You Don't Know How to Have Any Fun At All

Chapter 2

Parker

I hung the last three power suits up in my closet, and with that, I was finished unpacking. I looked around the new apartment in the Rangeman building which would be my new home for the next several months. While I'd been happy to get out of Nashville, and was planning to stay in Jersey for a while, I wasn't completely sold on the whole living and working in the same place plan. But my Enneagram 1 personality had to admit that having a ready to move in, furnished apartment had made my move a whole hell of a lot easier to plan.

So far, all the of the staff had been incredibly welcoming, especially Stephanie. She and Ranger had hosted me for dinner a few times in the two weeks I'd been here. The men had all been helpful and kind to me through the onboarding process - except for Lester. Every interaction with him was quite curt, on both our sides. I don't know what it was about him that bugged me so much. And I definitely got the vibe that I pissed him off, too. Bobby had accidentally let it slip that Lester had been against the idea of me at first, but was the first person after the interview to vote to bring me on staff. The man was as enigma. There was just something about us - we were like oil and water, and he reinforced all the reasons I'd decided I didn't need a man in my life.

Craig had been beyond pissed when I'd left Nashville so quickly. At the end of the day, he just assumed that we'd eventually work things out again, but once I'd walked in on him participating in a three-some with my roommate and her fiancee, I was beyond done. I feel like I'm a pretty laid back person in my personal life, maybe because I'm such a shark in my professional life. But I draw a hard line at fidelity. I definitely wanted someone that I could have fun with, but I needed loyalty more, and so far in my 31 years, I'd been unable to find anyone that exhibited both. And to be honest, at this point, I didn't feel like I had the energy or the desire to keep looking for it. I'd long accepted that falling in love probably just wasn't in the cards for me.

I'd finished all of my training with the tech guys, and I'd been full submersed into the world of searches, and I realized now why Stephanie had said they made her ass cramp so much. Today I was scheduled to start on weapons training, which I was actually kind of nervously excited about. I'd never actually held or shot a real firearm before, just paint guns or BB guns. Not that I thought I'd actually apply for my own license to carry, but I was looking forward to the experience. I had just finished lunch and headed back to my cubicle (Ranger had promised to have an office ready for me in a few weeks, but they were still working on relocating the files, because he wanted me to be on the 5th floor, with the Control Room, not banished down to the accounting and research guys on the 2nd floor. I was working my way through the few hundred pages of policies, regulations, and standard operating procedures for Rangeman when I heard a tapping on the metal casing of the soft walls of my cube. I looked up to see my trainer for the next few days smiling down at me.

"You ready to shoot, Ms. Kelly?" Ram asked.

"Yes, but please call me Parker," I said, crossing the distance between us and heading for the stairs.

"Don't you want to take the elevator?" he asked, trailing behind me.

I shook my head. "Range is in the basement, right?" I clarified, pushing the door open.

Ram furrowed his brows. "Are you wearing that? You're not going to change?"

His eyes passed over my body, and I glanced down at my pale pink pencil skirt, matching cropped jacket, and white silk camisole. "I thought we were shooting today?" Now I was confused.

"We are, but the stilts…." he looked pointedly at the nude, Salvatore Ferragamo pumps with little patent leather bows across the toe.

"This is what I usually wear," I explained patiently. I figured if I'm ever going to fire a weapon in an emergency, it would be when I'm out in public, and 95% of the time I'm wearing heels."

He shrugged. "That kind of makes sense in a weird way, I guess," he acquiesced.

We made our way down the 6 flights of stairs into the basement I wasn't kidding when I said I wore heels everywhere. I could walk for miles in them with no issue. I'd even climbed the steps of the Washington Monument in a pair of Slingback Stiletto Sandals by Christian Louboutin. Yes, I'm a shoe snob. No, I'm not sorry.

The gun range was set up, but empty when we arrived. One of the stalls was set with 2 pairs of headphones, 2 pairs of safety glasses, and at least a half dozen handguns.

"I thought we'd start with figuring out which type of weapon you're most comfortable with," he said, motioning for me to put the headphones and safety glasses on. He gave me a quick rundown of gun and range safety rules and then moved behind me.

