Ashton steps closer and stares at me. “Turns out you do, since you work for him now.”
I bite my tongue.
If Ashton is working for Dante, then anything I say or gripe about is bound to get repeated.
My best friend betrayed me, at least that’s how it feels, and next time we’re on the ice, I fully intend to return a little blood for blood.
We head to the shooting range and gear up.
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat.
Of course, my father would demand that I learn to shoot. He had tried during my teen years to invite me to the shooting range with him, but I always made up some excuse about school, homework, or hockey practice.
Dante is a smart man. He knew I wasn’t interested, but he kept pushing.
Turns out, he wins.
I know the basics of how to hold a gun, using two hands, what the different parts of the gun are called. The thing is, though I’ve played shooter games on my console, I haven’t picked up an actual gun, nor have I wanted to in the past decade.
Ashton gets me set up with a 9mm. He explains how it has a higher amount of muzzle energy, making it more effective at longer distances.
The weight of the gun is heavier than I imagined, and as I stare down the sight, there’s no red dot or laser to guide my aim.
I already know my firing is going to be an embarrassment because I’ve never stepped foot in a shooting range.
But here I am.
It could be worse.
Dante could be teaching me.
Instead, I have Ashton, who shows me all the basics, which I already fucking know, thank you very much, and then he shoots and aims to kill.
He hits the target with a precision that makes my stomach roil.
Every shot hits the chest, dead center.
I turn off the safety, line up the sight with the target and shoot.
I hit the edge of the border of the paper, which at least is something. The gun has more of a recoil than I anticipated. Playing video games doesn’t exactly get you prepared for the real thing.
“Again,” Ashton commands, but I barely hear him over the headphones that I’m required to wear.
I keep shooting, my aim getting a little better but nowhere near as perfect as Ashton’s, and it sucks.
I hate to admit I’m actually jealous of him.
We spend a couple of hours at the shooting range, grab lunch, and then head back to the compound.
Since I’m the only one of us who owns a car, I drive.
“When did you start working for Dante?” I ask on our way back.
“A few weeks ago. Called me up after dinner and asked if I wanted to make a few bucks. Told me I’d get college credit too, which is more than I could have asked for.”
Of course, he did.
“Are you going to be at the compound every weekend?” I ask. While I’m not thrilled that Ashton is working for my father, at least he’s a buffer between Dante and me.
