Except Rafe was far from grizzled. Even with the ridiculous-looking sweatshirt and khakis, he still looked lean and handsome, especially when the reddish-gold sunlight caught the natural highlights in his brown hair.
Rafe walked over to me and pulled a handgun from under the sweatshirt, offering it to me handle-first. But as I looked at it, my arms felt like they were glued to my sides.
“Go on, take it,” Rafe said encouragingly. “It won't bite.”
“I've never liked guns,” I said, hearing the tremble in my own voice. I was thinking about the nightmare I'd had the previous night. “And now that I've had them fired at me, I like them a lot less.”
“Well, the only good way to conquer that fear is to be able to fire back,” Rafe said. “I mean, I'll keep right on doing everything I can to protect you, but that'll be a hell of a lot easier for me if you're shooting too. Especially if I know you're good enough at it to keep from shooting me by mistake.”
I kept looking at the gun in his hand, trying to work up the courage to take it. “What kind is it?”
Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Why? Were you planning to write a fucking review of it later? Are you worried that someone will ask you in the middle of a firefight? 'Hey, by the way, that gun you're shooting at me is swell! What kind is it? I want to put it on my Christmas list...'”
“You can really be a sarcastic asshole, do you know that?” I asked. I wanted it to come out sounding tough, but I found myself laughing instead.
Rafe laughed too. “It's my best feature. Well, that and...” He trailed off into a fit of laughter.
It seemed strange to see a big tough biker guffawing uncontrollably like a little boy, but I liked it. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle again, which was very cute. For the first time, he didn't seem like some badass outlaw from a violent world I could never hope to understand. He just seemed like a man who got a little silly and giggly sometimes, like the rest of us.
“What?” I asked, snickering. He doubled over with laughter, holding up his hand to indicate that he couldn't talk. “What, were you about to make a penis joke?” I continued. “'Well, that and my huge dick' or something like that, was that it?”
Rafe nodded and I laughed too, snorting uncontrollably. “I knew it!” I exclaimed. “That's classy!”
“I'm a biker!” Rafe gasped out between laughs. “How classy do you expect me to be?”
“No, no, no!” I snickered. “No, see that Saab over there? You're totally a cager now!”
Rafe looked down. “Well, I'm sure as shit dressed like one, right?”
We both exploded into peals of laughter at that point. By the time we'd managed to collect ourselves a bit, I was feeling a lot less nervous.
“So how 'bout it?” Rafe finally said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You wanna give it a shot, or would you rather play 'Damsel in Distress' for the foreseeable future?”
“All right, fine, give it here,” I groaned, holding out my hand. Rafe put the gun in it. The barrel was short and it seemed very compact, but the weight was surprising and dragged my hand down immediately.
“Is this the one you took from the man at the outlet mall?” I asked.
“Yup. He won't be needing a gun where he's going. A harp maybe, but...”
I shuddered at the thought of handling something that belonged to a dead man, especially one who'd been alive just a few hours before. Still, I knew Rafe had a point. I was getting pretty tired of feeling powerless whenever people were chasing us or shooting at us. It would be good to feel like I was more in control of my own safety.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” I said. I raised the pistol with one hand, aimed it at the first bottle, and squeezed the trigger. It didn't move.
I looked down at the gun, confused. “What happened?” I asked.
“The safety happened,” Rafe said. “And that's your first lesson, right there.” He walked over to me and pointed to a small switch on the side of the gun. “If you're gonna carry, you always need to know whether the safety is on or off. Here, see how I carry mine?” He turned around and lifted the back of his sweatshirt, revealing his own gun tucked into the back of his pants. I tried to keep my eyes on the weapon instead of the tantalizing curve of his strong, lithe back.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Well, the safety is what keeps me from accidentally shooting off an ass cheek if I sit down the wrong way or take a bad step,” Rafe continued. “So you always need to keep the safety on until you're actually ready to pull the trigger. Then you just use your thumb to flip it, and boom, you're ready to rock.”