"I'm going to show you the appropriate shooting stance," he said. "May I touch you just to adjust…" he trailed off like he wasn't sure how to finish the question.

"I don't have personal space, Ram," I said. "I want to learn how to do this right."

He patiently and professionally helped me widen my stance, relax my shoulders, and take a 2 handed grip on a small revolver. He explained how the gun would give a small kickback when I fired before demonstrating himself. I watched intently and nodded. It looked simple enough, in theory.

"See one, do one," Ram said. "Let's see what you got, Parker."

I assumed the stance, steadied myself and took a deep breath in and blew it out like I was breathing through a straw. I looked down the lane, just like Ram showed me and squeezed the trigger. The noise was somehow a lot louder when the weapon was in my hand, and I was so completely startled, I forgot to pay attention to the kick of the gun.

"Oh shit that hurt!" I cursed, reaching up to rub the spot on the center of my forehead where the gun had connected. Thankfully, I hadn't dropped the weapon. Ram intercepted my hand by grasping my wrist and tugging it away from my face.

"Don't touch it," he said. "You're bleeding. Looks like you've earned a trip to visit Bobby this afternoon."

I scowled, feeling like a moron as he quickly unloaded the weapon and then led me to the elevator. Ten minutes later I was in the med suite, arguing with Bobby.

"The medical decisions aren't a democracy, Parker," Bobby said firmly. "They're a benevolent dictatorship. I can give you a shot of local numbing, or you can take a pill, but you're going to have something for pain relief, and you are getting stitches. It's going to take some time because I'm going to do them tiny so the scar will be minimal."

"I don't like shots," I reiterated.

"Then a pill it is," he responded, placing a small white tablet in my hand and twisting open a bottle of water.

Deciding I'd rather not know what I was taking, I popped the pill and drained the bottle of water. Bobby eased my legs onto the exam table and gently situated me into a position lying on my back. I folded my hands over my stomach and closed my eyes. He got right to work and kept me chatting the whole time - asking me all kinds of random questions. I appreciated that he answered most of them himself, too. It took me a while to realize he wasn't just trying to keep me calm, but actually offering me his friendship. My heart warmed at the gesture.

"How much longer?" I finally asked, when it felt like I'd been on the table forever. I couldn't see the clock.

"Probably another 30 or so," he said casually, apologizing when I winced as he pulled the thread through to tie off another stitch. The pain pill had kicked in and I was feeling nicely loopy, but every now and then I could feel the tug of the needle, and it really sucked. Probably I should have let him give me the damn numbing shot. But being the determinedly stubborn woman I was, I kept my mouth shut, and closed my eyes again.

"Yo man, I thought we were heading to Shorty's tonig-" a familiar voice broke the silence a few seconds later, voice trailing off before finishing the question.

"Sorry, Les, I had a thing. I'll be ready to roll in 30, or I can just meet you there if you want to head out."

I snapped my eyes open to see none other than annoying Lester Santos standing at the foot of the exam table. I quickly crossed my legs, hoping like hell I hadn't just granted him a glance up my skirt at the lacy thong beneath.

"Parker, you want to grab some pizza when I'm done?" Bobby said, pulling me into the conversation.

Lester made a noise that sounded like a snort and a laugh combined. "You think she's coming to Shorty's with all of us, wearing that getup and those stilts?"

"Why can't I go in what I'm wearing?" I asked indignantly. Now, I had absolutely no desire to go anywhere tonight. But it seemed Lester really didn't want me to go, which kind of made me want to go, just to piss him off.

"You look like a corporate executive," he said. "You'd have to do something about the giant stick up your ass before you would blend in at Shorty's."

"I don't blend."

"Clearly."

"What is your problem?"

"What's yours?"

"Ok, children, back to your separate corners," Bobby said, swiping a giant q-tip across my forehead smearing some kind of goop across the wound.

"Frankenstein started it," Lester said, earning a scowl from me.

"Don't call me that!"

"Les, just go with Ram and Junior, and I'll meet you there."

Lester didn't respond as he walked out of the suite. Bobby helped me sit up.

