Follow Me (Corrupted Hearts) (11 page)

“China, wait a second—”

“I’ve gotta go,” I said, cutting him off. Shirt, bra, glasses—check, check, and . . . check. I avoided looking at him. I was mortified and close to tears, which I really didn’t want him to see. I’d had plenty of embarrassing moments in my life, but this took the cake. This was why I chose computers as my primary companion. People didn’t work out so well.

“China—”

“Catch you later.” And I was out the door. Five seconds later, I was walking into my house, praying Mia was asleep already.

The house was dark and the television was on mute. I saw Mia’s huddled form underneath blankets on the couch and the telltale sound of light snoring. I breathed out a sigh of relief.

Tiptoeing past her, I made it to my bedroom and shut the door. Now that I had the privacy to cry, I found I couldn’t. The shock of Clark’s reaction had worn off, leaving only cynicism in its place. As usual, I hadn’t been able to predict someone’s reaction accurately. And it had hurt me, in a very private and personal way.

Chalk it up to live and learn
, I thought bitterly. My gaze caught my reflection in the mirror and I paused, looking more closely.

My T-shirt was on backward.

Of course it was.

I left for work earlier than usual the next morning, detouring by Cysnet first. No one was in yet except the one person I thought would be and who I’d come to see.

“Come in,” Jackson called out when I knocked on his door. He glanced up when I entered. “On your way to Wyndemere?” he asked as I took a chair in front of his desk.

I nodded. “Yeah, but I needed to come by and tell you something first.” Even though I’d been told not to.

He frowned and relaxed back in his chair. “What is it?”

Taking a deep breath, I answered. “A man was in my car last night. He had a gun. He threatened me.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, one fisted hand resting on the desk. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He just told me I had to make sure to deliver the software. That Tom had been having second thoughts about delivering it and that . . .” I hesitated. “That was why he was dead.” I winced, hoping what I’d said hadn’t been completely insensitive.

His fist tightened and the look in his eyes made me shrink a little in my chair, though I knew he wasn’t angry with
me
.

“Should we go to the police?” I asked.

Jackson shook his head. “If they got to Tom, we’d be dead by morning. The police would take your statement and that’s all they could do. No crime was committed. Did you even see his face?”

I shook my head. “Then what do I do?” I swallowed the lump that had jumped into my throat. “I don’t want to be the next one who ‘commits suicide.’” I used air quotes for that. “The police even examined the scene and they’re positive it wasn’t foul play, which means whoever killed him is really good.”

“Just finish the software then,” he said. “Go, do your job, and be careful.”

I looked at him. “I feel less than reassured as to my safety.”

Jackson rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “I understand. I’ll tell my security people what happened. They can look into it and be more aware. You’ll be okay.”

Stiffening, I said, “I know that. It’s just . . .” then faltered. I had to look away from his penetrating gaze, glancing toward the window. Only then did I realize my fingers were gripping the arms of the chair.

“It’s just what?”

I couldn’t look at him and my words were barely audible. “It’s just that . . . I’m scared.”

He took something from his drawer and stood. Rounding the desk, he crouched down in front of me so we were eye to eye. Prying my fingers from the armrest, he opened my hand and placed a gun in my palm.

“Take this. Keep it on you at all times.”

I stared, wide-eyed. “I . . . I can’t take that.”

“Of course you can,” he said, standing. “I just gave it to you.”

“But that’s against the law.”

“Giving you a weapon?”

“And I have no training or license to carry . . .” I babbled on, still staring at the foreign object I was holding. “Here. Take it back.” I thrust it toward him.

“Christ, China,” he said, pushing my hand so the muzzle wasn’t pointed in his direction. “I take it you don’t know how to use this.”

I gave a vigorous shake of my head. “They scare me.”

He sighed, which I interpreted as either frustration or impatience. Neither reaction was positive for me.

“All right then. Let’s go.” He grabbed his keys from the corner of his desk, then took the gun from me. He headed for the door. I jumped up and scrambled to follow.

“Where are we going?”

“To teach you how to use this.”

I just had to ask.

The gun shop he took me to reminded me of the one and only shop I’d been inside back in Omaha. My dad had taken me with him one time on an errand for bullets. The noise from the range in back was as loud as that other store had been, the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air.

It didn’t take long for Jackson to get two targets, a box of bullets, and two sets of goggles and earmuffs. We were assigned a booth number and he led me into the back.

No one was on either side of our assigned booth and I watched as Jackson clipped the targets and sent them down the line. Glancing up, he beckoned me.

“Ready for your first lesson?”

No. “Yes.”

“Parts of a handgun. Muzzle. Grip. Safety. Trigger. Barrel. Slide. Sight. Magazine. Magazine release. Hammer.” He pointed to the various parts and I memorized them.

“First, make sure the safety is on, then eject the magazine. Like this.” He showed me. It popped out of the bottom, then he pushed it back in. “You try.”

It took four tries and hurt my fingers, but I finally got the magazine out. Jackson just watched, making me feel inadequate.

“Time to load the bullets.” He showed me that, too.

“Kind of like a Pez dispenser,” I observed. He paused, looking at me. “What?”

His lips twitched but he said nothing. We were standing so close, I could smell that damn cologne again, even over the gunpowder.

The magazine was loaded, then he pushed it inside the grip again. He put on his goggles and I followed suit, then the earmuffs, keeping one ear slightly uncovered so we could hear each other.

