In the beginning — Bishop

Dusk is creeping in making visibility poor. I should go inside. At least there I can switch on the lights, see my targets, know what I’m aiming at. But outside, somehow, I feel calmer, more in touch with my inner soldier, savage, whatever you wanna call that piece of you that’s primitive, reactive and instinctual. Besides, I’m here alone so there is no-one to judge my poor performance. Apart from Daisy, my one-eyed Belgian Malinois shadow. In another time, in another place, I couldn’t be so picky when it came to choosing my battles. Night, day, rain, sandstorm, didn’t matter. You aimed, you fought.

I look down at the table in front of me; three handguns of various calibres look back at me. I like to mix things up, but I admit to myself that my favourite is the .45 calibre Heckler & Koch. Sure, I spent a lot of time with a 9mm Sig Sauer in the Army and there’s a similar one on the table, but somehow the Heckler calls to me. Feels good in my hand. Does that make me un-American? Fuck, maybe. The third weapon is a revolver; a big shiny Colt Python that I keep on display because it looks cool and impresses customers. The gun range is my pride and joy. It gives me purpose and enough income to live a life where I’m not stuck behind a desk.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting an intimate moment between you and your…gun… but there’s no-one in the office.”

Jesus H Christ. I turn at the voice, pretending I knew she was there all along. At least she waited for me to put the Colt down otherwise there is a good chance I would’ve shot her. She is as out of place here amongst the cardboard targets and spent shells as a soccer mom is at an old-fashioned boxing gym. She’s about five foot four or five, dark blonde hair in a tight ponytail, but it does that weird thing that women do where it’s a different colour on the bottom half. Corporate stooge for sure, dressed in a tight grey dress that ends respectably on her knee, with a slim red belt and heels that’ll take your eye out or feel good raking down your ass as you thrust into her. The only thing that seems a little out of place is her toned arms. But even corporate stooges visit the gym, right? I ain’t gonna lie, she’s attractive in an Ivy League kind of way, the kind of woman who actually gets better with age. Would I bend her over and see if we can both get some pleasure out of it? You betcha.

“What can I do for ya, darlin’? Wanna get your hands on my…gun?”

I put on the slimy charm and grab my crotch. The sooner she gets out of here, the better. I’m losing light as we speak. She’s most likely a bored corporate lawyer looking to learn how to shoot to inject some thrills into her boring life. This isn’t a Hollywood gun range. There are no frills, no espresso machines, and no loyalty club. She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me and her eyes dip to my crotch. Like what you see? Then she looks over at the weaponry and smiles, like she’s in the right place. It’s a gun range, sweetheart, yeah there are guns.

“Cute,” she says when her expression tells me she thinks I’m anything but.

“I’m looking for Bishop. Given your lack of manners and overload of tattoos, I’m guessing that’s you.”

People don’t come here looking for me. They either know me, or they don’t. We also don’t get walk-ins. The range is on a farm a good drive out of the city and there is no signage or advertising. It’s all word of mouth. Plus, I know what I look like, six five and tatted up to my eyeballs, and all that height is muscle. She comes closer like she’s not afraid of me or the potential violence that’s lying on the table. She stops when she’s close enough to reach out and touch either me or the guns. For the first time in my life I don’t know what to make of a woman. She’s dressed liked a lawyer but walks and talks with the sass and confidence of someone different.

“My name is Jamie Bowman and I’m looking for someone to teach a woman how to shoot and not be afraid of guns.”

I almost growl. This is so not what I signed up for, being a rich chick’s distraction.

“You’re in the wrong place, girlie.”

She bites back a snort.

“Girlie? Seriously? Jesus, it’s like I stepped back into the seventies where all women were good for was fetching coffee.”

She gestures to the targets and guns, her arm sweeping in a graceful arc.

“All this then, not a gun range? Not somewhere to teach someone how to handle a gun?”

“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ because I know it irritates the hell out of my friend’s girl. This woman doesn’t even blink, so I carry on.

“This isn’t the place for someone like you. You need a fancy indoor range where you can book your slot on an app, where they serve imported bottled water, and give you positive affirmation and medals for participation.”

