“Not everyone with a cross tattoo is a gangster, kitten. Some are just religious. Ask Xander how many crosses he tattoos every year.” Clay shrugs, dismissing me.
“Too fucking many,” Xander grumbles from the back.
“I mean, yes, that could be true, but I don’t think we should dismiss it.”
“True, we will look into that. Maybe we’ll find out something about the gang tattoo and find a reference to compare,” Joshua reassures me.
“Just another reason to know how to handle a gun if the guy who threatens you is a cop with gang connections.” Clay looks at me intently, and by the glint in his eyes, he knows he’s won.
“Fine,” I relent, turning to Joshua. “Can’t you show me how?” I pout at him.
“Hey!” Clay pouts now too, seemingly offended.
Joshua snickers. “I would, but he is the better choice. I don’t like to say it, but he is very good with a gun and self-defense.”
“Are we talking about the same guy who still has some of the shiner left that a robber gave him with a gun from only feet away?” I raise my eyebrows and hear Xander chuckle.
“I never said he was smart on top of it.” Joshua smiles.
“You two are fucking awful best friends,” Clay mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.
I round the register and stand before Clay, pulling him down to me by the collar of his uniform. “I would love for you to teach me how to handle a big weapon,” I whisper.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, closing the distance between us and kissing me.
THIRTY-FIVE
The airinside the range is heavy with the smell of gunpowder and the muffled sounds of gunfire surrounding us.
Because it’s Sunday, there are maybe only two other people around. The range is an NYPD training facility, but Clay reassured me it’s okay for me to be here with him. He has also brought Sophia and Xander here to show them the basics since he believes knowing how to handle a gun is important if you have one at home.
We get to a line at the range, and a mix of excitement and nervousness courses through my veins as I stand beside Clay, my heart pounding. He hands me a pair of safety glasses and ear protection, his eyes warm and reassuring.
“First things first,” he starts. “Safety is the most important thing. Always keep the gun pointed downrange, keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot, and always wear eye and ear protection.”
I nod, slipping on the glasses and earmuffs.
Clay picks up the gun and holds it out to me, grip first. “This is a Beretta 92,” he explains. “It’s a nine-millimeter, semi-automatic pistol and an Italian beauty like you.” I can’t help but roll my eyes, causing him to smirk. “Police work with theGlock 19, but to engage the safety, you have to pull the trigger. I wanted us to have guns at home that have a distinct safety lock, so it’s easier to handle for everyone without needing a lot of experience.” I nod, and so far, it makes sense to me.
“So, the first rule in gun safety is to always treat the gun as if it’s loaded.” I take the gun from him, feeling its weight in my hand. It’s heavier than I expected, solid, and cold. Clay steps behind me, his hands gently resting on my shoulders. “See up here…” he points to a lever on the upper side of the gun, “… this is the safety. If you flip it up, the gun is ready to shoot. You only push it when there is imminent danger. If the danger is over or you don’t want to shoot, the first thing you do is lock the safety back down. Got it?” I nod. “Now, let’s work on your stance,” he directs. “You want to stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Lean forward a little and hold the gun with both hands.”
I do as he says, feeling a little awkward. Clay’s hands move down to my waist, adjusting my stance. His touch is firm but gentle, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but it’s hard with him so close. Then he positions my feet, nudges my hips, and adjusts the angle of my torso. His hands are warm, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Good,” he praises. “Such a good girl, kitten,” he adds.
“Don’t call mekittenwhen I am holding a weapon. It feels wrong,”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs, stepping back. “Now, when you aim, you want to focus on the center of your target… the heart. It’s a larger target, and hitting it will cause the most damage.” I nod, lifting the gun, and try to aim at the heart of the silhouette target as he instructed. “And always shoot at least twice,” he adds. “It’s called a double tap. It ensures that you do enough damage to stop the threat.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words. This is not a game. It’s a matter of life and death. I squeeze the trigger, and the recoil jolts my arm. The sound is deafening, even with ear protection, and my eyes automatically close as I wince. I fire again, the shell casings flying out of the gun.
With the gun still outstretched before me, I turn my head to look at Clay, who nods approvingly.
“Good job,” he praises. “Now, let’s work on your aim.”
For the next hour of practice, Clay gives me tips and encouragement. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I can’t help but feel a thrill every time he praises me.
As the last shell casing clatters to the ground, I lower the gun, my hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline. Clay steps closer, reaching out to click the safety in place.
