Loving Lucas (13 page)

“Eye and ear protection,” he directs.

The black earmuffs are a snug fit and the shooting glasses are similar to what I wear when I ride my motorcycle. He nods his approval and leads me out a side door. We walk two hundred yards, passing several storage sheds, then stop underneath a wood and metal canopy. Rapid fire sounds again and I jump.

“Easy, darlin’.” He steadies me, then points east. “Beyond that embankment is the rifle range. That’s what you’re hearing. Don’t worry, there’s no danger to us.”

I check my surroundings. Everywhere I look are dirt embankments, at the end of the range where the targets are set up and along the sides. Where we’re located, there are eight wood benches and a few metal tables. No one else is here. Lucas opens one of the gun cases, then another. He shows me the first gun; it’s smaller than the one he carries for work.

“This is the Bersa Thunder 380.” He offers me the weapon. “It’s a semiautomatic pistol produced in Argentina. It weighs 20 ounces unloaded, is 6.61 inches long, and has a muzzle velocity of 1,050 feet per second.”

He might as well speak Greek. I cradle the weapon in my hands like it’s made of glass or Kryptonite.

“What’s muzzle velocity mean?” I ask, feeling like an idiot.

“It means you’ll drop the son of a bitch in a split second if he gets near you.”

I frown. “Really?”

“Don’t like cop humor?”

“Not when it deals with life and death.”

“Sorry.” He shrugs.

“I forgive you.”

“Back to business?” he asks.

“Absolutely.”

He takes the gun. “We’re going to use a ten-round single-stack magazine today.” He slides it in place, then chambers the round. “Come closer, darlin’.”

I do.

“This is the safety.” He shows me how to flip it. “Red is dead.”

After going over the physical features of the pistol, then reviewing shooter safety twice, he sets me up on the firing line. My hands are a bit shaky, but I’m determined to give this my all so he’ll be satisfied.

“Just remember to breathe before you squeeze the trigger,” he reminds me. “Take the pistol and line up the sights with the target.” I do, but he quickly corrects my stance. “Isosceles triangle.” He takes the gun and demonstrates before handing it back.

I repeat it several times before I feel comfortable.

“Good girl,” he praises me before taking the gun. “Now stand behind me and watch.”

He fires several rounds, then lowers his hand. “Want to check the target?”

He puts the safety on, places the gun on the nearby table, then walks me down range. There are three bullets center mass and one to the head. “How far are we from the target?” I ask, impressed and intimidated by his accuracy.

“Thirty meters.”

I sigh. Is he a marksman? “I’ll be lucky to hit the paper.”

He chuckles and we return to the firing line.

Two hours later, Karlie and I are standing outside my car. She’s carrying the target—chattering incessantly, showing off her shooting patterns.
Holy shit,
my girl is a natural. Once she relaxed, her instincts took over, and she never missed. I open the passenger door and she gets in, holding up the paper.

“See that?” she brags. “Nearly as good as you.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Annie Oakley.” I shut the door.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the Brewster Street Ice House downtown, a 1932 warehouse transformed into a sports bar. There’s nothing fancy about the place, but the burgers are great and the beer is cold. We go inside and pick a table. I stare at the concrete floor and metal roof. On warm days, the overhead garage doors are open, granting access to the patio and playground. A waitress delivers our menus and water.

“Hungry?” I ask, squeezing Karlie’s hand.

“Didn’t think target shooting took so much energy,” she answers, flipping her menu open. “I’d like a Tecate with lime to start.”

I signal for the waitress. “A Tecate with lime and a bottle of Bud.”

She smiles, then heads for the bar.

“Aren’t you going to look at your menu?” Karlie asks.

“Nope. I already know what I want.”

“Come here often?”

“It’s a popular place for officers to grab a beer after work.”

“And for groupies.” I follow her gaze. She’s focused on some girls sitting a few tables away, staring at me. “Friends?”

She’s jealous. “I’m acquainted.”

She clicks her tongue, looking more desirable by the second. I’m glad I’m not the only one feeling overly protective of our relationship. It’s a positive sign—she cares. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, darlin’.”

The server returns with our drinks. “Ready to order?”

Karlie nods. “I’ll have the Cuban burger and a salad.”

“Dressing?”

“Ranch on the side,” Karlie answers.

“Double that order,” I say, taking a sip of my beer. “You like the Cuban, too?”

