Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 105398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
James did, and he did not like it. There was a huge fight during their senior year picnic, James left with a suspension, and Jolie never came back. Apparently, it was something bad, because never once did we hear what exactly happened from our brothers. James was pretty close to her, but he never opened his mouth. He was in a sort of depression for a while right after Jolie left. I think she was the reason that he went into the army, and Max being his best friend followed him.
Jolie hadn’t changed much in thirteen years. She still looked as great at 32 that she did at 18. Her hair was a tad shorter, but other than that still the tiny spunky girl that she used to be. I wonder how long it would take James to figure out she was back. He had ways of knowing things. That or I might tell him, he deserves to know.
“What are you doing working here?”
“There’re guns here. I figure it’s the best place for me. I’m not going to tell you why. I’d rather not tell you in here anyway. Maybe we can meet for drinks sometime.” She said quietly.
A sick feeling lodged in my throat, and I knew it was something bad. I felt two strong arms wrap around my waist and pull me up against a hard chest. Jolie’s eyes had widened into saucer size. She also seemed to shrink into herself, as if she was scared of a big man like Gabe.
“Got a lane. Let’s go, we have to be at the rally in about forty five minutes, and I want to see if you like this before we buy it.”
“That sounds great, Jolie. Call me whenever is good for you.” I said with a sincere smile.
Giving Jolie a meaningful look, we headed into the back of the store. We came to a metal door, and the young man who helped us opened it and walked through. It led into a room that was roughly the size of a small gym. At the far end targets hung. In front of each target, about fifty yards stood a metal table and chair. There was plexi-glass sectioning off each table, for what I guess was flying shells.
The young man showed us how to use the mechanical target mover, and then left us to it. Gabe gave me a set of earplugs and I hung them around my neck when he started to explain.
“Alright, this doesn’t have a safety you click on and off, it’s got a trigger safety. You have to depress both the safety and the trigger at the same time to shoot it. Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot something. If you point this at someone, you had better intend to shoot him or her with it. Don’t bluff, because they might call you on it.”
He then went on to show me how to load the clip, inject a bullet into the chamber, unload it, and then finally how to aim and fire. He then unloaded it, and then handed it to me. My guess was this was a test to make sure I knew what I was doing.
I smiled, and then put the earplugs into my ears.
I did know what I was doing. Expertly, I loaded the clip, then the gun, and then aimed and fired at the target. Firing rapidly, I unloaded the clip as fast as I could. Then, I set the pistol down and studied the target. Center mass on all but one, and that was the one where I aimed for the head.
Still got it.
“Jesus. You didn’t tell me you could shoot like that. I think I just came in my pants a little. That was hot.” Gabe said while he studied the target as well.
“Cheyenne and I used to compete in high school. My dad was big into competition shooting, and I was daddy’s little girl. I can shoot skeet too. We had a blast, and I continued the shooting even after dad died. I knew he’d want me to.”
He levered the target up to the front and replaced the target with a new one. This one had nearly an entire body.
“I’m gonna move it, you shoot for the 5s.”
The fives were located at the main artery points. Carotid, subclavian, brachial, femoral, and popliteal. Supposedly, these were designed as kill shots when you couldn’t shoot center mass to bring your target down. If you wanted them down for good and didn’t have a good center mass shot, you would aim for these areas. I loaded my clip, chambered it, and got ready.
“Go.” Gabe said and then moved the target sharply to the right.
I took aim and got within an inch of the femoral artery on the right leg. He moved it sharply backwards and slightly to the left.
“Go.”
We continued this pattern until I fired all nine shots. He pulled the target and studied it silently for a couple seconds. Then he turned to me and regarded me.
“Mother fucker. You’re a crackshot!” Gabe said grinning.
“I guess so. Can we go now?” I asked.
I didn’t like how shooting made me feel anymore. I didn’t enjoy it like I used to, and ever since my dad died I didn’t feel right shooting. I made it through to my senior year before I stopped competing. It brought up too many memories. They were bittersweet, and reminded me of what I was missing. Left a huge gaping hole in my heart.
Gabe must have made the connection, because the next thing I knew I was wrapped in his arms, fighting back tears.
“You’re not alone anymore Em. I’ll always be here. I love you, sweetheart. Cheyenne, the girls, Sam, Blaine. Everyone loves you. You’re not alone.” He said as he kissed my forehead.
We left shortly after. Gabe was also the proud new owner of a .40 caliber Ruger something something. I’m sure there is a name for it. I’m also sure he told me, but like always, it went in one ear and out the other. You would think after six years of competition shooting that I would know what kind of weapons I’d used. I didn’t. That was my dad’s job, and I refused to take it over.