“Oh, no you don’t.” His grin gets bigger. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Not after the trouble you went to, to surprise me with those mani-pedis.”
Ruh-roh, I think, but do not say.
We share a dessert while we watch the sun sink slowly into the Gulf. Then we amble over to Harley’s, where he gives me a lovely, lingering kiss at the door.
“Have a good evening and don’t take any shit from anyone,” he says quietly. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
I nod and place a kiss on his cheek. It’s kind of nice to have someone unrelated to you by birth who cares what happens to you.
“If you’re free tomorrow at four, I’ll pick you up for our date.”
“Okay. Why don’t you give me a hint where we’re going so that I know how to dress?”
“Nice try.” He laughs. “But my lips are totally sealed.” He does a locking motion in front of his lips.
“But—”
“Sorry,” he says, though it’s clear he isn’t. “I want it to be a surprise. Just like the date you planned for me.”
Twenty-Four
When he picks me upat Grand’s, I attempt to pry our destination out of him but his lips remain sealed.
It’s not until we pull up to a squat concrete building on the north side of 9th Avenue that I tune all the way back in. While Luke backs into a space between two shiny Ford F-150s, I take in our surroundings.
“You brought me to a gun range,” I say quietly when I spot the sign that dangles between two wooden posts. “Our date is going to involve firearms.”
“Yeah.” He looks at me. “This is kind of the guy version of a mani-pedi. Is that a problem?”
I can tell he’s waiting for an objection or a complaint. Or a rant about gun control. Or something that will prove I don’t have the “balls” to fire a gun at a target.
“But I don’t have a gun,” I say as we climb out of his car.
“No problem. I’ve got you covered.” He pops the trunkopen, pulls out a large canvas bag, and hefts it over one shoulder. Then he motions for me to follow him.
Inside, it’s dark and cool. The pings and pops of gunfire echo off the hard surfaces and reverberate in the windowless concrete space.
Shooting stations are spread across the width of the room. Vertical concrete pillars separate the lanes, each of which has a chest-high table and a direct line of sight to the lane’s target hanging from a pulley system about forty-five yards away.
Most of the lanes are occupied.
A tall, heavily muscled Black man around Luke’s age steps up, flashes a smile, and claps Luke on the back.
“Hey, man. Good to see you.”
“Same here.” Luke grins. “Sydney, this is Tank Barnes. We were on the force together for a while. He owns this place. Tank, this is Sydney Ryan.”
“Nice to meet you, Tank.” My hand disappears into Tank’s meatier one.
“Glad to meet you, too,” the aptly nicknamed Tank replies. “Though I don’t know what you’re doing with this troublemaker.”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering that myself.”
“Ha!” Tank laughs. “Glad to see you with someone who can see you for who you are, my man.” Tank looks at me more closely. “Hmmm. You look awfully familiar.”
I shoot Luke a “don’t you dare” stare, but it’s Tank who snaps his fingers and points one at me. “I’ve got it! You’reCassie Everheart. Man, I couldn’t believe it when they sent you off to rehab like that. Hope you’re doing okay now.”
The way he says this makes it hard to know whether he believes I’m actually Cassie just out of rehab or understands that I was only the actress playing her. But at least he’s not hostile like some of the fans and law enforcement officers I’ve encountered.
