Undone Page 8

  “Look straight ahead at the target.” She nods in acknowledgement. I nudge her leg forward just a little bit with my knee. “I’m going to put the ear protection back on. Just follow my direction. When I tap your shoulder, shoot. Hold the trigger and pull it back slow and steady, okay?”

  She nods and I place the ear protection back on her ear. I straighten her arms and reposition her hands. My left arm is snaked around her waist, holding her against me. I check her form one last time and tap her shoulder. She hesitates, then empties the entire magazine into the target. I can tell from where I stand behind her that every bullet hit the target somewhere between the head and chest area. She sets the gun down on the ledge and pulls off her ear protection, turning toward me.

  “You fucking know how to shoot?” I say, pulling off my own ear protection.

  “Yep. I didn’t say I didn’t know how; I said I didn’t like it. I never have. My dad used to take me shooting, and to this day, my blood pressure rises to unhealthy levels when I’m near a gun.”

  “You could have told me you’d shot before,” I say, stepping around her to pull in her target. As it nears, I see a smirk settle on her face.

  “Not too bad, huh, Champ?”

  Every hole was center mass, and one to the neck. I roll my eyes and refill both magazines. “Put your ear protection back on,” I say. I make mental note of the video cameras and where they’re positioned, as well as check out if the guy at the front desk is watching us. He’s not. I send another target down range, ready for her to empty sixteen bullets into it.

  Stepping back, I let Reagan insert her magazine into the gun. She positions herself before I sidle behind her. “I want you to aim for the head. I want all of your bullets in that head, got it?” She nods and I pull her ear protection from around her neck and place them on her head. I position myself exactly as I did before, behind her, but this time I don’t hold her arms. I keep both of my palms pressed to her stomach; my left hand up higher under her rib cage and my right hand pressed flat across her abdomen.

  She finds her stance and, before she shoots, I drop my right hand a little lower. She turns her head toward me, and I nudge it back with mine. She readjusts her shoulders, and I drop my hand lower. I can feel the little waist band of her panties through her thin cotton dress as my hand trails lower.

  With her arms raised, the length of her dress is mid-thigh and my hand drops lower as I reach under the dress, placing my hand on her right thigh. She lowers her arms, but I nudge her again and she raises them, repositioning herself for a third time. My chin is resting on her shoulder and her arms have started shaking. My hand snakes higher and I make my final move, pressing my fingers against the soft silk just between her thighs. Only this time, she doesn’t budge. Her arms are straight and her stance is perfect.

  Her thighs are separated just enough, allowing me enough room for a finger to glide over the center of that small patch of silk. I feel her inhale deeply as I brush across her again, just as she pulls the trigger, emptying her magazine. Placing the gun on the ledge, she pulls off her ear protection and glasses, setting them down next to the gun.

  “What the hell was that?” she barks at me. I place my glasses and ear protection next to hers. “You don’t play fair,” she says, her voice seething.

  “Never look away from your target.” I point at her. “Distraction will get you killed.” Her face is red and full of anger, or maybe embarrassment, but I’m pretty sure it’s desire that has her reacting this way. Stepping up to her, I take her hands in mine, not saying anything— holding them against my chest.

  “Your finger brushing my…” She turns her head. “My…”

  “Wet lips?” I say, cocking my head to the side.

  “Panties. Your finger brushing my panties will get you killed.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to see how you’d react to being distracted.” She narrows her eyes at me.

  “Don’t distract me when I’m holding a gun,” she whispers.

  “Forgive me?”

  “Yeah,” she says, laying her forehead against my chest. I wrap my arms around her and she mimics me, wrapping hers around my waist. I hold her—as I fight with new feelings that are simmering just below the surface—the need to protect her and care for her.

  “I’m ready to go,” she mumbles against my chest. She pulls herself out of my arms and I begin collecting the guns and ammunition as she takes the glasses and ear protection. She waits for me at the first glass door and we step through it as it opens.

  “I’m sorry if I made you mad,” I say apologetically.

  “I’m not mad at you; you just caught me off guard.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do,” I smirk. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Shut it, Landon.” She tries to contain her smile as she shoulder bumps me just as the second set of doors opens. Stepping into the retail area, we return our glasses, ear protection, and get our licenses back. There is no hesitation or falter in her step as she heads straight for the main entrance and into the safety of the outside.

  “Whoa, wait up!” I holler from behind her. “So I take it we won’t be doing this again, will we?” I joke as I unlock the car. Her eyebrows raise, and her lips pull into a snarky smile.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Well, I think we’re even… I walked dogs, you shot guns.”

  “That’s even? Dogs are sweet. They lick your face and give you love. Guns are dangerous and icky.”

  “Icky?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and slides into the front seat. “Deal. No more dogs, no more guns.”

  I chuckle at her. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.” She smiles at me. That smile. Every time she smiles at me, a little piece of the concrete walls I’ve built around me crumbles and falls away. Everything good about her lies within her eyes and that sweet smile.