“This is a semiautomatic, which means it’ll load the next bullet for you each time you pull the trigger. But you do need to load the first bullet. To do that, you rack the slide. Like this.” He did that move I’d seen action heroes do a thousand times in the movies, the sound much more frightening in real life.

“Hold it like this, hand firmly around the grip, resting in the cup of your left hand. Never point it at something unless you want to shoot it. Switch off the safety, aim, squeeze the trigger.”

He did all these things, pointing the gun down the range toward the target. His body was absolutely still as he aimed, then I jumped about a foot when he fired.

“It’s really loud,” I blurted.

Jackson glanced around at me, a smirk curving his lips. “Yes, China. It’s loud. Now come here.”

Nerves twitched up and down my spine, but I obediently moved closer until we stood side-by-side, nearly touching inside the little space.

“Right now, there’s a live round ready to go,” he explained. “If you’re done firing, switch on the safety. Move the slide to eject the bullet.” He did that, the bit of brass falling onto the counter. “Safety off. Point downrange. Pull the trigger.” A click of an empty chamber. “Safety on. Set it down, muzzle always pointed downrange.”

I glanced at the target he’d shot at and swallowed. A small hole was nearly dead center in the head. Apparently, this wasn’t his first rodeo.

“Your turn.”

My hands were sweaty and I wiped them on my jeans. “Um, okay. Step one, rack the slide.” I tried . . . and didn’t move it a millimeter. “It’s too big,” I said. “My hand won’t fit around it.” I tried again, but was stopped by a muffled snort. I glanced up at Jackson, who appeared to be holding back a laugh. “What are you laughing at? It’s hard.”

His eyes twinkled. “I’m not laughing at that.”

“Then what?” I replayed my words in my head, turning them over for a double meaning . . . and realized. “Oh.” My neck and face burned and I went back to trying the slide again, avoiding Jackson’s eyes.

“Here, try this grip instead.” Taking my hand, he turned it so I was pushing the slide toward me rather than trying to pull it. I lost track of what I was doing for a second, too focused on the fact that he’d touched my hand. He had to prompt me. “Now try.”

To my surprise, I could rack the slide this way, though it was still hard. I hoped if the time ever came when I actually had to use this thing, I’d be able to do it.

“Safety off, point downrange—”

“Spread your legs a little farther,” he said.

Okay, that didn’t help the blush I could still feel, but I moved my feet farther apart.

“Sight the target . . .” I lined up the bull’s-eye in the center of the chest. “Squeeze the trigger.”

Even though I knew it was loud, I was still surprised at the hard jerk of the gun in my hand. A thrill of fear went through me and I realized I was shaking.

“Good job, China,” Jackson said, stepping up behind me. “You hit the target. Now you need to adjust your sight based on how the gun shot for you. Like this.”

He put his arms on either side of mine, pointing the gun toward the target. I promptly forgot everything I was supposed to be doing as he tried to tell me how to change my sight. His face was right next to mine, pressing lightly on my cheek as he looked down the sight as well. My eyes drifted close and I took a deep whiff of his scent, luxuriating in the feel of his body pressed against my back. And his cheek was so smooth against mine . . .

“Try that.”

I was startled from my lapse into fantasy territory and pulled the trigger without even realizing. A sudden burning sensation inside my bra had me yelping and I dropped the gun. I danced around, yanking at my T-shirt.

“Owowowowow! It burns!”

“Hold still.” Jackson grabbed my arm and hauled me close, then to my shock, he reached inside the V-neck of my T-shirt. His fingers delved into my bra, brushing briefly over my breasts and nipples before pulling out a bullet casing. He showed it to me. “They can burn you if they touch your skin. Are you all right?”

My jaw was somewhere around the vicinity of the floor. “Did you just . . . ?”
feel me up
was what I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Save you from being burned?” he asked. “You’re welcome.”

“You copped a feel!” I blurted, his arrogant self-assurance pricking my anger. And my pride. He’d totally touched my . . . well,
me
. . . and hadn’t seemed to even notice.

He had the audacity to look affronted. “I was saving you!”

My words of outrage caught in my throat as I studied his eyes. Earlier, they’d been twinkling with humor. Now, there was something else there, and he still had a hand on my arm. Though it wasn’t a tight grip, he kept me close. Was he . . . flirting? And if so, what was I supposed to do?

“M-my apologies,” I stammered, thinking fast. “Though maybe y-you should be thanking me rather than the other way around.” I lifted one eyebrow and took a step back. I had no clue where
that
had come from, but I thought I’d pulled it off. At least it hadn’t come with a crick in my neck.

We shot some more—without any more cleavage incidents—until Jackson was satisfied that I could operate the gun properly and at least hit the target somewhere in the black.

“Carry it in your purse,” he said as we climbed into his car.

“I have a backpack,” I said.

He glanced at me, his mirrored shades concealing his eyes. “No purse?”

Yeah, let’s finish putting that nail in the you’re-so-not-a-girl coffin. Oh well. I shrugged. “It’s practical.”

He mumbled something under his breath and I didn’t ask for clarification.

When we got to the office, he parked by my car and I got out. I was unlocking my door when he rounded the car and stopped in front of me.

“Do you feel better now?” he asked.

Actually, I did. “Yes. Thank you.”