Sophie Lawson: Kick-Ass Angel.
I imagined kicking down doors with the stiletto heel of my black patent leather boots; dodging a hail of gunfire with one of those killer tuck-and-roll moves; then landing perfectly, my sexy red hair bouncing around my shoulders as I took down the bad guys, one by one.
Parker’s hand squeezing mine brought me back to the smoky shooting range.
“You’re going to—”
“I know, I know,” I said, impatient, “pull the trigger.”
“No, you’re going to squeeze it. Gently. And it will recoil, so be careful.” Parker stepped away, and I was alone, in full gunslinger stance, aimed and ready to take out my make-believe attacker.
“Yeah,” I whispered to myself, “I can do this.”
Sexy, stiletto’d, gun-toting me had already taken out an entire community of bad guys in my mind, so I began to squeeze the trigger.
Yanked it, actually.
I heard someone screaming and saw a little bolt of fire ignite, then fade out. My hands were hot. My arms hurt. Something hot and smooth rolled over my wrist and tinkled to the ground.
And there were little chunks of cement raining from the ceiling.
The screaming stopped when I closed my mouth.
“What the hell was that?” I was waggling the gun and jumping from foot to foot when Parker leaned in and grabbed the gun, slipping the safety on.
“That was just the casing rolling over your hand.”
“That was so scary!” I yelled. But Parker had stopped listening.
He was laughing.
“Hey,” I said, stamping my foot.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shutting up abruptly—but I could see his body shaking against his laughter, little tears clinging to his bottom lashes. “You did great. Really.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I shot the ceiling.”
Parker pursed his lips, and I imagined him gritting his teeth. “Yes, you did. But it was only your first time. You’ll get better.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Did you shoot the ceiling your first time?”
“Of course not. Let’s try it again.”
Parker put one hand on my shoulder and turned me around so his chest was pressed against my back again. He wrapped his arms around me and placed the gun in my hands once more. I breathed deeply, memorizing his warm scent of soap and singed gunpowder.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low and warm and delicious on my neck. “How do you feel?”
Horny! I wanted to scream. Nina would have said horny, but she had no blood and thus could not turn beet red from follicles to toenails like I could. Also, she had the luxury of eating the source of her angst. Vampires were so lucky!
“I’m okay,” I squeaked. “I mean, the gun feels okay.”
Parker took one hand off the gun and pressed his palm against my rib cage, the tip of his thumb gently brushing the underside of my breast.
I was afraid I was going to fire the gun right then and there.
“Relax. You’re okay,” he said.
“I just …”
“I know. I have that effect on a lot of women.” He grinned down at me, that same, lopsided half grin that all at once was lust and hate inducing.
“I’m just nervous about shooting,” I spat, annoyed. “Is it going to make fire again? What if the casing hits me in the eye this time? Has anyone ever died from the back end of a gun? What if I shoot you?”
Hayes ignored me, but his arms seemed to close a little tighter over me. His hands clamped over mine again, and his thumb stroked mine as he guided my finger to the trigger. “Okay?” he whispered.
I nodded weakly, unsure if the sensation roiling through my body was fear or an intense desire to spend more time pressed up against his firm, warmblooded body.
“Take your stance,” he said, and I felt his leg between mine, pushing against my thigh until my feet were shoulder width apart.
“Ready.”
I took a miniscule step back, and Parker made up the distance so his hips were pushed flush against mine once more.
“Aim.”
The word was soft, moist, tender against my earlobe.
“Fire!”
I squeezed the trigger, and my eyes shut simultaneously. The gun recoiled hard, but Parker had me, one arm extended and holding the gun, the other clamped around my waist.
“Are you okay?” He looked down at me, his eyes a breathtaking blue. All I could do was nod spastically.
“That was better,” he said softly.
I stood up straight, squinting down the aisle toward the target. “Where did I hit him? Can we see it?”
“Actually …” Parker stepped around me and pointed at the dirt. “You shot the ground.”
“Crap!”
Parker looked away, grinning. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it; it’s just going to take some time. Let’s keep working.”
Parker spent the rest of the night coaxing my ceiling-and-floor aim to meet in the middle—or, at the very least, to hit the target—and I spent the whole night being folded into his arms and recoiling into his tight chest.