Lucky Shot ( The Rhythm of Life : Chapter 6 | John takes Margaret shooting )

Monday: August 14, 2006

The shooting range echoed with the familiar cascade of gunfire. The sharp smell of powder overlaid the mellow undertone of grease. John flexed his hands. When the rest of the world was spinning out of his grasp the range was his place to escape, a place where his control was challenged, his skill sharpened.

Margaret stood next to him, wide eyed and dubious, her arms folded tightly across her chest. It had been a week since her mother died and when John had stopped by earlier in the evening, he found Margaret in the middle of a mess.

Richard Hale was a good man and one of John's closest friends, but he lived too much in his own head, while the rest of the world's cares and responsibilities fell on Margaret. John frowned, setting his gun case on the side shelf of the booth.

Maybe bringing her shooting wasn't John's brightest idea, but she needed to get the hell out of her father's house. She also needed to eat—she'd barely picked at the chicken casserole his mother sent over. Sleep too. The dark circles under her eyes told John she probably hadn't had a decent night's sleep in over a week. He didn't like it. John pushed his hat back on his head and popped the lock on his gun case.

"You do realize I've never held a gun in my entire life." Margaret called over the din.

"Yes," he handed her a set of ear plugs, slid in his own, removed the magazine from his handgun, and racked the slide, ejecting the chambered round. He double checked the barrel, making certain it was empty. He nodded, turning to Margaret. "Check the barrel."

He slid the gun open so she could look.

"I saw you unload it."

"Doesn't matter. Always check yourself."

"It's empty." She replied flatly.

He set the gun down and pointed. "This is a standard nine millimeter with a single stack magazine. It has a built in trigger safety, and another on the side here." He flicked the safety, picked up the mag and, slapped it into place. "Is the gun loaded?"

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "Yes."

John smirked, and racked the slide. Then he slid the mag out of the gun and set it on the table, "And now?"

"There's one bullet still in the gun, yes?"

He grunted and nodded, replacing the mag. "Always act like a gun's loaded. Never take anyone's word for it. And never touch the trigger until you're ready to shoot."

"I'm not shooting that thing."

"Try it," John set the gun down and crossed his arms. "It won't bite."

"Knowing my luck, I'll just shoot my foot."

"So don't point it at your feet."

Margaret rolled her eyes, and tightened her grip on her arms. The gesture irritated John, as if she could make herself smaller, hiding from the world and all its troubles. She glanced down sharply, but he caught the glimmer of tears. He'd grown up with his sister's emotions being all over the map, which meant tears on a regular basis. He thought crying didn't bother him.

But John wasn't prepared for Margaret's tears.

"Don't cry," he grumbled, taking her by the shoulders and gently pushing her in front of the booth window. "Shoot."

"I—" Margaret brushed hurriedly at her eyes. "I can't."

"Trust me," John insisted gently. "You can."

Margaret held his gaze and John swore he could see the moment she decided to try. She swallowed and picked up the gun, hands shaking. John stepped behind her, and held his hand under both of hers, steadying the heavy weapon. A delicate floral smell filled his nose, and he glanced down at her hair. Was it as soft as it looked?

Focus.

"Hit the safety," he muttered, shoving away the impulse to run a hand through her thick hair. "When you're ready, squeeze. Don't pull."

Her arms trembled and John inched closer, supporting almost all the weight of the weapon in his own hand, his whole body tensing as she leaned against him.

Shit. John swallowed. This was a bad idea.

The gun cracked and kicked under their hands as Margaret squeezed the trigger. She jumped but John held steady.

"Finish her out," he called into her ear.

Margaret's grip grew more confident as she emptied the gun. Adrenaline made her giggle as she finished. John lingered a little too close for a moment longer before stepping away.

"Bloody hell."

"Fun, right?" He asked as she set the gun on the side table.

"That was—" she pressed her hands to her mouth, still giggling. "That was ridiculous. I should not like that as much as I did."

