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“Excuse me?” he says with a slight crackle in his voice. A slight
sheen
of sweat glows over his forehead, and I can sense a growing
discomfort within him.

“This one over here,” I point to the girl, “she was pocketing pills
before I approached the counter. She also told me that you let her
take
whatever she wants.” It’s not really true, but it’s what she deserves. His eyes dart over to her. Her cheeks redden as she shakes her head
back and forth, disagreeing with my accusations.

He hands my prescription back to me. “Thank you. Have a nice
day.” He’s definitely trying to shut me up. Other customers are now standing behind me, looking over my shoulder trying to catch a
better view of what’s going on.

“That one over there,” I point to the guy filling the pill bottles. “I bet you the quantity in this bottle doesn’t match what the
prescription calls for.” I know this is a risky assumption, but if they want to judge me by my looks, I’m going to do the same back to them. Neither of them
look like they should be behind a pharmacy counter. He takes the bag back from my hands, rips it open, and retrieves the bottle. The
pills ping one by one on to the metal pill counter. The number appears in red digits, displaying: 35. “My prescription called for forty-five pills. Right?” I’m silently cheering myself on for winning this one. Karma. Definitely karma at its finest.

He recounts my pills and pours them into the container. “I
apologize on behalf of my staff.”

Tango’s fingers press into my arm as he pulls me to face him. “Let’s go.”

***

I close the door of my bedroom and fall into the unforgivingly hard
chair in front of my laptop. I unlock the latch and lift the screen. I find a picture of Reaper on my hard drive and drop it into the
Internet search engine. I love that we can search with images now, since it helps me
keep track of where this asshole is. A list of similar images pops up
on the screen. The most recent one shows footage of him in a bank in Maryland. The image is dated as of three days ago.

Rage boils through me each day that I know he’s running around loose, chasing me and chasing Dad. I know I could have ratted him out to the cops and helped them locate him, but everything within me needs to feel the retaliation myself. I know he’ll eventually be put
away or killed, and since it’s me he’s after, the chances are partially in my favor for causing the latter part.

My eyes lock on the image stretched across my screen. I click my
mouse on the zoom button, bringing myself closer to my sister’s
murderer—
the only man I’ve ever loved
. I shouldn’t have trusted those
smoldering translucent blue eyes, shadowed by his dark straight brows. His perfectly tousled toffee-colored hair, and the flawless full lips made for touching were all it took to make me fall for him.
Looks are so damn deceiving.

I shake my head at the smirk playing across his lips. He doesn’t
even know he’s being photographed, yet it’s as if he’s always
playing
nice for the hidden camera. It’s all a game to him. I close the page and open up a new one. I search for the closest shooting range. It’s
been a week since I’ve been, and this pent up anger isn’t going anywhere. I need to unleash. It’s sad to remember the day a paintbrush was good enough to relieve stress. Now, I’d probably snap one in half with my first stroke.

I reach into my bag and pull out a Sharpie and scribble the
address of the nearest range on my hand.

I walk into the main living area, noticing Tango sitting at the
breakfast bar with his phone. “Do you shoot?” I ask.

His forehead wrinkles with a downcast expression, questioning me. “Shots?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of shots?” he asks. I’m sure he thinks I’m talking about alcohol.

“9mm Rounds.”

He sucks in a mouthful of air and holds it, processing what I’ve said. “Well then.” A satisfied smile inches across the bottom of his cheeks.

“Can you shoot? Or are you going to sit in the observation
room?” I question. I’m sure he knows how to shoot. He wouldn’t be a guard without that training.

“I’ve shot a couple of times. I’ll give it a try.” He stands up from the barstool and pulls his coat off the bar.

“A bodyguard who can’t shoot?” I know that’s a crock of shit.

“I’m not a bodyguard,” he corrects me.

***

He made us wait a couple of hours for a reason I was unsure of, but
when we walked outside, he lead us through the parking lot and up to
the front of a newer black pick-up truck. “Whose truck is this?” I ask, hesitating before following his lead and walking around to the
passenger side. I figured we’d be taking a cab to the range.

“Mine.” I hear the pop of the locks unhinging from inside and
we both climb in and settle into the nylon bucket seats. “I had it
driven here, but it was running a bit late. It’s why we needed to wait out the last couple of hours,” he grins.

It smells like a combination of a pine air-freshener mixed with cologne. I’ve smelled worse in a man’s vehicle. Actually, it’s kind of
nice. I sink into the seat and drop my purse to the floor. I’m usually stiff as a board when I get into someone else’s car. The inability to
trust always seeps in, and it causes me to feel claustrophobic, but for some reason, I don’t feel like that at all in his truck.

He twists the radio knob and surfs the channels until he finds a
country station. “Keep the windows closed,” he says, stifling a
snicker. “I’ll be laughed out of this state if anyone hears this music.”

“I grew up in Texas, so this kind of sounds like home,” I say, offering up more information than usual.

He looks at me through the corner of his eye and clears his
throat. “Yeah. I know.”

“I sort of wish you didn’t know
everything
about me.” I keep my focus on the blurred lines on the highway, suddenly feeling very exposed.

“I don’t know
everything
about you.”

“Seems like it,” I say gently, trying to keep my hostility at bay.

“How about I tell you what I know? Anything I don’t mention is something I honestly don’t know about you.”

“Sure.” I actually really want to know. Although, what I
do
know is this is where I find out if he really thinks I’m a
cool chick
, as he said, because he does know everything about me. Or, I find out he only thinks I’m a
cool chick
because he doesn’t know anything more than what is on the surface.

