Page 33 of Triggered By Love
She mentally swatted herself and straightened her shoulders, pressing her lips into a grim line. She was practically a widow. She should have been married almost a year. Just because she was slightly hungover and worried about Saul didn’t make Jason a hero.
Okay, back that up. He was a hero because he saved her life, but he wasn’t a knight in shining armor, not that she needed one. He still hadn’t solved Brando’s murder, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was using the investigation as an excuse to hang out with her.
What would Joan say if she saw her panting after Jason like an anxious puppy? She only gave her the green light for a social life, not to jump the next hunky guy’s bones. Besides, even if she were to move on, she’d honor Brando best by dating another firefighter—not a cop, who was probably nuts in the first place. She’d heard there was a fine line between a cop and a thug—both prone to violence and roughing people up. One had a badge, and the other didn’t, and there were too many cases of rogue cops losing their temper and using unnecessary force.
Nope. Firefighters were heroic and sacrificed themselves to save others. There were no gray areas about charging into a fire and pulling people out of burning buildings.
The elevator resumed its duty and climbed to one of the upper floors. It picked up an older couple and started back down. They were holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes like they were on a perpetual honeymoon.
If she’d had a lifetime with Brando, she could easily see herself swooning over him even in her old age. Now, she only had Jason lurking downstairs.
Avery’s nerves danced on pins and needles, wondering if Jason had left. He knew her schedule down to the minute, and she was never late for her lane reservation.
It took her one more up and down trip before she straightened her shoulders, picked up her gear bag, and walked out of the elevator, purposely looking straight ahead, although aware of Jason coming toward her.
He was dressed casually, ripped jeans, high-top sneakers, and this time, a crisp white T-shirt with a small American flag logo. The white fabric of the T-shirt clung to the hard slab of his thick pecs. Over strong, solid shoulders, he wore a light olive-green jacket, no doubt to cover the holster and gun he packed. A camouflage cap perched backwards on his head.
She pretended not to notice the heat wave radiating from his well-built, but not bulky body. She was going to play it cool. Sure, she was grateful for his care of Saul, but she couldn’t get rid of the niggling feeling he wanted something. Information? Loose ends? Or to get into her panties?
That last thought sent a delicious warmth through her nether regions, but she had to shut it down. This wasn’t the time for fantasizing. Not with the big fashion show coming up and having to deal with Alida, Matt, as well as Larry and his father’s requests. It was a juggling act to keep her business and social obligations balanced. With her father running for Congress, she couldn’t afford to piss off any power brokers.
Jason’s gaze locked on to her as he took her gear bag from her shoulder. She expected him to say something, ask her why she was late, or inquire if she was hungover, but he gave her an enigmatic grin and opened the door for her.
She didn’t need an update on Saul, and she’d already thanked him over the phone, so she took the opportunity to breathe in the city air and take in the busy sights and sounds of the noisy city.
She was determined not to speak until he spoke, but he stayed silent. Surprisingly, there was no awkwardness, at least on her part. His presence felt companionable, as if the two of them were so comfortable with each other they didn’t have to talk.
He didn’t open his mouth until they entered the gun shop. He greeted the owner of the range, and they signed in.
“You need to get serious with your pistol selection,” he said when she went to select a rental. “If you’re going to carry, you have to be ready to use it.”
“Who says I’m going to carry?” she challenged him even though she’d already gotten the permit. She just hadn’t settled on a handgun yet. “I shoot in place of therapy. I don’t care if I miss the targets.”
“Ah, but you do care.” He led her to the handgun display counter. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so pissed at me for hogging the next lane.”
She wanted to roll her eyes and dismiss him, but she was afraid he’d see through her—he already did. “It’s a sorry day when you’re competing with me.”
“I make every bullet count.” His eyes gripped hers, large and serious. “Let me train you.”
“Sure, okay.” She surprised herself, then added, shrugging, “Who better to train me than a cop?”
“Who saved your life,” he reminded her.
“How do I get started?”
“First thing is not you. It’s the handgun. Has to fit your hand perfectly. You’ll want one that’s compact, lighter in weight, with a lower trigger pull. One that conceals well so you have it with you all the time.”
For the next twenty minutes, rather than rent any old handgun, she tried the grips and feel of each handgun. After finding the right pistol, she rented it. They walked into the shooting booth, and Jason adjusted her hand and arm position, wrapping one hand around the other to brace it. He then kicked her feet apart into the correct stance, with one foot back to brace against the recoil. After that, she learned to calm her breathing and line up the front and rear sights. He showed her the shape of the sights and how to center them. “Equal height and equal light.”
“When am I going to pull the trigger?” she asked, squinting at the target behind the moving sights.
“Not until you can keep the gun steady.” Jason stood behind her.
“The gun’s getting heavy.” She could feel sweat trickling on her forehead, but Jason insisted she raise and lower the gun, adjust the sights and count heartbeats—her own.
“Then there’s no sense pulling the trigger, because you’re only going to miss,” he said.
“I need to shoot,” she muttered. “It lets out the anger.”
