Page 91 of Winters Heat

“Thanks, Mom. Exactly what I needed to hear.”

He slammed the new door behind him hard and heard it shake. He was definitely the leading candidate for worst son of the year. Also, biggest asshole of the year. What other awards would he rack up? Prick, dick, jerk? He could go on and on.

Winters got in, and Cash switched radio stations, stopping on the Eagles singing Desperado directly to his sorry ass. He didn’t want to be in this truck, going God knows where. Even the radio mocked him. Cash burned past the speed limit, looking excited.

“Want to tell me where we’re headed?” Winters stared at the unfamiliar road.

“You needed to get out of the house, so what’s it to you? We’ll be there in a minute. Man, your panties are in a twist.”

“Get off my back, Cash.”

Several songs later, they turned onto an unfamiliar two-lane road that curved and angled. Cash drove the odd turns like he did so every day.

“We almost there?”

“Yup.”

“Andthereis?”

“My secret getaway. Where all your problems will be forgotten.”

They slid into a small dirt parking strip and splashed through mud. A nondescript sign read GUNS. The words dangled under a rusted, larger-than-life bison replica complete with a snarling face and a charging hoof pulled high. A few pickup trucks lined the lot in front of a one-level, brick building with bars on the windows.

“Your secret escape is a gun range? I could’ve shown you a half-dozen thirty minutes closer.”

“Patience, buddy.”

Cash jumped out and shut his door. Winters pressed his head against the headrest. What the hell? Pounding out a few rounds might help. He followed Cash with far less enthusiasm than his buddy. A security camera traced their path to the door. Cash rang a doorbell and, seconds later, a buzz preempted the door popping open.

They entered a small room. It was dimly lit and glass cases lined the walls. Handguns and throwing knives hung on the dark-paneled wall. An empty desk sat in the corner next to a shady hallway. It was dingy and hadn’t shown any of the promise Cash raved over. Winters trailed a finger over the smooth countertop, peering down at a compact Beretta 9mm.

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite of all my favorites. Hi ya, Cash. You come down here to play with your toys or mine?”

Winters spun around. The woman wore black leather pants like a second skin. Her silver belt buckle of dueling pistols etched over a jagged heart shined near a belly ring. Her black cotton shirt hung to right below her full rack. The lettering scribbled over her tits readGirls Love Guns.

Christ. Cash brought him to a whorehouse.

The smile on Cash’s face reached from one sideburn to the other. “Well, hi there, Sugar. I brought a friend.”

The woman wore lipstick that was far too red. Her tussled hair was piled in a way that screamedpull here, and she smelled like scotch and spice. Her gaze raked him up and down, lingering over his crotch, before his lips pulled off hello.

“Does your friend have a name?” She flicked a wink intended for both of them. “’Cause I was back there, field-stripping a .22 LR, and he looks handy with a long rifle.”

She stepped toe-to-toe with Winters and planted a hand on her cocked hip. “It’s just a little thang for range practice. But I promise, it’s real smooth. Grab a couple bricks, and we can go all night long.”

Cash was a dead man. This was such a bad idea. Weeks ago, she might have been what he needed to blow off stress and excess energy. But now, his inner horn-dog was annoyed and far more interested in shooting a long gun, than fieldstripping in any capacity with her.

He needed to change the course of this exchange. Winters extended his hand. “Name’s Winters.”

“Well, Winters, welcome to my range. I can’t believe Cash never brought you here before.”

“I don’t bring anyone here, Sugar,” Cash said. “Haven’t you noticed? You’re my not-so-guilty secret indulgence. I’m not one to share.”

She batted her thickly-painted eyelashes and nodded to Winters. “So, what’s the special occasion?”

“He’s in need of a distraction.” Cash laughed.

Winters growled. “Christ, Cash. Mind your goddamn business.”

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