“Your name is Carolina Anne Tate. You’re five-foot-three, one-hundred-ten pounds, you have three freckles on your nose, shoulder-blade-length black wavy hair, one tattoo on your right arm,
two on your left arm, and the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” His words pull me to look at him. But he’s concentrating on the road and won’t look back at me. He seems unaffected by his own words, as if it were a robotic description. Though, I doubt he describes all of his client’s eyes as beautiful.

After keeping my eyes locked on the carved edge of his jawline for more than a few seconds, I gather he isn’t planning to look back
at me, and I turn my attention back out my window.

“Hmm,” I sigh. “Is that all?” Please tell me that’s all.

“Your mother died of breast cancer when you were nineteen.
Your sister died a couple years later. And you haven’t seen your father in three years.”

My sister died? That’s not exactly how I’d put it. “Is that all?”

I feel the brakes compress as we near a stoplight. He turns his
head and his eyes center on mine. “Yes.” He didn’t blink, twitch, or stall. He’s being truthful. If there’s anything I’ve been raised to do
well, it’s to
read someone’s facial expressions. He’s a challenge, but I have to
think his lack of nerves is a telltale sign of truth.

“What did you do before my dad hired you?” I ask while I have his eyes still locked on mine. Dad always said, eyes are the best lie detector on the human body, and he still hasn’t blinked.

As I assumed he would, he twists his head forward and almost
simultaneously, the light turns green. He turns the music up and pulls his sunglasses down from his head, placing them over his tell-
all eyes. I
can’t obtain a fucking thing from him. Maybe he trusts almost as little as I do, which probably won’t make this working relationship
any easier.

We pull into a dirt lot, and the silence between us enhances the crunching of the gravel below his tires. The pines overshadowing the building tell me this place is for locals—this place wouldn’t be found unless someone was looking for it.

Without any exchange of words, we enter into the shooting
range. I place my hand down on the front desk and pull my license out with
my other hand. My eyes scan the back wall, admiring all of the
weapons. My focus stops on my favorite: “the 40 Cal Smith & Wesson, please.”

The man studies me before complying. His dark eyes, chiseled jaw, and starched flattened shirt and pants tells me he’s either seen his day in the military or in some kind of law enforcement position.
He’s looking at me as if he wants to get inside my head, like any other law enforcer I’ve ever met. He clears his throat and sucks his breath in, puffing his chest out before leaning over the counter onto
his elbows.
My lip unintentionally curls at the close proximity he’s claimed toward me. “Seems like an awfully specific request from a girl like
you.”

“And what kind of girl am I exactly?” I chuckle once and stand up straight, crossing my arms over my chest.

He pushes off the counter and turns to the back wall and
retrieves the weapon. With his fingers bent around the neck of the pistol, he places it down on the counter. “Keep the handgun in front of you at
all times. Don’t point it at yourself or anyone else. If we see you
doing this, you will be removed at once. Please confirm that you agree to this policy.”

“I agree.” I reach for the pistol as he releases his grip.

“I’ll have the same,” Tango says. Maybe he really doesn’t know much about shooting. If he did, I’m sure he’d ask for something
larger or more powerful—typical guy move.

The man asks for his ID, but he doesn’t study his face or try to read his thoughts. He mindlessly pulls the pistol out from behind the counter and places it down gently. He doesn’t recite the policy or ask him to agree.

Whatever.
Let it go,
I have to tell myself
.

“I’m Chuck. If either of you have any questions or need
anything, give me a shout.” He leads us to two side-by-side alleys and hands us each a pair of safety glasses and ear protection. “Have fun.”

I waste no time lifting the pistol, squinting my right eye closed,
aiming, and releasing. With each shot, my body relaxes a little bit more. Once I’ve gone through my first round of shots, I remove my glasses and reload. I notice Tango hasn’t shot one round. He’s
watching me intently, studying me.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“That was pretty crazy.” His focus moves from mine over to the target. Fifteen rounds put down range and hitting center mass of the target. “You practice a lot?”

“Yes.” I insert a fresh magazine and rack a round into the
chamber.
I’ve practiced weekly since Krissy was murdered. I won’t ever miss another shot. If I didn’t miss that one shot, Krissy might still be alive. Anyone can tell me her death wasn’t my fault, but I will forever
blame myself for not saving her. “You planning to shoot?”

He turns to face the target. He closes his left eye, opens it, and closes his right eye. He holds the pistol out in front of him and
shoots aimlessly. The bullet grazes the outside of the target, and he grunts
with annoyance.

He shoots off another three the same way, and I’m honestly
shocked
he doesn’t know how to shoot. My shock is turning into curiosity,
though. Things aren’t adding up.

He suppresses a laugh and throws his head back. “This is so fucking embarrassing.” His cheeks are visibly red and you can’t fake that.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Here, I’ll show you.” I clear my pistol before placing it down next to me, being careful to follow
protocol so Chuck doesn’t find a reason to throw me out. This is going to look ridiculous. I’m at least eight inches shorter than he is, trying to wrap
my arms around his to show him how to aim. I point to the top of
the pistol. “See this u-shape?” I point out the sites.

“Yeah.”

“Look through it.” I wrap my fingers around both of his biceps,
which feel like stone beneath my touch. “Extend this arm out,” I say, pressing down on his right arm. “Now bend your left elbow slightly, while cupping the bottom of your right hand.” I shove my knee in between his legs. “Leave some space here for balance.” I’m more or less hugging him right now, and it feels . . . nice. Maybe even more
than nice. I force myself to refocus my attention, and I take a step back.
“Now take a breath, release, and when you feel yourself relax and all of the air is out of your lungs, slowly and steadily squeeze the trigger.” I place my hands over his chest, sending a thrill of nerves to
coarse through my body at the slight touch of his hardened muscles.