“I’ve only been here once,” she says. “But I remember how good that burger was—a half-pound patty with turkey and pulled pork, Swiss cheese, and spicy chive mayonnaise.” She licks her lips seductively. “I can only think of a couple of things that taste better.”

Instant erection. I lean across the table, fixated on that sexy mouth. “Tell me . . .”
 

“You.”

My beer is halfway to my mouth, but after hearing that, I set it down, thick with desire. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“Sure about you.” She smiles. “Wait until we get home.”

“Yeah,” I say, tipping her chin. “Wait until
I
get
you
home.”

“Is that a threat, Sergeant Lafontaine?”

“Maybe I should take you to the range more often. I like this I’m-Karlie-hear-me-roar woman.”

She giggles.

“Lucas?”

We both turn at the same time. Sarah Costas, a girl I took to dinner and bed months ago, is standing beside me. “Hello, Sarah.”

She smiles, then gives Karlie a quick glance. She faces me again. “I heard you transferred to Corpus Christi. Why didn’t you call?”

I clear my throat. “Let me introduce you to my girlfriend—Karlie Augustine.”

She barely acknowledges Karlie. “Trying to avoid my question?”

Our waitress arrives and I sigh with relief. Sarah is pretty, but she’s the type of woman who thinks just because you sleep together a marriage proposal is sure to follow. “It was great to see you again,” I say, hoping she’ll leave the table. “Keep in touch.” I couldn’t express my disinterest any clearer without being rude.

“Good night, Lucas.” She retreats.

Karlie stares at me, an indiscernible expression on her face. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Then don’t.” I take a bite of my burger.

“Really?”

I finish chewing, then drop my food on the plate. “Didn’t mean to sound so impolite. Just a girl I hooked up with on one of my weekend trips to Corpus.”

“A one-night stand?”

Damn,
she looks so disappointed. Confession time. “Yes.” I tip my chair back, ready to get a tongue lashing.

“She’s very attractive.”

“And OCD.”

“Is that why you dumped her?”

“Come on, Karlie,” I plead. “It didn’t mean anything. I can count on one hand how many women I’ve had casual sex with. It’s a guy thing and I’m over it, trust me.”

She studies me over the rim of her glass. “I don’t want that kind of cold reception if we ever break up and run into each other in a restaurant.”

That would never happen, but Karlie doesn’t know how hard and fast I’m falling for her. She also doesn’t know how priceless she really is. “We didn’t have meaningless sex.”

“No,” she agrees. “But we didn’t date, either.”

“Victims of circumstance.”

“Victims?” Her voice rises an octave. “That’s an interesting perspective.”

No matter what I say, she’s going to take offense. “Can we discuss it after dinner, in private?”

“Sure.” She eats a forkful of salad while staring at the floor.

I finish half my burger, regretting my history with Sarah. How can I expect Karlie to understand? There was only one guy before me. “You can’t get mad at me for having a past.”

She looks up. “I’m not mad, Lucas.” She swirls her fork around in the dressing and my heart falls. “Just cautious.”

Once we’re done eating, I pay the waitress, then escort Karlie to the car. We ride home in meditative silence, her occasional loud sighs a clear warning of what she’s thinking. When I pull into the driveway, she hops out and marches to the front door. By the time I unload my gear, she’s locked in her room, her stereo blasting. So much for
I’m-Karlie-hear-me-roar.
I’ll spend tonight alone, contemplating my next move. I bolt the front door, dim the lights, and drag myself upstairs.

Women—I’ll never understand them.

Chapter Fifteen

Once I hear Lucas’s door close, I turn the music off. I know I overreacted at the café, but meeting another girl who’s had carnal knowledge of my new boyfriend—if I can even call him that—did something to me. All I see, all I feel, is the same humiliation I suffered with Connor. Women following us, strangers calling his cell all times of the day and night. Unfortunately, my past still dominates my life. I didn’t have the luxury of growing up in an emotionally stable family. Kids came and went from my foster home. I always felt lucky knowing I’d wake up in the same bed through high school. That’s the extent of my history of security. I don’t recollect anything about my birth parents; therefore, I don’t know anything about
who
I really am.

Sometimes I made up crap, just to fit in. Those stories, the person I fantasized about being, are as much a part of me as my memories. I’m Karlie Augustine, the orphan, the castoff, the baby no one adopted. I’m damaged. And although I don’t show it, pretty broken. Connor did that. And I let him.

