A soft hand pats my forearm. “You may be quick at drawing a weapon, but you’d lose at a dabbing duel.”
“Brutal, Grams.”
“I love you anyway.”
I know she does. She’s raised me since I was two. “And I love you even though you’re a bingo shark.”
“I’m vicious,” she says in a warbly voice. She’s trying to sound tough, but she’s too angelic. Her short silver bob could easily get mistaken for a halo.
“Yes, you’re very intimidating, Patricia.” Granddad stands and stretches. He does this in between every round as though he’s afraid his joints will rust in place if he sits for too long. “Come with me, Karson. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I reach for the bowl of popcorn on the table and toss a few buttery kernels into my mouth, perfectly content to watch everyone in the room from a distance. I’m also instantly suspicious of anybody my grandparents want me to meet. While I’m trying to make up for my mom, they are trying to make up for my ex. Their choices of church girls are probably a safe bet, but they are also too sheltered to handle the world I deal with every day. “Is this person a female between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five?”
“We’re at the VFW,” Granddad counters.
I don’t move. Because we both know being at the VFW didn’t stop him from introducing me to the cook last year.
“No,” he finally concedes. “Hank Bellingham has an old gun he wants you to restore.”
I stand and look around in hopes of seeing a German Luger or M-1 with a folding stock from WWII. “How old?”
I recently restored a 1974 French military rifle, orgras, and my fingers have been itching to make the old new again. There’s something satisfying about disassembling and cleaning away the grime from the wood stock with lacquer thinner and sandblasting the metal barrel until it’s smooth. In a career where my best efforts can be undone by the court system, it’s rewarding to visibly see the results of hard labor.
Working with my hands is much better than the luck required to win at bingo, though I feel lucky when Hank shows me a photograph of the Winchester 1873 he found while fishing. It’s the gun that won the West. As I return to my seat, I’m mentally listing all the supplies I’ll need for when Hank drops the gun off this weekend, and I don’t immediately notice the redhead Grams has waiting for me.
I was right to be suspicious. Has my gut ever been wrong?
I consider walking right past, but Grams has a new bingo sheet laid out, so I stop a few feet away and cross my arms to study the younger woman. She’s natural-looking. Ponytail and light makeup. Running clothes. I might like her if we met at the gym.
Her lashes flutter up, and her brown eyes take in my uniform before meeting my gaze with an apology. Is she sorry my grandma is putting us in this position or sorry she’s going to have to turn down an invitation for a date because she just discovered I’m a cop?
There aren’t many places I’d go after work without changing, but the VFW is one of those places. The older generation seems to have more respect for law enforcement officers, especially the war vets. And seeing me dressed this way invites them to tell their battle stories.
No matter why the redhead is sorry, I can put us both out of our misery. I extend a hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Karson Zellner. I hate drama, fireworks, cats, and rap music.”
Her expression sparks with the first sign of interest as she slides her tiny palm into mine. “That’s unfortunate, because I’m a rapper.”
Her response is so unexpected that I don’t have time to stop my chuckle. I give her hand one extra pump before pulling mine away to cross safely against my chest again. “Well, as my grandmother is obviously trying to set us up, you’re going to have to choose. Me or the rap music?”
“Karson,” Grams chides but in a delighted way as only grandmas can do.
I grin devilishly. “Sorry, Grams. I didn’t know you liked rap music so much.”
“I’m not trying to set you up,” she says in a tone that’s squeaky with feigned innocence. “I just like showing you off because I’m proud of you. And I thought you might be able to help Bree.”
I look at the redhead and arch an eyebrow. Does she think she needs my help too, or is this all Grams’s idea?
Bree has good eye contact, but her expression remains unreadable as she lets my grandmother explain.
“Bree’s helping her grandpa put on this bingo fundraiser, though normally she works with juvenile delinquents.”
My experience with juvies puts me on guard. If Bree is one of those overoptimistic do-gooders who believes she can rehab young hoodlums and thinks “giving them another chance” is an excuse to put criminals back on the street, we will not have much in common.
On the other hand, there’s the argument that Bree’s profession means she won’t be as naive as most of the women Grams introduces me to. Or Gemma. I’ll give her a chance. “So,” I summarize, “apart from your aspiring rap career, you’re a saint.”
She lifts a shoulder, playing along. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“Actually,” Grams interjects again, apparently not realizing that this is already as close as I get to flirting. “Bree has been dealing with some unsavory characters from her job, and because she lives alone, she bought a gun for protection.”