  “There is a little Mexican restaurant down the road that has the best margaritas I’ve ever had, and the food is amazing too.”

  “I could live on a supply of good margaritas,” she says. “It sounds perfect.”

  She leaves her window down as we drive the few miles to Armando’s. With her head resting against the headrest, her eyes are closed and the wind whips her long hair around, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. If I weren’t driving, I’d study every one of her features better. I could watch her for hours, days—drinking in her beauty. Her profile is stunning. Her fair skin set against her dark hair isn’t something you see all that often. She’s beautiful.

  “We’re here,” I say as I pull into a parking spot. The parking lot is empty, as it usually is in the early afternoon. “Have you eaten here before?” I ask, as we both step out of the car.

  “No, but I’ve heard it’s amazing. Most of the small restaurants in town are,” she says as we step inside the restaurant. Just inside the double doors, we’re greeted by the cool air conditioning, the modern décor, and the aroma of freshly made tortillas. The restaurant is small, but it’s clean and recently remodeled. I point to a small table tucked away in the far corner. As we settle in, our server greets us and we each order a margarita as we look over the extensive menu.

  “There’s so much to decide from and it all sounds amazing,” she says as she flips each page of the menu. “What’s good?” she asks me.

  “My favorite is the carne asada tacos. The flavors are phenomenal.”

  “I think I’ll try that,” she says as she sips her margarita.

  “So your dad used to taking you shooting?” I’m curious to know how she became such a good shot.

  “Yeah, he felt it was important that I knew how to handle a gun, especially because I’m so afraid of them.”

  “Why are you afraid of them?”

  “No reason really; I just don’t like guns.”

  “Huh. Fair enough. I don’t particularly like them either, but they’re an evil necessity for me.”

  “I understand that you have to b
e comfortable with them.” She shrugs. “Thanks for taking me with you today.”

  “You’re welcome. I really like spending time with you,” I admit.

  “Me too.” She runs her finger around the edge of the glass, collecting salt on the tip of her finger. She brings it to her mouth slowly and her tongue peeks out from between her teeth to collect it. We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments as I watch her strum her fingers on the table gently and twirl a piece of her long brown hair around her finger. She takes a sip of her margarita and I find myself lost in a world of thoughts as I focus on her lips.

  “So, I feel like I always do all the talking,” she says, setting her margarita on the table. She meets my gaze and pauses for a moment. “I’d love to learn more about you and about your family.” Shit. I catch her looking at me, studying me, as I sit and say nothing. I play with the salt that has fallen off the rim of my glass when I finally speak.

  “Like I mentioned before, there is really nothing to tell you. My family is just Lindsay and me.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Don’t have any.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t have any?”

  “My dad is dead, and I haven’t seen my mom in over twenty-two years. No clue if she’s dead or alive.” I know my tone seems abrupt, but I hate talking about my family. This is shit she doesn’t need to know about me.

  “Why did she leave?” she asks quietly. I can tell her inquisition is sincere, but it’s just not something I’m willing to talk about with her, at least not yet.

  “Look. I know we’re learning about each other, and part of that is finding out who we are and where we came from, and that means asking questions about our families… but my family was so fucked up, Reagan. We were so beyond the scope of normal that there really aren’t accurate descriptions of how fucked up we were, okay?”

  “Landon, I would never judge you based upon your family. I don’t give a shit how imperfect your family is or was. What I care about is learning more about you.”

  “And I want to learn more about you too, but right now, I want to leave my family shit where it belongs—in my past.”

  And this is where the dark secrets I keep want to come out. There is something about Reagan that makes me comfortable, makes me want to tell her everything about me, and it scares the hell out of me. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to share those secrets, or if they’ll haunt me, taunt me for the rest of my life.

  “You know, sometimes talking about it helps,” she says, resting her hand on top of mine. I know she’s not going to let this go, and maybe in time, I’ll be able to share bits and pieces, but for now, she humors me, “So tell me more about Lindsay.”

  “She’s everything to me. It’s pretty much been her and me since I was eight and she was four. She’s the only person in this world I’d lay down my life for.”

  “You’re wrong,” she interjects. “Your job puts you in the position to lay down your life for complete strangers.”

  “I guess, but maybe what I was getting at, is that she’s the only person I would intentionally put down my life for.”

  “You’re wrong again,” she corrects me. “You intentionally put yourself in harm’s way every single day—for what? Because whether you believe it or not, you care about others.”

  She’s right. I decided to become a police officer because I wanted to prove that officers were meant to help people, not hurt them, like my dad. I nod at her and smile.

  “You know, Doc, you’re too smart for your own good sometimes, you know that, right?”

  “I may have heard that before.” She smiles. “So, Lindsay,” she reminds me.

  “I mean, I don’t know what to say about her. She’s more than just my sister—she’s the one person who knows everything about me: the good, the bad, and the ugly, and doesn’t judge me. Well, her and Matt.” I laugh. “She loves her job and she’s damn good at it.”

  “She is,” Reagan interjects. “How long has she been a reporter?”

