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“Comfortable?” I ask as he finally twists the key to start the cart.
He glares at me, sweat dripping down his forehead. “Just wonderfully so. And you?”
I smirk, wiggling in my seat like he did. “Yes, very comfortable.”
He laughs, pressing the accelerator and causing the cart to lurch forward. “We’ll see how comfortable you are when we get to the range. Those targets are designed to be difficult.”
I like a good challenge. I feel like he thinks I won’t be able to handle it because I’m a small woman with hands a third of the size of his, but I’m sure if he gave me an appropriately sized gun, I wouldn’t be half bad at shooting. I don’t especially like the idea of practicing to kill someone, but if push comes to shove, I’ll do what I have to so that I survive.
Life feels worth it these days. It’s odd that it took a funeral and a brush with death to realize how fortunate I am, but I’ll take it. It’s better than continuing through life with a dark cloud of despair hanging over me.
Besides, I might not even be alive for that long because of my membership in the Bratva. I should enjoy the days I have left to live.
It’s funny how that works. People spend their whole life moping around, feeling sorry for themselves without demanding any better from life, and then when they feel threatened by the grim reaper, they suddenly want to do all this stuff and enjoy themselves again.
That’s my case, at least. I don’t know how Ivan feels about this lifestyle. I can tell it takes a toll on him, but there doesn’t seem to be anything he’d rather be doing than shooting guns, making money, and turning my sex life upside down with his tongue.
The wind through my hair is warm and promising as we arrive at the shooting range. It’s facing a hill, allowing the bullets to stop as they hit the dirt instead of continuing on toward the edge of the property. There’s a short wooden fence around it, but otherwise it’s exposed to the elements.
“Don’t shoot any of my ducks,” Ivan says as he parks the cart.
“Your ducks?” I ask, a bit confused as I step out onto the grass.
Ivan points to the hill, where a few ducks are sitting in the grass. “You’ll want to avoid those guys. They’re usually at the pond, but sometimes they like to hang out at the range. I love those little guys.”
At first, I think he’s joking, but when I look at his face, all I see is silent admiration for our winged company. As it turns out, he really does like the ducks.
I’ll admit, I’ve never really thought much of ducks. My parents never let me feed them bread like everyone else did when we went to the park, but maybe Ivan had a better experience growing up.
“Your ducks,” I clarify as we walk toward the range entrance. “So, they’re pets or what?”
“They’re nature’s pets,” he replies cheerfully. “Beautiful creatures.”
I find his appreciation endearing, but my focus quickly switches back to the task at hand as he lays his plastic suitcase on the table at the front of the range and unlatches it. The smell of gun oil and a faint hint of gunpowder fill my nose as he opens it, revealing a couple of pistols and a folded rifle.
“We’ll start with something small,” he says, removing one of the pistols and pulling back the slide. “Aim for the orange target closest to us, and we’ll go from there.”
I’m surprised when he hands me the gun, forgoing any other instructions or warnings. I try exercise common sense as I hold it, pointing it down the range and keeping my finger off the trigger until I’m ready to shoot.
“Oh, and maybe you want these,” Ivan says, digging into his pocket and pulling out a pair of fluorescent-yellow earplugs.
“Oh, right, so I don’t go deaf,” I say, taking them and plugging my ears. “You don’t need any?”
He shrugs. “Already deaf.”
I laugh, but I realize he probably does have some amount of hearing damage from all the times he’s used his gun without wearing protection. Take that risk enough times, and you’ll eventually face some steep consequences.
My eyes travel down to the gun in my hand, and I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I lift the gun, looking toward Ivan for approval.
“Both hands,” he says, mimicking the correct stance.
I bring my other hand up, holding the gun so tightly that my knuckles ache. The plastic grip is so sweaty that I’m afraid it’s going to slip out of my hands at the first shot. I adjust my grip a few times, wiping my hands on my leggings before attempting to aim.
“Point and shoot. I just want to get an idea of how your aim is,” Ivan says, his voice muffled to a whisper from the earplugs.
The orange target is nothing more than a piece of metal sticking up from the ground. I think it’s hinged so that it falls when I hit it, but I won’t know until I shoot.