I crack the door and peek into the living room. Quiet.
Good.
I walk to the kitchen and flip the light on. The counter and floors need to be scrubbed, so I grab a sponge and Windex from the cabinet under the sink and start cleaning, over-spraying and practically scouring the finish off the granite. My foster mother always said
cleanliness is next to godliness.
I laugh inwardly, calling bullshit on that, but it’s certainly therapeutic. Next I grab the broom, dustpan, and Swiffer Sweeper from the laundry room.

At the very least, I have a standing agreement with Lucas. Sleeping with him doesn’t negate my duties. There’s been little time for housekeeping over the last few days. I’ve spent most of my time at school or in his bed. That thought makes my cheeks burn. Just as I finish dumping the contents of the dustpan in the garbage, I hear Lucas walk downstairs.

When I look up, he’s leaning against the archway, his arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing nothing but his underwear. I try to resist, but his body is like some uncontrollable force of nature. I’m transfixed, staring at his pecs, then his mouth.

“Karlie?”

I meet his gaze. “I thought you went to bed.”

“It’s only nine thirty, too early to sleep.”

“Did I disturb you?”

He sighs. “Everything about tonight bothered me, darlin’.” He unfolds his arms, then takes a step toward me.

“Don’t,” I rebuff him. “I’m not sure I want to do this right now.”

He stops, looking concerned. “Are you still angry at me for sleeping with another woman before I met you? It meant nothing.”

“That’s the problem.”

“Quit twisting the meaning. Two consenting adults sharing a night of pleasure isn’t a crime.”

I’m not convinced, nor am I happy to be having this conversation. Sex is a sacred thing to me; that’s why I chose not to lose my virginity in high school. So many girls sacrificed that in order to fit in. End result . . . depression, confusion, low self-esteem. The negatives by far outweigh the positives. And I refuse to be a victim of bad choices. Everything I do today will affect my tomorrow. “I’m not judging you.”

“Really?” He shrugs his left shoulder. “Everything changed between us the minute you met Sarah.”

“Once bitten,” I say, quickly regretting it.

“Nope.” He smacks the wall. “You don’t get to categorize me with that maniacal asshole.”

“You’re right,” I say apologetically. “But that doesn’t change
my
past.”

“No, but you can change your future.”

I know Lucas cares; just the level of restraint he’s showing proves it. Most guys would have walked away by now. Hell, Connor would have laughed. “It’s not Sarah specifically.” My stomach clenches. “It’s what she represents.”

He nods. “I haven’t been with a woman in months, Karlie.
You
changed that. Call it fate or whatever else you want, something sparked between us the moment we met. But I can’t do this alone. You have to trust me enough to see where this goes. One thing needs to be made clear, though: I’m not a player. As long as we’re dating, I’ll never entertain the idea of sleeping with another woman. I was raised better.”

His puppy-dog eyes threaten my control. He’s a Texas boy, and probably a mama’s boy, too. “Do you love your mother?”

His eyebrows arch. “What?”

A small laugh escapes my lips.

“Where did that come from?” he asks.

Suddenly the miles of emotional distance between us seem to be mere inches. “Random question.”

“Of course,” he says. “Who doesn’t love his mama?”

One name comes to mind: Connor Seville.

“Judging by that look on your face,” he says,” you know someone.” He advances again, snatching my hand. “What happened to you, Karlie? Why are you so afraid of sex?”

“I’m not afraid of sex.”
God,
after what we’ve shared, how could I be? My tummy flip-flops. “I just don’t want to be a number.”

“That won’t happen.” He tugs me into his arms, then kisses the top of my head. “Let’s just agree to get a good night’s sleep, in our respective rooms. Sleep late; I’ll grab breakfast at work. Okay?”

I nod and he releases me. I watch him walk up the steps, regretting that I’m not joining him.

Heart-wrenching. Karlie looked so helpless standing in the kitchen once she realized I was there. I pull the covers back and slide into bed. I gaze at the empty space to my right, already missing her tiny body. I need to be more diligent—convert her from a doubter to a woman willing to fully engage a man like me. I’ve dealt with emotional baggage before, especially with my ex-wife, and now I have a closet full of my own. But Willow doesn’t have a fragile heart like Karlie. My ex was cold, as bitter as salt.