Hunter made sure the safety was on, then stood. He showed her all the parts to the gun, going over the safety features, glad for his father’s and uncle’s thorough instruction, because he could talk about this stuff in his sleep. He paid close attention when she started to take the gun from him, and it was a good thing, because she almost pointed it directly at him.
“Downrange only,” he said, holding her wrist. “Always pay attention where you’re pointing it.”
Her breath was shaking, just a tiny bit. “What are we shooting?”
“Just cardboard. The targets are backed with half-inch steel. The bullets won’t go through.”
“What if I miss?”
“Shooting this way, we’re almost a mile from the nearest house,” he said. “Besides, we’re only twenty feet from the target. You’ll hit it. Just hold on to the gun. There’s a kick to it.”
“I’m scared I’m going to shoot myself.”
“Come on. I mean, if anyone should be scared here, it’s me.”
She gave him a look, and he smiled. “Here. I’ll shoot first.” He took the pistol and aimed. “Put your hand on my wrist. You’ll feel it.”
As soon as her fingers closed around his wrist, Hunter almost couldn’t focus. He was acutely aware of her closeness, of the scent of mangoes and cut grass and summer corn. He took a deep breath. It didn’t help.
“What’s with the bracelets?” she said, her thumb brushing one of the strands of twine wrapped around his wrist. Her touch was making him crazy.
“Just rocks,” he said.
“Very New Age.”
“My mom’s into that stuff,” he said. It was a half-truth. His mother was into rocks and charms and talismans, but the difference between the crap she sold in town and the rocks on his wrist were that his rocks actually did help him focus power.
Really, it was a miracle he could even remember to keep it a secret.
Focus. “Ready?”
She nodded. He pulled the trigger.
The sound was near deafening. She flinched hard, but didn’t let go of his wrist. Her fingers were trembling against his skin.
“You all right?” he said. His ears felt thick. He probably should have thought to bring earmuffs.
“Yeah,” she said. Her breathing sounded too quick, but she glanced up at him. “I want to try.”
He showed her how to hold the weapon again, how to look down the sight to find the target. “Don’t do it halfway,” he said. “My dad always says commit to the target.”
Her grip tightened, but she didn’t pull the trigger.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Her eyes were narrow, staring down the line on the barrel. “Do you ever wish you could just shoot them?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “When I’m in the moment.” He hesitated. “I don’t think I could do it, though. We can talk about bullets and safeties and target practice all day, but the bottom line is that guns are made to kill people. It’s stupid to forget that.”
“And you don’t want to kill them.”
“Not for a bloody nose, no.” He paused again. “I don’t know what it would take.”
“I do.” She pulled the trigger.
He wasn’t ready for it, and it made him jump a mile.
“I did it!” She had a huge smile on her face, and he grabbed her wrist before she turned toward him again.
“Downrange,” he said, breathless. “Not at me.”
Her eyes were shining up at him. “Take the gun.”
He took it and flipped on the safety. “That’s it?” he teased. “One shot?”
“I need my hands free.”
And before he could even ask why, she put her hands on both sides of his face and kissed him.
Hunter sat at dinner and pushed his food around the plate. His brain had turned to mush. Criminals could storm the house right now, and he’d probably just sit here and watch them do it.
He kept thinking about Clare. Her hands in his hair. Her lips against his. Her mouth. Her fingers. The thin fabric of her dress, the warmth of her skin, the way he’d traced the freckles on her shoulders with his fingertips first, and then his tongue.
He’d almost missed dinner.
He wouldn’t have minded.
Clare had been the one to bring him back to reality, telling him she’d have to sprint for the house just to make it back before her mom got home from work. He’d barely made it home in time himself. The guns were still in the bottom of his backpack, waiting to be put back when his dad wouldn’t notice him going downstairs.
“Hunter?”
He dropped his fork. It clanked against the plate. His dad was staring at him intently. Hunter had to clear his throat. “Yeah?”
“I asked what happened to your face.”
Hunter stabbed a piece of grilled chicken for an excuse to look away. He’d checked the mirror when he got home, and there was a pretty decent bruise along his left cheek.
“Accident at school.”
“Those boys still hassling you?”
Hunter never knew how to answer that question. Did his dad want him to admit it? Or did he want to know Hunter could take care of himself? “Just guys being stupid. School’s almost out anyway, so . . .” He shrugged.
His mother tsked and reached out to put a hand over his.
Hunter pulled his hand away. No matter what his father meant, Hunter hated taking her sympathy in front of him.