have a twenty-two?” she asked.
Jeremy placed a hand over his heart and staggered back. “Do I… Do I have a twenty-two?”
Devon rolled his eyes. “Really, Jane?”
“Why do they call you Jane?” Addison asked.
“You ever see the showFirefly?” Devon asked.
“Yes. Oh! Jane! You like guns. Got it.”
“All right. Twenty-twos. I’ve got Smith and Wesson, Ruger, or a Sig Sauer,” Jeremy said.
“Let me try the Ruger,” she said.
“Perfect choice.” He turned and unlocked the cabinet behind him, pulling out the handgun and held it out grip first. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
He grabbed a box of ammo and three magazines. “No problem. You need any help sighting?”
Devon took the box and magazines and placed a hand in the center of Jeremy’s chest. “I’ve got it covered, Jane.”
He smirked. “Sure thing.
Devon glared and caught Addison’s amused look, before badging her through the holding area into the lanes and flipping the light to indicate the range was hot. He wasn’t kidding when he’d said Graham had been adamant about security. TLC’s range was more secure than some commercial firing ranges.
The guns were laid out on the counter along with eye and hearing protection, and the paper target was already clipped to the board.
“You want to shoot pistol or rifle first?” he asked.
“Pistol.” She loaded ammunition into one magazine, while he loaded the other.
He pushed the button to send the target to the end of the lane, stopping about three-quarters of the way down. Rolling a foam earplug, he said, “Whenever you’re ready,” then stuck the plugs in his ears while she did the same.
Devon took note of everything—her posture, her stance, her grip—all as a professional courtesy, of course. She hesitated on the first shot but quickly went through one magazine before dropping it and slamming in a second. In a little more than a minute, she’d expended all thirty rounds.
Taking the headphones off her head, she glanced up at him from the corner of her eye while he brought the target back in.
