The illuminated room was a wreck; chunks of glass and condom wrappers glinting with their tell-tale metallic packaging.
It was a single long room, graffiti decorating it haphazardly. On the far wall, the holes from old bullets made a destructive pattern. “You guys really practiced in here?” Marina blinked, eyeing me doubtfully.
“Sure.” Kicking aside some rubble, I brought the duffel bag to the center of the room. There was a switch on the floor; my heel nudged it, a clothesline that weaved through the ceiling rumbling my way. On it, there were two metal clasps. “For target practice, this does the job.”
“It just seems a little... useless,” she mumbled.
“What?” I asked, pausing as I strung up a paper target.
She shrugged into her ears, gazing over the room suspiciously. “You're practicing to hit a target that isn't even moving. Isn't that optimistic?”
Ah. Now I understood. “The idea,” I said, placing a box of ammo at my feet, “Is that your target shouldn't think they have a reason to run.” Flipping my gun in my hand, I offered it to her with the safety on. “If you get to the point that you have to chase someone down and try to shoot them, you've already fucked up.”
Her eyes were fixed on the Ruger, no longer caring about what I said. “You're letting me shoot first?”
“I want to see what you can do.” Stepping to the side, I pushed the switch and sent the paper drawing of a man's head and torso gliding back down the ropes. It stopped around three yards away. “Step up, I'll walk you through the process.”
Though I could see her breath puffing in the February night air, Marina slid her jacket off. Beneath, she was wearing the same deep-cut, blue shirt from earlier.
“Warm?” I asked her.
Pure delight radiated off of her. “Yeah, I'm really excited to do this.”
My thoughts were buzzing, daring to escape—but I didn't let them. I locked down my own revealing sentence, the one that claimed, So am I.
She moved beside me, taking the weapon like it was made of brittle porcelain. Instantly, I reached out and forced her to point the muzzle at the floor. “First,” I said gently. “Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire.”
Marina slid her finger away, looking up at me patiently. A strand of hair, freed from the loose ponytail, trailed over her right eyebrow. “What's the next step?” she asked in a hush.
“Well, it's actually the real first step.” Pointing, my fingertip brushed over her thumb. “Pull the bolt back, make sure you have bullets in there.”
“You loaded it, I know there are bullets.”
Arching an eyebrow, I sighed. “Unless you yourself load in the clip, always check.”
The flicker of stubbornness she'd shown me was pushed down deep. Marina yanked the metal, exposing the chamber. Once she saw the bullets, she gave me a pointed look and slammed the bolt back into the Ruger. “Okay. Done.”
My hands came down on her shoulders. She became ridged, startling by my grip. I ignored her reaction and turned her towards the target.
“Face it like this.” Looking down, I saw how unstable her feet were. “And these,” I whispered, kicking her legs apart until she was balanced. “Make sure you're not going to topple over when you fire.”
I heard the sound of her swallowing. That, I couldn't ignore.
“Got it,” she said quietly.
Just like that, I was aware of her presence. Marina was under my grasp, her spine curving inches from my chest, her perky ass so close to my hips I only needed to rock forward to meet her.
Her exposed neck beamed at me, oddly pale in the ghostly lights.
Shaking myself, I gripped her elbows, guiding her into the final position. “Now, click the safety off—yes, that tiny notch there. Lift the gun, stare down the sight until the three orange dots line up—very good.”
She was listening, but I felt the tiny quiver in her breathing. I noticed everything, and Marina's anticipation was no exception.
Against her temple, my whisper stirred her tiny hairs. “When you're ready to fire, don't pull the trigger. Squeeze your muscles, your entire hands, instead. It'll keep you steady. Aim for the head, and remember... if this were real, you'd only have one shot.”
My last line made her inhale sharply.
The noise of the gun firing was muted, the suppressor saving our ears from an otherwise shattering explosion. The paper 'fwicked' when the bullet sank in. The hole was low, near the shoulder—but she'd hit the target. That was amazing.
“Oh shit,” she gasped, lowering the barrel and staring up at me. There was a galaxy in her eyes, begging me to go exploring. Her chest was flexing, waves of rich skin that glinted with sweat. This girl was a boiler and firing her first gun had turned her up a million fucking notches.
I thought, if I touched her, she'd scald me.
What better reason was there to get burned?
“Good job,” I said, unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth.