Page 24 of Paddy

“Do you really want to know?” he said, and he took my nod for confirmation. “Probably a twelve-gauge shotgun.”

Curious, I quickly followed up. “Any particular reason?”

“Because they take patience and control. They're simple but effective. They leave behind a mess, but they're never going to leave their target standing.”

“Can you show me?” With that prompt, Mr. Sullivan walked over to the target and waited until he commanded my full attention despite a respectable distance.

“See with a twelve gauge, I'd make sure I had the lightest low-brass load for a first timer. Once your chamber load—and this is important—you make sure the butt of the stock is planted firmly on your shoulder. If you don't have the stock locked, trust me, you'll be wearing a bruise because of it,” he explained, as he proceeded to shoot, first aiming for the heart, until his third shot went for the head.

“In a realistic situation, the sound would be much louder without the muffs. You’ll lose your hearing for a bit. But I've never known them not to be effective.”

He questioned if I wanted to see if another firearm would be a better fit. When I asked about the 9mm pistol, he gave me words of caution. “That one's gonna try to jump out your hand, so you've got to maintain your grip to use it. But I reckon that'd be a decent choice for you,” he encouraged.

Advising me safer, more practical tips on how to handle the 9mm, I shot three rounds, each poorly executed. He was right. The recoil was a bitch, but it was easier for me to handle.

He handled them so well, like it came so naturally to him. My skill set may never be as impressive, but I could get a little better each time.

“No one is ever an expert to start. I've been doing this since I was fourteen, but evenIfound it hard in a high stakes situation.”

“Are you talking about your time served? Were these the kind of guns you used?”

“Not quite. I'm more used to 30-06 rifles. All day, every day, that was what we were expected to handle. The recoil at your shoulder is nasty work your first time. But you don't need to know how to shoot one of those to defend yourself.”

Shooting another unsuccessful round, while he didn’t explicitly show it, it appeared to frustrate Mr. Sullivan that I wasn’t getting in a shot. “Here, let me show you a different approach,” he said as he reached in behind me, stretching his arms against mine to hold the gun higher to reach my eye level.

I was about to fucking faint. Being—feeling—Mr. Sullivan this close to me was the closest I'd been to a man holding me in months. Not only was his touch gentle yet firm, he smelled nice. It should be a requirement to smell this good when you were a man.

His hands went down to my hips and if I passed out from being touched starved, surely, he would have to catch me. “Relax your hips. I can tell that you're very wound up,” he said, suggesting that I square my hips for better posture.

“That better?” He asked in a low brooding brogue.

“Mmmhmm…” Shit, was I really this lost for words over my bodyguard? Maybe I just wasn't used to the touching. I sure as hell wasn't used to Vernon’s attention after having children. I know it was harmless, but I was trembling before his scent and strength.

“You okay?” Dammit. He must have noticed.

“I'm just nervous.”

“Don't be. I'll guide you through it.” He spoke in a little hum, forcing me to concentrate, despite the circumstances. I proceeded to empty the rounds and while my aim wasn't perfect,it was better. I'd even managed to shoot the target in a critical spot.

“See, there's not a thing you can't do when you put your mind to it,” he said, backing away and surprisingly, I was missing his invading presence. It was just for the lesson, but it felt good to be in the embrace of a man. I loved my son's little cuddles, but nothing replaced the strength of a grown man.

“I think we're done.”

“So soon?” I asked, disappointed.

“We're done if the plan is to take you to lunch before I pick up your son,” he later added. Deciding it was best to wrap things up, I accepted the invitation of sharing a much quieter, intimate setting. He suggested another address and much like the last place, I was dangerously overdressed. Sensing my discomfort, Mr. Sullivan reassured me.

“Next time I'll take you someplace fancier. It's just they make a mean spukie and I get the sense that you ain't used to trying new things.”

Truth was, much of what I did try, I never liked much. When in negotiations for certain gigs, it seemed like fancy restaurants were the only place big time folks wanted to talk business.

French, Italian, even some American. Most times, I ended up drinking more than eating, because gourmet didn't always meangood.

“Next time, I'll just dress the part,” I defended, as he led the both of us to a booth in a corner.

I'd never been in a public space with a white man without my husband, so I prayed that no one recognized me or cared enough to take a second look. Times were changing but it wasn’t but a few years ago that the law matched with the times.

If I were being honest, seeing a Black man with a white woman a lot more normal. The same couldn't be said for the other way around. I think we were more loyal than our malecounterparts. Didn't help that white men simply weren't seeking out Colored Women.

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