“Okay,” I said, thumbing the safety switch. I raised the gun with my right hand again.
“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” Rafe exclaimed. “Not like that!”
I swung around to face him. “Why? What now?”
“Recoil, that's what now,” Rafe said. “You try to shoot with one hand like that, the force from the shot is liable to tear your arm out of its socket, or snap the gun back into your face.”
“This is how I've seen people do it in the movies,” I said, confused.
“Yeah, well in real life, it's a good way to miss your target and fuck yourself up,” Rafe countered. “You want to plant your feet and use your other hand to brace it from the bottom. Here, let me show you. Which leg is your good one?”
“Um, I thought they were both pretty good, actually,” I joked lamely.
Rafe chuckled. “You can say that again,” he muttered under his breath, walking over to me. I felt myself blush again and hoped he couldn't see it.
He positioned himself behind me and used his boots to re-arrange my feet so my right foot was in front and my left foot was behind and sideways.
“Oh, like a tennis stance!” I exclaimed. My mother had taught me how to play when I was young. “Why didn't you say so?”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Gee, I guess it slipped my mind since my membership at the country club expired. These days I mostly stick with croquet and sailboat racing.”
“Yeah, yeah, you're a big bad bruiser from the wrong side of the tracks. We all get it,” I teased. “Just show me what I need to know, tough guy.”
“Okay, so you've got the legs down,” Rafe said. “Now for the arms.” He put his arms over mine, guiding my hands so they cradled the gun firmly—one on the handle, the other under it to steady it. His hands felt rough and calloused against mine, and his chest was pressed against my back.
Even through his sweatshirt, I could feel his muscles. The smell of his hair and body were intoxicating, especially blended with the fresh scents of sunshine and the nearby field. There was also a faint hint of the paint fumes clinging to his clothes, and I tried to tell myself that was the reason I was feeling so light-headed.
But deep down, I knew that wasn't it at all.
“No, keep your back straight,” Rafe cautioned. I realized that I'd been leaning back against him without meaning to and stiffened up immediately.
“All right. See those grooves on top of the gun barrel?” Rafe asked. I nodded, turning my head slightly to take in more of his scent. “Keep your focus on them,” he continued. “Those are your sights. You use them to pick out your target. Take your time. Breathe. Aim.”
“Shouldn't I just try to shoot it as quickly as possible?” I asked. “The last time people were shooting at us, they didn't exactly give us a lot of time to breathe and aim between bullets.”
“Like I said, this isn't a movie,” Rafe said. I felt his breath tickling my earlobe and my heart pounded against my ribs. “We're not trying to make you into some kind of quick-draw artist, here. Right now, we just want to get you comfortable firing a gun. Speed comes later.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I stared down the grooves on top of the gun, letting the first bottle come into focus. Even with both hands on the weapon, the tip was still shaking slightly.
“Whenever you're ready,” Rafe whispered. “Keep your arms and legs tight and gently squeeze the trigger.”
I took a deep breath, willing my hands to stop trembling. Slowly, they steadied themselves, and the bottle stood squarely in my sights. I fired and felt the gun try to jump backward out of my hands. The sound was so loud that it felt like someone had smacked both of my ears as hard as they could. My body jerked back against Rafe's.
“Nice job!” Rafe said.
My ears were ringing. I lowered the gun and looked at the bottles. All of them were still intact, but there was a hole in the barn just an inch to the left of the bottle I'd been aiming at.
“You've officially managed to hit the broad side of a barn,” Rafe chuckled. “So you've got that going for you.”
I sniffed the air. A strange combination of smells filled my nostrils, including charcoal, sulfur, and...
“Do you smell pee?” I asked.
Rafe laughed. “That's gun smoke,” he said. “The piss smell comes from the saltpeter in the gunpowder.”
“Wow. I learn something new every day,” I said.