Page 36 of Vipers & Roses

I nod.

“You’ll have to load the magazine again,” he proudly explains. It’s good practice. The more you do it, the faster you’ll get.”

I take the gun from his hand and sit back down at the table where the box of bullets is to be reloaded. “Plant biology and botany is what I’m studying.”

He takes the seat opposite me. “Flowers?”

“Yeah, and trees and herbs and mosses and…” I blabber, click the magazine out of the gun, and start loading the gold bullets as he oversees in silence.

Once I’ve loaded my Glock, Blake says, “Do you want to get a beer after this round?”

I dither a little conflicted. “Um, I’m underage.”

He frowns. “You don’t look it?”

“No, I mean for drinking. I’m only nineteen,” I explain.

A delicious smirk slides across his dial, “Don’t worry about that. I’ll buy the beer, and they won’t ask your age.”

“Are you going to take me to a crook’s joint so you scoundrels can gather to chat about your ‘jobs’?” using air quotes for the word ‘job.’

He glares at me with narrowed eyes, though his mouth is curved into a smirk, “Is that a yes or no?”

“Sure,” I answer slowly, “since it’s not a date.”

“Definitely not a date,” he assures me, which is so freaking annoying. “Blond hair.” Making a cringe face.

“It’s more golden than platinum,” I argue, and his nostrils flare at my obvious irritation by his comments. He’s got me exactly where he wants me, except I’m the one with a loaded gun.

Striding up to the firing bay with more confidence than before, I point the gun toward the target and squeeze.

One for The Lion.

One for The Pig.

One for The Crow.

One for The Snake.

18

The scent of metal is on my fingers, and I breathe it in as Blake walks back from the bar with two glasses of beer. We picked a booth in a quiet bar called Silver Bullet next to the shooting range. The man in the firing bay next to us is now sitting at the bar, chatting to the barman about a hunting trip he went on. The barman shakes hands with Blake, and I prick my ears to see if he’ll ask my age.

A large TV screen hitched on the wall plays a NASCAR race, and the commentators’ excited voices and the droning of the vehicles radiate through the bar.

“I ordered some fries,” Blake tells me as he places the beer before me. “You would’ve worked up an appetite after annihilating that target.”

“I didn’t hit the bullseye, though,” I state in disappointment.

“Give it time,” he says calmly as he sits opposite me, places his forearms on the table, and starts tapping his fingers on the wood. “Keep practicing. I can take you back next week if you want.”

“Deal,” I say, raising my glass for a toast, and he meets my glass with his.

He leans forward and glances to the side to collect his thoughts before asking, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer it,” I stress the boundaries, then add, “and if you want an honest answer from me, then you have to give me an honest answer for questions I have for you.”

“I can’t talk to you about my work to protect you. The less you know, the better,” he says, rubbing the back of his fisted knuckle against his jaw.

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