Her eyes narrow now. I’m getting to her. It’s a special kind of charm I have. Takes a while to sink in, but when it does, it’s a winner. I see it hit home and her demeanour changes imperceptibly, with the slight tightening of her lips. But she doesn’t allow her anger to change her voice when she simply says:

“Fair enough. I guess I am in the wrong place.”

But instead of walking away, she reaches for the Heckler & Koch pistol before I can move. She checks the magazine, slides it into the gun, clicks off the safety and empties five bullets in the direction of the only untouched target. Then she puts the safety back on, ejects the magazine and places the gun carefully back on the table.

She walks away tossing her hair over her shoulder. The target is untouched. And I smile. Yeah, she definitely needs tuition. But not from me.

“Try Rowlands & Buckle on Fifth. They can teach you to correct your shitty aim.”

She turns back at me, her head cocked in a question.

“You missed the target, girlie,” I explain.

She gives me a smile that I feel right down to my balls.

“Did I?” she says and actually looks at my balls, before walking around the side of the building and out of sight.

I look back at the target. In the dying light I missed it. She shot out the crotch of the target, five perfectly grouped shots.

In the beginning — Jamie

I make it to my truck before I hear him charging after me. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. A rude, sexist fuckwit who thinks he’s god’s gift to women. Girlie? Really? I mean, yes, he’s nice to look at. With the whole scary, scarred, tattooed bad boy thing going for him, I’m sure women almost throw themselves at him. In a bar or club, after a whiskey sour, I might be one of those women. But here, in the fading light at a shitty gun range in the middle of nowhere, not going to happen. Especially with that attitude.

My hand is on the door handle when he catches up to me. In a black t-shirt that shows off his abs and his perfectly defined arms that are covered in tattoos down to his wrists, and well-worn dark blue jeans, he looks more like a biker than anything else. Or a criminal. He pushes the car door closed, brushing my shoulder. I turn around and am almost pinned against the car.

“Who are you?”

“Told you, Jamie Bowman. I was looking for safe space and decent instructor to teach someone a thing or two about guns.”

“Obviously not you. So who?”

“A client. She’s… she needs to take charge of her own protection and learning how to shoot is the first step.”

The second step is taking self-defence classes. Not the jab-your-keys-in-his-face-and-run kind, but the proper full-on fight classes where you get the skills and confidence to take down a man twice your size. The reason? A dick of an ex who won’t take no for an answer and who has no problems raising his fists when things don’t go his way. She’s tried flight and that didn’t work out so well. All that’s left is fight.

“You a lawyer?”

I snort. But then I realise that I am dressed like a lawyer today.

“No, I’m a private detective.”

He seems to relax a little at that.

“Like Nancy Drew?”

I roll my eyes. Like I haven’t heard this before. At least he didn’t reference Cagney & Lacey.

“Yeah. Just not in the nineteen thirties.”

“Shit, she’s that old?”

She really was.

“Yeah. Look, I didn’t come here to debate literature with you, so I’m leaving. I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for.”

His hand is still holding the door of my truck closed.

“Who told you about me?”

I crane my neck to look him in the eye because I’ve moved closer to try open the door.

“Kevin Marshall.”

He grunts.

“Don’t know a Kevin Marshall.”

I pull on the door, but he still won’t let me open it, effectively trapping me between the truck and his body. And weirdly, I don’t feel threatened. Yes, he’s pretty scary up close with his dark eyes and vicious scar across the left side of his face. But I don’t get the sense he’s out to harm me. More like he’s…curious. Like a bear wondering how to get honey out of a beehive. Predator, but a smart predator.

“He said you’d say that. He also said you were a belligerent douchebag. He’s not wrong.”

The beast gives a grunt that could be a laugh, but he also steps back away from the truck and out of my personal space. Surprising me, he holds out his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

“Kyle Bishop.”

At the risk of being a bitch, I take his hand and shake it. Firm grip, calloused hand. And I try to ignore wondering how it would feel skimming down by body. Instead, I deflect with humour.

“Nancy Drew.”

He smiles at this. A genuine smile that brings a little light to his dark eyes.

“Come inside, Nancy. I just need to tidy up on the range and then we can talk.”

He leaves me no chance to answer, just strides back to where he came from. Locking the truck, I follow.

© 2023 Eris Matthews