Page 15 of Leaving Lando

Oh, Honey

When we walk in,the first thing I see is Detective Miller sitting at my desk, her feet propped up on it. Brianna sees her too and tenses beside me. In half a second, the whole room picks up on the vibe and goes quiet, waiting for fireworks.

We reach my desk. As often as Bree’s been here, I don’t think they’ve ever been formally introduced, and even last night they didn’t actually speak to each other. “Brianna Callahan, Detective Larissa Miller.”

I don’t add, What the fuck are you playing at, Miller?, but I sure am thinking it.

Ignoring Bree and the introduction, she says, “We need to debrief. Where’d you stash our guy?”

Miller and I have worked together for over a year; she’s never pulled a stunt like this before. Does she think we’re suddenly best buds after last night? Since she hasn’t moved, I do the same thing to her I’d do to any man who commandeered my desk: I lift her feet, swing them free, and let them drop to the floor.

She stands up. “You better watch it with the baked goods. They’ll give you a gut. Rot your brain.” Her eyes flick over Brianna’s generous curves. “Make you soft.”

Bree leans in, with a sugary-sweet smile on her face, and says, “Trust me. There’s nothing soft about him.”

Muted titters come from around us. “You’re aiming a little high, aren’t you, honey?” Miller retorts. “Better stick to delivery boys.”

Apparently, seeing Brianna with me last night made Miller think she’s got competition. Which she doesn’t. She’s not even in the running.

Before I can put a stop to this nonsense, Bree says, “My dad taught me to shoot. I bet my aim is better than yours.”

“You threatening me, Callahan?”

Her grin is fierce. “Not at all. I was thinking a little contest.”

“Shooting?” Miller smirks. “You’re on.”

The whole department immediately troops down to the basement where the shooting range is. “Can I borrow your gun?” Bree says to me in an undertone. I take her bag of goodies and hand her my Glock, and she pops the magazine, checks it, and loads it again with brisk efficiency.

We’ve never talked about guns, but I know Brianna’s dad was in the Army before her mom abandoned the family and he had to come home to raise his daughters. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he taught his girls to shoot.

There’s brisk betting going on all around me. Miller’s one of the best shots in the department, so she’s the favorite, but not by as much as you might expect. “Adamo,” Detective Holland calls. “You want in? Seven yards, six rounds each, best score wins. Maximum bet’s a tenner.”

Abstaining might be the tactful thing to do, but it’d look like a vote of no confidence against Bree. “Ten spot on my girl,” I tell her. Everyone whoops, and there’s a new flurry of betting.

I wink at Bree; she gives me a smile that makes my cock twitch. We all watch while Miller and Bree don their safety gear and take up position in adjacent lanes. They fire a few practice rounds, then send their targets out to the specified distance and wait, guns at their sides.

“All right,” Holland says. “Ready … fire!” A few seconds later, the noise subsides and the women bring their targets home. When the paper is close enough to see well, low whistles fill the room.

Miller’s got six neat holes, center mass. Bree has one largish hole in the center of her target’s forehead. “Her shots landed right on top of each other,” Holland mutters. “Damn, she’s good.”

“Two out of three,” Miller snaps. “Fifteen yards.”

“Fine,” Brianna says. She’s cool and collected and I want to kiss her until she’s weak in the knees, right here in front of everyone. She and Miller clip up fresh targets and send them out to the new distance.

This time Bree goes center mass and shreds her target’s heart. Miller lands six shots in her target’s head, but they’re not as tightly grouped as Bree’s were.

We all look at each other. Everyone knows Bree’s the better shot by now, but professional loyalty keeps the group from saying so. “Okay,” Holland says. “Last round, head shots only, twenty-five yards. Show us what you got, ladies.”

“I need to reload,” Bree says. I go up and give her a fresh magazine. She pops the old one, with three bullets left in it, and hands it over. Still no sign of nerves; her hands are perfectly steady.

Once more the targets go zipping off on their wires. When they’re in place, Holland calls out, “Fire,” and the smell of gunpowder fills the air. I move forward as soon as the shooting stops, eager to see what my girl has done this time.

Miller’s target has five holes in its head. At that distance, it’s still great shooting. No one says anything about the missing bullet.

Brianna’s has six, inscribed in a tight little circle. Showoff.

As soon as she takes off her headgear, I lean down and murmur, “I’d like to put you up against the wall right now and show you how well I can find your target.”

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