“Hardly.”
“It’s all so…” She reverently touches each object in the box—the small succulent plant, the chocolate coffee bites from her favorite coffee shop, the engraved wooden coaster with her initials, and the fluffy teal scarf done by St. Laurent. Her grin wavers as she whispers, “Thank you.”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“You say that, but…” She lifts the chocolate coffee bites. “Come on, no one ever gets me things like this.”
“I suppose the rich parents of the students you teach tend to send you things you don’t want, right?”
She shrugs. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t want them…”
“It’s that they’re empty gifts.”
She nods. “This is thoughtful. You clearly wanted to make me happy.” She picks up the plant and laughs, her eyes closing from the amusement. “Do you really think I need more of these?”
“What’s one more?”
The softness in her gaze makes my heart quiver. Coach has given me more than I could have ever imagined. Despite her being on my daddy’s payroll, she’s dedicated her time to making sure I’m prepared to handle my life. She’s not shielding me—she’s teaching me.
It’s my greatest lesson. Sometimes it’s better to know how to defend myself than to rely on someone else to do it.
And perhaps my father was right to leave things the way he did.
Sighing, I reach for my cup of tea, enjoying the sounds of contentment floating from my fencing instructor. When she settles the lid back on the box and lines up her gifts on the coffee table, she taps her chin and hums. “Alexandra, I’m thinking that you need to up your game.”
“How would I do that?”
“Come with me.”
The rays of the sun stretch up the hallway as I follow Coach Neill to the basement door. We descend into darkness, shadows swallowing my legs and thickening when I reach the bottom. The click of a switch signals the lamps overhead to wink on, revealing a massive underground shooting range.
I raise my eyebrows at my fencing coach and chuckle. “Well, I guess we all have our secrets, huh?”
“Kickboxing can only do so much.” She gestures to the heavily locked gun cabinet and then pops open a panel near it. After punching in a series of codes, the cabinet opens and she picks up a couple of guns, a case of bullets, and eyewear. She nods to the hooks to the right of my shoulder. “Grab those earmuffs. We’ll both need ’em.”
We wander down a few lanes until she picks one. She lifts the slat separating us from the range and wanders down the lane to attach a giant sheet of paper with the outline of a body on it to a couple of clips. When she turns to me, she claps her hands and says, “All right, I want to see what you can do.”
“Right…right now?”
She touches her forehead lightly and says, “No, genius. Next year.” A chuckle explodes from her. “Yes, right now. But wait until I’m back. Please don’t shoot me.”
I laugh while she makes her way back. She puts on the glasses and the earmuffs and then urges me to do the same. After loading the gun, she hands it to me and gestures to the target. Her lips move as her muffled words reach my eardrums: “Have at it.”
I’m a terrible shot. My father taught me the basics of gun safety along with a few tips, but nothing truly substantial. I can defend myself up to a certain extent—and then I’m fucked. As I line up the gun with the target, I think about what he taught me.
Shoulders back. Eyes open. Only point when you’re ready to kill. Do you understand, pumpkin? Guns are dangerous.
“I can be dangerous too,” I whisper.
And then I pull the trigger.
Explosions ring through the range as I nail the target with my best shots. Once the chamber is empty, I click the safety into place and lower the gun to the counter in front of me. I take off the earmuffs and look at my instructor.
She nods with approval. “Not bad. You hit a good bit of the lower torso, but you want to be able to do a kill shot too.”
“You mean in the forehead?”
“Well, there are more places to land a kill shot than just the forehead. Let me show you.”