  “Almost a year. She really wants to anchor, so she busts her ass around that TV station. I don’t know anybody that puts in more hours than her.”

  “You sound proud of her,” Reagan says, sipping her margarita just as the waiter delivers our food.

  “I am. Damn proud.”

  “Obviously, I don’t know her well, but I’d love to spend more time with her. I love her sense of humor.”

  “She’s witty all right, and sarcastic, and a pain in the ass. I seem to surround myself with women like that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Her eyebrow arches as she says it.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, maybe you should choose better company,” She takes a bite of her taco and rolls her eyes at me.

  “Nah. I actually kind of like the company I’ve been keeping lately.” I look away from her—these little admissions scare me almost as much as my past does.

  “I like it too,” she whispers as she sets her napkin on the table. “I’m really happy we’ve been spending time together.”

  “That’s the margarita talking,” I joke with her and she laughs at me, but her eyes tell me otherwise.

  “So what did Matt say when you told him about your new job?”

  “He’s really happy for me. He is the only person other than Lindsay who has really ever supported me. It’s going to be weird not riding patrol with him every day.”

  “Has he ever considered applying for a detective position?”

  “We’ve talked about it. He’s interested in homicide. Not a lot of that here in this department—which is good, but doesn’t really open up any opportunities for him here.”

  “We should all celebrate together, maybe we can all go out this weekend,” she says excitedly. “I’d love to get to know Lindsay better, and Matt too. We could go to Mac’s—have some drinks, dance; it would be a lot of fun. What do you think?” She’s almost bouncing up and down in her seat, she’s so excited.

  “Let me ask Matt and Lindsay, but it sounds like it could be fun. Trouble, but fun.”

  “Trouble?” Reagan inquires. “Why?”

  “Matt hates dancing and doesn’t drink much, and let’s just say Lindsay likes to indulge on her nights out and dance her ass off. When she doesn’t have her boyfriend of the month with her, poor Matt gets sucked into being her dance partner.”

  “Is that why he looked so miserable last weekend? I thought maybe he didn’t feel well or something.”

  “No, that look was straight up pain from having to dance with my sister.”

  “That is so funny.” She laughs. “I hope they’ll want to do it again. Maybe Mac’s two weekends in a row isn’t such a great idea.”

  “I’ll ask them. You never know until you ask, right?”

  “If it’s for you, I’m sure they’ll agree.” The server interrupts us as he takes our plates and empty glasses.

  “Thanks for lunch. I feel like I should be paying since this is a congratulatory lunch for you.”

  “Never. You may make eight times as much money as I do, but you’ll never pay if you’re with me.”

  “Thanks,” she says quietly as she blushes. “You ready to go?” I’m not. I could sit here and talk to her all day long, then take her home and touch her, taste her all night long.

  “Yeah, let’s get you home.”

  Something stirs inside of me when I say that, a possessiveness I’ve never felt before. I don’t want to take her to her home; I want to take her to mine. But I can’t, I won’t.

  Locking the door behind me, I traipse over to the oversized white leather couch in my living room, tossing my clutch onto the sofa table as I pass it and throw myself down on the couch. I’ve known this man for all of five days, five days… and everything about him consumes me. He consumes my thoughts and my emotions—a reminder of what it feels like to care about someone, an emotion I’ve buried so deep inside of me that I had long since forgotten what it felt like. I like it. I like him. I want him, and I may eve
n need him.

  My cell phone rings, pulling me away from my thoughts. Reaching for my clutch, I unsnap it, pulling the small, thin phone out as my mom’s name illuminates the screen. “Shit,” I mumble to myself. I slide my finger over the answer icon and clear my throat.

  “Hey, Mom! Sorry, I was just about to call you back.”

  “I called you over seven hours ago, Reagan. You never wait that long to return my call.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I was out and about this morning running errands and it just slipped my mind.”

  “How is Wilmington, more specifically, how is Mac?” she asks me, her tone more serious.

  “Wilmington is good. I’m finally feeling settled and Mac is doing really well. He seems to be responding to the radiation, which is great. I spoke to his oncologist the other day, and his prognosis is really, really good so long as he keeps responding this well to the treatments.”

  There is a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone, “Thank God, Reagan, that is fantastic news! How is Gemma?”

  “She’s doing well too. She’s still taking in strays—still eccentric Gemma,” I say with a smile on my face. I’ve always loved that Gemma was a little different. Not afraid to buck the trend, or tell it like it is.

  “Please send my love to her. I haven’t talked to her in ages. Has Mac sold the bar yet?”

  Now I sigh, and she hears it. “No, not yet. He’s not ready… and don’t give him a hard time about it. This is all he has left, Mom. Sam is ready and willing to buy it when the time is right, and the time is not right, okay?”

  “As much as I hate you living so far away, I’m so glad you’re there with them,” she says, her voice cracking. “I know how much you love Mac and Gemma, but please see if you can get him to sell that shithole. He needs to focus on his health.”