Margaret's laugh poured over him again, like water on a hot day, and he couldn't stop the grin spreading over his face. John hit the recall button and the target swung forward. It was peppered all across the top quarter.

"Goodness, I'm a horrible shot." She shook her head at the target. John's skin twitched as her arm barely brushed his. "I was aiming for the middle."

"It's kickback." John reset the target. "You get used to it." Margaret was still standing too close. John forced himself to turn away and reload the handgun with a spare mag. "You want to go again?"

"The stage is yours, Mr Thornton." She gestured for him to take her place.

"I've got a name," he growled, rolling his shoulders.

"I know." She shrugged. "Why do you care so much?"

He glanced down and paused, pinned by her large blue eyes and their curious expression. Other people call him 'Mr Thornton' all the time. But whenever it came out of her mouth, it grated against him like fingernails on a chalkboard. He wanted—needed—her to call him John. But why?

"It makes me feel old," he said at last.

"You're a bit old for me but—"

"Why?" John interrupted, his temper spiking.

"I'm eighteen."

"I'm twenty-six, not sixty."

"I—well, I suppose it—it's not—" Margaret stumbled over her words. She frowned. "It's just a bit of—of a gap."

"So?" John raised the gun and trained his eyes on the target. "I don't give a damn if you're eighteen or twenty-eight. It's all the same to me."

Get a grip.

John shifted. There was more to this can of worms than he cared to explore. He rolled his shoulders and took careful aim, drawing in a slow breath and letting it out. Margaret Hale was starting to worm her way under his skin and John didn't know what the hell he was going to do about it.

"Hit the center of the target and I'll never call you Mr Thornton again."

John's eyes snapped over to Margaret and then back to the target. He squeezed off a round.

Almost dead center.

Margaret looked genuinely surprised. "Lucky shot."

"Lucky shot, my ass."

And then he emptied the gun in quick succession, nearly every bullet hitting within the small four-inch center circle.

"So now you have to tell me why you're so sensitive about your age."

"You're an adult," he said, dropping the empty mag from the gun and reloaded. "So am I. Why should I treat you differently? It's stupid."

Since the day he'd met her, John had been drawn to Margaret like a damn moth to a flame. Eighteen was young but Margaret was an adult. He raised the gun. It wasn't her age—or his—that pissed him off. What pissed him off was how he always knew when she walked in a room even if he wasn't looking. But he dealt with it.

"Is that why—"

The gun cracked, cutting her off, the bullet landing dead center again.

"Is that why you fight with me?" She demanded.

He could handle her temper and bullshit opinions. Crack. Center.

"Why you're always poking and prodding—"

But he couldn't seem to handle the smell of her hair and skin. John clenched his teeth. Crack. Off center an inch to the right.

"Why you never give me the slightest—"

Or the way her body fit perfectly against his. Crack. Off center three inches on the left.

"—bit of a break?"

Or how he wanted to stand between her and the rest of the world, taking each hit that came her way so she didn't have to. Crack. Too high.

"John—"

Because for some damn reason he couldn't handle her tears. Crack. Way too low.

"John!"

He lowered the gun and glanced over, his breathing uneven, heart pounding against his ribs.

"Why did you bring me here?"

She stepped closer. The floral scent flooded over him and John stiffened. Four shots left.

"Well?"

"Because." He raised his arm, keeping the other loose between him and Margaret.

John hadn't shot one handed on almost a year. Breathe in, out, squeeze. The gun jumped and the round tore through the target. Too damn high.

"That's not good enough." Margaret inched closer.

It was a stupid-ass trick he'd once mastered to prove he could. If he could do this, maybe he could figure what the hell was wrong with him.

Aim. Fire. Still too high.

"Stop shooting that stupid gun and answer me."

He was out of practice and he didn't like that one bit. "Because," John growled."You're a damn fine woman, Margaret Hale."

Crack. Better. Not much though.

"And I wanted to."

