“Yeah, that’s here too. Why?”
“No reason.” Jesse pulled her back into a hug, kissing the part of her hair. “Listen, is there any way a guy could get a home-cooked lunch around here? I’ve been dreaming about those vegan teriyaki burgers…”
“Liar!” she teased, swatting him on the shoulder. “You hate my food.”
“No, really. I think I might be coming around.”
Her face lit up. “Okay, I’ll make some lunch today, and you can buy me dinner tomorrow night. Deal?”
Jesse wondered how long it would take to catch Olivia. “The night after okay?”
“Sure.” She kissed his cheek. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a few.” She gave him a strange look as she left the room, sort of speculative and curious, but Jesse was too distracted to worry about it just then. The moment she was gone, Jesse turned back to the computer, unable to believe what he was about to do.
Chapter 9
By 3:00 p.m. I had already done two loads of laundry and been to the dry cleaner’s and the drugstore. Jesse and I weren’t supposed to be at Dashiell’s until 6:00—the sun went down at 4:48 that day—so I should have tried to nap, but I was keyed up, worrying about Olivia and the witch situation. A distraction sounded pretty good right about then. Eli and Caroline were both working at Hair of the Dog, and I wasn’t in the mood for Molly, so I called Jesse. My list of friends is not long.
“Cruz. “Just checking in. Anything new on your end of things?”
Jesse sighed into the phone. “Nothing we didn’t already know. Santa Monica PD believed the suicide story on Denise. Every single detail fits, except for what Kirsten said about the hydrophobia. I can’t even really blame them for dismissing her.”
“Yeah…” I didn’t know what else to say. What did I even want out of this phone call?
But Jesse read my mind. “You’re totally antsy, aren’t you?”
“Who, me?” I protested halfheartedly. “No way. Cucumbers wish they were this cool.”
“Lies,” he said solemnly. “Shameless lies. You are antsy in your pantsies.”
I couldn’t help it: I snorted into the phone. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Come to think of it, neither can I,” he said thoughtfully. “But I’m restless too, and I have an idea. I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Wear…oh, just wear what you usually wear.”
“What does that—” I began, but he had hung up.
An hour later, I was at an honest-to-God shooting range.
Jesse had explained that I needed to know how to defend myself against a human threat, and I didn’t necessarily disagree. Besides, I figured learning to shoot was going to be more fun than sitting at home chewing my nails during reruns of crime shows on cable. And I was right—except for the terrible elbow pain.
“Holy crap, this thing kicks,” I complained, putting the pistol down carefully so I could shake out my arms.
Jesse’s voice was calm and instructive. “That’s because you’re jerking it.”
“You’re jerking it,” I retorted. Because I’m mature.
We were in one of the seedier-looking parts of North Hollywood, in a brick building that had once been a shoe factory. The current owner, whom Jesse had introduced simply as Clinton-never-Clint, had converted it to a small shooting range, with ten long aisles and those targets that zoom back and forth. Clinton had also made the excellent decision to offer the city’s police a 15 percent discount, which made it a popular place for off-duty cops, especially right after shift changes. It was just before four o’clock, though, and Jesse and I were the only ones in there, aside from Clinton, a clean-shaven guy in his late sixties with one of those man-bellies that would look like pregnancy on a woman. He had greeted Jesse by name and then retreated to a big metal desk near the entrance without another word.
Jesse gave me the kind of long-suffering sigh that my mother had perfected before I turned nine. “Here.” He stepped behind me, actually doing that macho thing guys do in movies where they’re all Ooh, let me show you how to do something while simultaneously turning you on with my muscles, ooh.
I tried to hold that thought up against the more animal part of my brain as Jesse’s arms went around mine, and his breath lifted hair off my neck. He wasn’t that tall, maybe five ten or five eleven, but he had long, thickly muscled arms that fit all the way around me. He smelled wonderfully of his usual Armani cologne-and-oranges scent, and something else—gun oil? Gun powder? Something mechanicaly.
“You’re holding your breath,” he reminded me, his voice next to my ear.
“Right.” I exhaled and turned my head to face forward. Eli, I told myself. You’re…something with Eli. Involved. Yes, there’s a good word. Involved. “This is all so Beverly Hills Cop,” I said nervously.
“Look, this is what you’re doing,” he said. With my index finger still safely on the outside of the trigger guard, he wrapped his own finger around mine and gave the whole gun a quick tug backward toward my chest. “Jerking. Instead, focus straight ahead, keep your elbows loose but firm, and squeeze, like this.” Demonstrating, he squeezed his whole right hand around my whole right hand. “Got it?”
Work, brain, work. “Uh, what about the kick?”
“I’ll brace you.”
His arms around me loosened a little, giving me more room without moving away. He seemed so solid behind me, I felt like I could take a head-on collision and not so much as rock backward. “Remember,” he said, “Breathe in, and squeeze on the exhale.”