Page 23 of Paddy

Stepping out of my vehicle, Mr. Sullivan stared me down with a look I wish I could decipher the meaning to.

“You look nice.” Even the smallest smile brought out those damn dimples.

“Well, I didn't know you'd be taking me to a gun range. Why on earth would you bring me here?”

Mr. Sullivan shrugged. “Why else? To teach you to shoot.”

“Well, you're the bodyguard. Why do I need to learn with you around all the time?” I wondered.

“Picture this scenario,” he said, his hands going straight into his pockets. “Your husband's not home. An intruder breaks in. You're a woman, and it's a man—maybe two. Twice your size. Your first instinct is to protect your son, but you can't fight them on your own. What do you think your chances would be?”

Now that I gave it serious thought, I didn't know. Everything changed after this stalker situation. My safety, or my son’s for that matter, have never been a matter worth discussing until now.

“I know you didn't ask for it, but my opinion’s that your odds would fare greater if you knew where to start. I’m not going to be watching over you forever. If you walk away with anything, the least you can do is walk away with this.”

While it was true, it didn't sit right with me. Now that Mr. Sullivan washere, I couldn’t imagine a time where he wasn't needed. We may have given each other hell at first, but his entire role in my life had been ensuring my safety. Had my husband taken it up ashisresponsibility, Mr. Sullivan’s role wouldn’t even be needed.

“I suppose you're right. I pray none of this ever bleeds into the safety of my son. But my husband's already paying you,” I answered reluctantly as he offered to open the building door for me.

Once we got past the main room, Mr. Sullivan escorted me past a room full of strangers shooting targets. Already I was feeling out of place. Mr. Sullivan must have sensed that, because it wasn't long before he took us to a private booth.

“I'll be honest, this isn't really my scene,” I said with a shudder, hugging my shoulders.

“That's your bias and your insecurity talking. A gun range is one of the few places a person can feel equal, no matter their skill level. Everyone's just trying to learn.”

“Not from what I just saw. Felt like I was in a room full of gangsters.”

“Trust me, Mrs. Washington. You ain't never met a real gangster before me. Being so makes me observant. It doesn’t hurt that I know every family in Boston’s syndicates. Mine just happens to be at the top.”

Well, at least he was from asuccessfulcrime family. Didn't make sense to be breaking the law but be broke. “So…” I started, as I ran my hand along the table of firearms. “Have you ever had to use one of these?”

Mr. Sullivan laughed under his breath. “We shouldn't ask questions we don't really want the answers to.” He dismissed before placing headphones onto my ears. He had such big, strong hands. If I had to go by the looks and bravado of him, I'd say everything he did with them, he knew what he was doing.

“First tip, you need a solid stance. Use two hands. None of that shit you see in pictures. Depending on the type of the gun, there'll be a level of recoil. But I'll start you off slow and easy, and we could progress from there.”

Mr. Sullivan handed me a small gun, and even that terrified me, given what they could do. He directed me to perform a few drills, and he wasn't kidding about the recoil.

“Relax. Breathe. Take your time,” he reassured, as each shot went wildly off target. My nerves were on edge shooting a static target. How would I be able to do this with a moving one?

“I know you're nervous, but there's a version of you that you got to dig down deep to find to bury the current you. Look for that person and you'll be able to center yourself.”

“Isn't it just good that I get a good shot?” I thought out loud.

“That could happen. But what if someone's trying to tackle the gun from you? Or you drop it? Your first shot, should be your best shot.” Mr. Sullivan insisted.

“Maybe this isn't the right firearm for me. Maybe I should just try another one,” I said as I carelessly turned to him.

“Pretty, you better not aim that at someone unless you plan to use it,” he warned, snatching it out of my hand. “Do you hear me?” he raged, with an angry pointed finger in my direction.

“Yes, I hear you.” Mr. Sullivan placed the gun back on the table, as I rubbed the sides of my arms, riddled in my insecurity. “I'm sorry.” Just when were just getting off to a better foot. I hoped my actions I didn't change that.

“There's nothing to apologize for. But firearms are not toys. It's not first nature to you, but you could hurt yourself or those around you if youtreatit like a toy.”

“Okay.”

“I apologize for snapping at you. I swear I didn't mean to be so familiar. I've just seen enough eejits to last a lifetime with poor firearm etiquette. Your safety is my biggest concern, but I can't do my job well if you shoot me by accident,” he said with a brush to the side of my face to calm me. His opposing gaze looked surprisingly gentle in this moment. Perhaps it was just surprising that he could be comforting.

“Which gun is your favorite one to shoot?” I asked, hoping the question would eliminate some of the tension.

---