"It's good you don't have bangs," he said, holding my hand while I got off the table.

I turned to the mirror to examine his work. The cut spanned the majority of my forehead, stretching across from one side to the other, almost perfectly in between my eyebrows and hairline. I leaned in to the mirror, marveling at how tiny the stitches actually were.

"Thanks," I said. "You didn't have to do all that extra work, but I appreciate it."

"You're going to be the spokesperson for the company," Bobby said. "And it's too nice a face to have a big scar. We really are glad you're here."

"Not everyone," I murmured, buttoning up my suit jacket and smoothing my skirt.

"Yes, everyone," he argued. "You're coming to dinner, right?"

"I wasn't planning on it," I said, thinking of the bottle of Prosecco I'd been planning to enjoy tonight during a marathon of Grey's Anatomy episodes I'd gotten behind on during my packing and moving.

"You should. All the guys really want to get to know you."

"I don't know."

After a few minutes of cajoling, I agreed to go. Bobby attached a large bandage to my forehead, explaining to keep it on for at least 2 days and gave strict instructions to come see him if it was oozing, itching, hurting more than it was now, or if I just wanted a new dressing. I nodded and followed him out of the suite to the elevator.

"I just need to stop to grab my purse," I said as he pressed the button for the parking garage.

"You won't need it," he said, as the elevator flew smoothly down.

"I never go anywhere without my purse," I insisted.

"Your phone and keys are in your jacket," he pointed out. "What else do you need?"

I followed him to a Cobalt Blue Dodge Charger and admired the car as I climbed in to the front seat.

"I thought you had to drive a black car to work here."

"Nah," he said. "Only Ranger's personal cars are all black. The rest of us appreciate some color in our world. Word on the street is that Steph asked Ranger for a car that isn't black, so there's a pretty nice pool going on whether or not he's going to get her one."

We arrived at Shorty's in 15 minutes, and I followed Bobby across the parking lot to what looked like a hole in the wall biker bar. The scent that hit my nostrils as the door opened was mouthwatering, and my stomach immediately growled in appreciation. The place was crowded, and there were several pool tables toward the back, two of them with men in black crowded around them, eating, watching, and jeering.

The unmistakeable sound of a ball hitting a pocket was followed by groans and cheers, and money immediately started changing hands. Bobby snagged me a barstool from one of the hightop tables, and Ram slid a plate of pizza onto the table in front of me. Bobby inhaled a piece without even using a plate. Soon our table was surrounded, and conversation flowed easily. Of course, my giant bandage was a hot topic.

"Beer," I said to the group in general, gesturing to the half empty pitchers that were scattered around our group of tables.

"Not a good idea with the meds," Bobby said.

"That was at least a couple hours ago, and I wasn't asking," I said firmly.

He held his hands up in surrender, and I smiled as a frosty mug was placed in front of me. I glanced at the man who had brought it and extended my hand.

"Parker Kelly," I said, shaking his hand firmly. He had brown hair, a neatly trimmed goatee and strong, sexy hands.

"Brett," he grunted, returning my shake. Whatever he'd been about to say next was cut off my another cheer from the crowd around the pool table.

"Who's the next victim?" Lester called over the group as one of the men walked away with a scowl on his face. I think his name was Zip.

"Huh?" I said, eloquent as ever.

"Les likes to do trick shot competitions. Les makes a bet, and someone matches it. Then it's like a one-up contest until one of you can't make the shot. Winner gets the money. The men place bets on the winner and split that pot."

I sipped my beer, making sure my press conference face was firmly in place. Don't do it. Don't do it. The little angel on my shoulder chanted the mantra.

"Everyone too much of a pussy to take me on?" Lester taunted.

Fucking take him down! The devil on my other shoulder got in on the conversation.

I chugged my beer, then Bobby's and unsteadily climbed down from the barstool. Maybe Bobby had been right about the alcohol and meds not mixing well. Eh, I'm sure I'll be fine.

"No one? 500 and I'll even give you one mulligan," he threw down the gauntlet.

"I'll take that bet," I said, unbuttoning my jacket and striding across to the pool table. "You shoot first."

"You got yourself a bet, Frankenstein."