Page 78 of Wildest Dreams

She nods again and I slowly position our hands, one at the butt of the rifle and one at the handguard.

My chest presses warm and firm against her back. I keep my body still and then begin carefully sliding our hands around the stock, matching the depth of our inhalations so that she can stay calm and focused.

“We’re going bottom to top, okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“Okay.” I tap our thumbs against the back of the rifle. “This is the butt.”

Aisling instantly explodes with laughter, head tipping back against my chest. “Shut the hell up, Tanner!”

“Jesus Christ!” I tighten my hold on her hands, temples throbbing as I hold her steady. “I don’t mess around with this shit, Aisling. That’s just… what it’s called.”

Her shoulders shake dangerously and she turns around to peek back at me, smiling naughtily over her shoulder before sinking her teeth into her lower lip.

At least I’ve distracted her from her fear. I jerk my chin at her, signalling for her to look back at the rifle, and then I tuck my chin back over her shoulder, exhaling as she relaxes into my hold.

“Stock, pistol grip.” I remove our hands and point at the next couple of parts. “Safety, trigger guard, trigger. This is where the magazine will go.” I squeeze one of her hands and say, “This is the handguard. Then up front we’ve got the barrel, flash suppressor, and muzzle. Okay so far?”

“Yeah,” she says breathily, eyes unblinking as she takes it all in.

I pick up the magazine and then use our thumbs to gently test the spring.

“Feel that?” I ask.

She nods.

I press down on the first bullet and her breathing hitches, anxious at first and then a little more relaxed than before.

“Feels smooth, right?” I ask, and she nods again, her soft cheek rubbing against my stubble.

“Yeah, it feels smooth,” she whispers.

“It’s ’cause these bullets are polished real good,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is the fact that these bullets are actually polishedwaytoo fucking good – like, these feel like goddamn sniper bullets.

“Want to hold it off the perch?” I ask her, and when she nods her head I slowly lift the rifle up, watching her roll her lips into her mouth out of concentration as she takes the weight, feeling how heavy it is. I hold it up with her and press the magazine into place with a gentle push of my palm.

“Now what?” she asks quietly, totally still as her eyes flick between the weapon and the range. No sound to be heard except the subtle shift of my boots on the gravel and our slow, steady breathing.

“If I was going to shoot it, the next thing I’d do would be lay my cheek against the stock and look through the scope.” I pause for a long, quiet moment before adding, “Then I’d ease my hand toward the trigger.”

Slowly, Aisling presses her cheek against the stock, frowning a little as she tries to see through the tiny scope. I keep her hand clamped in mine, not allowing her to move her fingers toward the trigger.

“Are you a good shot?” she asks when she finally lifts her face from the viewpoint. She twists in my arms so that she can look up at me. Now I’m the only one of us holding the rifle, my whole body unmoving as she presses herself against me.

I look down at her and carefully search her curious eyes. Then I nod.

“Show me,” she whispers.

I swallow hard.

“Aisling…” I’m shaking my head as my eyes move back and forth between her and the target at the bottom of the range. “I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” she frowns, almost looking kind of hurt.

When my dad wasn’t away on a mission, he’d spend our father-and-son time teaching me and my brothers all about this stuff. What each part of the weapon did. How the minutiae of geophysics affects each individual shot.

And above all else, the importance of waiting.

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