Chief Oliver shrugged and put his hand on mine. “Miss Lawson, in this business you learn quickly that you never really know someone.” He stood up, nodded to Parker, patted my shoulder, and walked out.
“‘You never really know someone’?” I hissed, disgusted.
“Look, Lawson, I know that for whatever reason you have a soft spot for this mutt, but he was going to tear you apart.” Hayes gestured to the screen. “It’s right there in black and white. Well, kind of.”
I smacked the desk with my palm. “You don’t know that! And with that, that”—my hand flailed toward the monitor—“tape, you can’t prove anything. Sampson could have been running away from me for all we know. Hell, we don’t even know that was Sampson. Besides, did the chief or Franks even see any of the attack? It could have been gangbangers!” I could hear my voice rising toward hysteria, and I gulped in several deep breaths while Parker watched, calmly.
“Even so, you need to be prepared.” Parker slowly pulled open his top desk drawer and laid a heavy black gun on his desktop.
“Are you kidding me?” I recoiled, standing up sharply, scattering the files on the floor. “You’re going to shoot me now?”
Parker rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on it, but give me a moment.”
I narrowed my eyes at Parker, who waited for me to calm; then I slumped back in my chair. “You’re really that worried?” My voice came out as little more than a whisper.
“I’ll teach you how to use it.”
I gulped, my breath starting to quicken again. “You want me to use it? To shoot people?”
“Hopefully, no,” Parker said, leaning back in his chair. “But I do want you to be safe.”
“How does having that make me safe? We don’t even know what we’re dealing with yet. If it really is a rogue vampire or a werewolf, this”—I stared down at the gun—“isn’t going to help.”
“Fine.” Parker stood up, loading the gun into a metal-sided briefcase. “We’ll pick up a garlic pizza and some Milk-Bones on the way to the range.” He slung an arm around my shoulder and grinned. “That way we’ve got all our bases covered.”
I rolled my eyes and followed him out the door.
“Okay, first things first,” Parker said when we got to the shooting range. “Gun safety is our top priority.”
I smiled and batted my eyes. “It would be much safer anywhere but here.”
He blew out a sigh and removed the gun from the briefcase, laying it on the counter. “Do you know how to hold a gun?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “No.”
Parker swung his head to look at me, his blue eyes shining and earnest. “Are you scared? It’s okay if you are.”
I nodded slowly, softening.
“Don’t worry,” Parker said. “I’ll guide you through it.”
Parker’s eyes dropped to an almost-sinister cobalt. I might have been imagining it, but I think he licked his lips hungrily. I fought off images of a sharp wind that tore open his shirt, showing off his rippling abs as he embraced me, the smoky heat of the gun between us.
“I don’t need any help!” I blurted.
Parker blinked at me. “What?”
Everyone in the entire place—which included a paper-thin cashier with a name tag that said NEWT and a guy in dirty jeans and a trucker hat—blinked at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my voice and licking my incredibly dry lips. “I guess I just got a little nervous.” I rubbed my palms on my jeans and made a mental note to have Nina cancel our subscription to Cinemax.
After Newt had fixed us up with some ultra-fashionable protective eye and headgear, Parker guided me into the shooting gallery. I half expected to see a Western fa?ade, perhaps a line of faux ducks or glass bottles like they had at the boardwalk, but the gallery was long, gray, and concrete, and hanging at the end of a silver line against the back wall of the stall was the black charcoaled outline of a man with a target drawn on his trunk.
I gulped.
“You’ll want to aim for the chest. That’s where there’s the most surface area.” Parker glanced at me. “No head shots.”
My stomach went sour. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” I murmured.
Parker loaded the gun, explaining as he went, and I tuned out, breathing out of my mouth to avoid the singed scent of spent powder and casings.
“Come here,” Parker said, opening his arms.
I didn’t know that it was customary to hug before target practice, but I stepped toward him anyway. He twirled me around, his chest pressed against my back, and I could feel his moist breath as his lips brushed past my ear. He took both of my hands in his and gently pressed the butt of the gun between my palms, lacing my fingers around the trigger space, his fingers warm as they closed over mine.
I hadn’t realized how soft his hands were.
“This is how you hold a gun.” The stubble on his chin tickled my ear, and I pressed back into him and then stiffened, embarrassed. “Okay,” I said weakly. “I think I’ve got it.”
I glanced down at the gun pressed in my hands and eyed the target, then had a very real, very Charlie’s Angels kind of moment.