The Best Man (Blue Heron #1)(50)

“Colleen, you’re a hoot,” Dad said, chuckling.

“If I said that, you’d drop dead of a heart attack,” Faith pointed out.

“True enough,” Dad said. At least he seemed more relaxed.

“Okay, people,” Levi called. “Welcome to...” He glanced at his clipboard, then sighed. “Target Practice for Singles.” His eyes stopped on her, and even from five yards away, she could feel his disdain. “I’m Levi Cooper, your shooting instructor for tonight. Who here is familiar with guns?”

* * *

LEVI HAD SUSPECTED THIS GIG was a bad idea. Once in a while, he taught gun safety classes here, so when Ed, the owner, had called him, he said sure. It paid four hundred dollars, and with Sarah’s textbooks costing as much as a pony, four hundred bucks wasn’t bad for two hours’ work.

He hadn’t expected to see the Hollands here, that was for sure. Or Colleen. She, at least, was fun. Faith, though...she had some bug up her ass. For some reason, she was telling every woman there that he was single, too. “Oh, Levi’s wonderful,” he overheard her say to a woman who looked much like his drill sergeant. “So sensitive. Also, a war hero. I know. We went to school together. Sure, he loves older women.”

“Partner up, folks,” Levi called. “Faith, old buddy, why don’t you come over here?” It was only fair, really, that she get the guy in the overalls who’d opted not to wear a shirt tonight.

“Gosh, you’re pretty,” the guy said.

“And you should wear a shirt,” she said easily. “Really. Okay? Next time, wear clothes.” She smiled at the guy, who got the idiotic look of a man in love. Or a drunk. Slack jaw, blurred vision.

“You’ve fired a gun before, Faith, haven’t you?” he asked her.

“I have. Hand her over, Levi. I’m feeling a little trigger happy tonight.”

“You can shoot, too?” Shirtless said. “The perfect woman.”

Levi almost smiled as he walked up and down the line, instructing the amateurs on how to hold the gun, what kind of kickback to expect. Colleen had some old dude eating out of her hand, and the man certainly wasn’t complaining. One woman didn’t want to wear ear protection because it would mess up her hair. Honestly.

“I don’t know a thing about guns,” said one lady, grabbing his arm, the better to squish her boobs against him. “Can you help me with my stance?”

“Sure. Like this.” He demonstrated the proper firing stance—legs slightly spread, arms out, elbows bent, both hands wrapped around the gun. “Keep your thumbs together, your trigger finger here. Got it?”

“Can you stand behind me, and put your arms around me to make sure I’m doing it right?” She gave a wriggle of anticipation.

“No, ma’am. Sorry.”

She frowned. “Please? Pretty please? I’m Donna, by the way.”

“Sorry, ma’am. We have rules.”

“That woman said you’re ex-military,” she murmured huskily, jerking her chin down the line at Faith. “I won’t lie. I find that very hot.” She trailed a finger along the bottom of the crossed swords of his 10th Mountain Division tattoo, making his skin crawl.

“I have to move on.” He glanced at her partner, who was doing a finger stick to check his blood sugar. “Good luck, sir.”

The sound of gunfire still made him flinch a little. Another good reason to be here. Desensitization.

After the target practice, the participants were supposed to sit down and talk in eight-minute segments, then move on. Like anyone would need eight minutes to tell. Nina, his ex-wife, had been a helicopter pilot who’d picked up his patrol during a messy skirmish, and ten seconds into their conversation, he’d already known they’d be sleeping together. Three days later, he’d been thinking marriage, kids, a little house back home.

Then again, Nina had dumped him thirteen weeks into the marriage.

Whatever. Target practice was almost over. In an hour, Levi could lock up and go home, and hopefully sleep better than he had last night, although gunfire wasn’t the best sound to have echoing in your head before bedtime. Maybe he’d bake some cookies for Sarah.

He stopped to check on a couple who actually seemed to be having fun, gave the guy a tip on aim and moved on. John Holland was in the next lane. He wasn’t shooting, though. He was being hunted, practically pinned against the wall.

“Feel them,” said the woman who’d claimed him as partner. “They’re just like the real thing. I said to myself, ‘Carla, do you want to have droopy old boobs for the rest of your life?’ This was my sixtieth birthday present to me. Implants, double D, peanut oil. Go ahead. Take a squeeze.”

“Hey, John,” Levi said. “Could you give me a hand with something?”

The man leaped at the chance. “Thank you, son,” John breathed. “God, I miss my wife.”

“Don’t give up yet.” He glanced at his chart. “Okay, yeah, this lady seemed nice.” They approached another woman who was firing with great efficiency. “I’d be g*y for Ellen,” she was telling the man she was with. “She has a great ass.”

John’s face turned a shade whiter.

“Moving on,” Levi said.

“This was my daughter’s idea, and I just don’t... I think I’m going home. Do you see Faith and Colleen?”