Calculated Risk (Blackbridge Security 5)

“Okay,” I tell him and turn around to leave before I open my mouth and remind him that I’m very good at my job.

Chances are there’s a missing invoice or paperwork that was misfiled because I know my calculations are correct. If the man wants to spend another couple of hours clearing it up, let him.

I grab my purse the second I get to my desk and leave for lunch. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been annoyed since driving away from Quinten Thursday night. One minute, he’s a foot away looking down at me like he’s barely able to resist pressing his lips to mine, but then he’s giving me a rough goodbye from five feet away.

Lunch consists of a quick drive-thru meal because I spent half of my lunch hour trying to get the numbers on that stupid account to add up correctly, but I find time to call Parker to see if she wants to go to the gun range with me after work for practice.

She claims she has to work, but I get the feeling she has other plans. Or maybe I’m just annoyed at being turned down. I hate doing things by myself, but these days, I hate going home alone even more.

When my workday is over, I try not to think about Quinten and the possibility that he might be at the gun range. I mean, the man works for Blackbridge Security, not full-time at the gun range. Even knowing that doesn’t keep the disappointment from creeping up when I walk inside and don’t see him.

The guy at the counter is a different man from the one who witnessed my embarrassment last week, and he tells me the same thing Quinten did when I broke the line the target was on.

“Don’t worry about it. It actually happens all the time.”

I give him a weak smile, wanting to blame Quinten for standing so close and making me more nervous about his proximity and how much I enjoyed it than actually firing the gun.

Once I was over the initial fear, pulling the trigger was actually thrilling. I wanted to do it over and over, but that sense of wariness never left. It’s why I’m back today. I’ve always been a good student and doing something and not being able to perfect a skill stresses me out.

I know I’m not going to turn into a gun-slinging badass overnight, but maybe with practice, I can actually hit the target instead of breaking the machines.

There is one other man in lane two when I enter the room and head for lane six. He doesn’t even bother to look up at me. I flinch when he shoots, and I wonder if I’ll ever stop doing that. I know to expect it, but the sound, even with my protective earmuffs on is startling.

I juggle the basket the gun and ammo are in along with the target, wondering just when I lost confidence in my actions. Even earlier, walking into the building, I nearly tripped over the curb because I was too busy looking around the parking lot. Something about the setting sun and the way shadows danced over the cars in the lot gave me the creeps.

I scoffed at the police officer that came to the house the night of the break-in. She’d handed me a card with information for a local support group for people who had experienced the same type of victimization. I thought it was ridiculous, wondering why people were so anxious about something like that happening to them. Those were thoughts of an angry woman, a woman that was livid that her favorite picture frame was found busted on the living room floor. That woman was ready to go out and look for the man herself.

Then the adrenaline and anger washed away, leaving me with fear and anxiety, and regret for having thrown that card into the trash with the glass from that very picture frame I was so angry about.

There’s less tremble in my hands when I load the bullets, and by the time the magazine is in the gun and I have it pointed down range, I’m livid at the fear some stranger has been able to instill in me.

I breathe the way Quinten suggested, holding my breath in the second it takes for me to pull the trigger. I fire over and over, not pausing except to check my breathing until the slide locks back indicating that the magazine is now empty.

I reload and do it all over again.

After the third magazine, I move the target back to me and take pride in every one of the tiny holes in the paper. They’re scattered with not even an ounce of consistency, but it’s better than every shot going wide. I send the target back down the lane and reload.