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Do I? Our relationship hasn’t reached a point where I felt comfortable putting a label on it. Besides, everything felt too new to be having this discussion anyway.
“It’s not complimentary because you’re a man-whore?” My pathetic attempt at easing the tension falls flat as an awkward stretch of silence settles between us. “I was kidding, you know.”
He gives me a sideways glance, while popping an orange plug in his ear. “What, you don’t read lie mags?”
“That too.” I grin.
Julian quirks an eyebrow and sighs. “When the band picked up speed and got groupies, the guys used to say I had more panties flying on stage than a Victoria’s Secret show. I never figured out if they were being pricks or were just jealous. Zane had always called me J, and somehow it morphed into Jagger. He said the name was because I got laid more than Mick Jagger. Ty and Lam attacked it like vultures, and it stuck.”
“Sorry I asked.” Setting the gun down, I make sure the safety is securely latched before gesturing toward it with a cocked hip. “By the way, it wasn’t loaded.”
I can tell he’s fighting to keep a straight face as he inserts his remaining earplug and assembles his eyewear. “Like I said, there are seven positions.” Lifting a muscular arm, he points out each station on the arc.
He could’ve been pointing out unicorns—my eyes aren’t on the range. They’re focused on the definition in his arm as the taut muscles roll together in one harmonious unit.
“You get two to four shots, depending on the position.” Stopping, he glances back at me. “Am I going too fast for you?”
I off an innocent smile. “No, I’ll figure it out as I go along.”
His grins, revealing that frustratingly irresistible ghost dimple. I remain fixated on him as he quickly shoots through his positions, taking twenty-five shots and only missing five targets.
Not bad for a Jersey boy.
He re-locks the safety and stares vacantly out at the field.
“Going again?” I ask.
“Nah. I have to reshoot the first missed target again.” He’s still “off,” seemingly lost in his mind for no apparent reason.
I move in behind him. “You’re pretty good at this.”
“Lam and I…” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “I mean, Billy and I used to come up here all the time in college.”
“Sounds fun,” I encourage. This is the most I’ve gotten out of him since that night at the Jameson , so I do my best to keep him talking.
“We’d come here for a round then show up at home six hours later.” He lets out a loud laugh. “When we’d finally make it back for practice, Zane would...” Stopping, he runs a hand across his mouth as if trying to trap the words behind them.
“Julian?”
“Never mind. It was a long time ago.”
“Are you all right?”
Swallowing hard, he rubs his eyes as if trying to scrub away a memory. Once he lowers his hand, I see the shift immediately. I recognize it as if looking in a mirror…
The plastic mask. The fake smile. The crafted charm.
I was the queen of them, after all.
“Are you ready for your first skeet shooting experience, princess?”
That’s it?
Having a simple conversation with Julian Bale is proving to be a constant battle of wills. Writing this book is going to be as quick and painless as a root canal. Whatever he’s hiding, I can tell from the hard set of his jaw, I’m not getting it out of him right now.
So, accepting defeat, I give him an exaggerated salute. “Ready when you are, coach. However, I feel compelled to warn you, I’m a quick learner. I mean, I did grow up in the South. Pickup trucks and guns were a religion.”
“I don’t know,” he says, his plastic mask melting into that confident smile I know so well. “It can take years to learn.”