John flicked his eyes to the target and then to Margaret. A new understanding softened her features. Without looking, John fired his last round. He lowered the gun, and set it in its case, his arm complaining from the effort of keeping it steady for so long.

"Are you—" Margaret paused. "You're saying you—that you—do you like me, John?"

John scowled, replacing the now-empty magazines, and snapped the case lid into place. He could feel her stare on his back, the skin tingling.

Like her? His mind scrambled over the last six months of arguments and encounters, each more charged than the one before. Of course he liked her but—

It was more than that.

A hell of a lot more.

Seeing her tonight, overwhelmed and lost, surrounded by the shitty mess that was her father's house, knowing she was desperately clinging to her composure and anything close to normal, something shifted in him. So he'd brought her here.

The smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her laugh and the easy banter all flowed over him in a rush. 'Like' wasn't the right word at all.

Holy shit.

John stared at his gun case. He'd fallen in love with Margaret Hale and hadn't even noticed.

"Do you?"

He turned, "No."

Margaret flinched like he'd slapped her. And then she bolted out of the booth.

"Shit." John followed, easily keeping pace with his long legs, cursing his own stupid mouth.

He snagged Margaret's hand just before she could bolt across the parking lot.

"Let go—"

"I'm not done."

"No, we're done, John Thornton." She spat. "We're completely and utterly done. Thank you for your company but—"

"Maggie, I—"

"What? What other shitty things do you have to say? It's been a bloody awful week and—"

"I love you."

Margaret's face drained of color and she stood in shocked silence. John's stomach rolled. His mother always said he was like a bulldozer once decided what he wanted. Maybe now wasn't the best moment for this but he couldn't take it back now thanks to his stupid mouth.

"You can't." The whispered words tore out of Margaret, her face lined with anger and confusion.

"Like hell I can't."

"You barely know me."

"I know you fine." John pitched his hat onto the hood of his truck and set the gun case next to it.

"No." She shook her head. "No."

"Maggie—"

"Don't." She turned to face him, inching backwards. "This is bloody ridiculous and—"

"You asked." John retorted. "What else did you expect?"

"Not—not that. That's too—it's too—I thought you might fancy me is all. I was a bit flattered and—and—bloody hell, John, you can't tell a girl you're in love with her like that!"

"Okay," he rolled his eyes and stepped closer. "Tell me how."

"What?"

"Tell me how to tell you."

"Asking me on a bloody date would help."

"This is a date." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sort of."

"This is your idea of a date?" Margaret stopped and glared at him. "Are you absolutely mental?"

"You liked it."

"Not as a date." Margaret was almost yelling. "I didn't even realize—"

"I'll do better next time."

"Do better now," she demanded. "Or there'll be no 'next time,' John Thornton."

John raised an eyebrow and Margaret's face turned a deep shade of red when she realized what she said. He shrugged, slipped an arm around her waist, slid his other hand into her hair, and kissed her. If she wanted better he'd give her his best. He didn't think too much about what would happen after he finished kissing her. John figured he should do it properly because he might not have another chance.

She shivered underneath him and John turned towards the truck so she would be out of the evening wind. Her hair was soft, and so were her lips, and every other part of her, and—

And he should stop.

John forced himself to let go of Margaret and took a deliberate step back, folding his arms across his chest. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Better like that?"

"I didn't mean that exactly," she said a little breathless.

"But it was better."

"A lucky shot," Margaret grumbled.

"You want to test that theory?"

Say yes.

"Not exactly." Margaret blushed and dropped her eyes but John waited. She took a breath and spoke softly, eyes glued to the concrete. "Maybe next time." Margaret hesitated, "Will there be a next time?"

Oh hell yes.

John scratched his chin, "What are you doing Friday?"

"Working."

"I'll be there at four."

"At the computer lab?"

He nodded and opened the passenger door for her.

"How can we have a date at work?"

"You'll see."

There were four days to make something up. John swiped his hat from the hood of the truck and ducked his head to hide his stupid grin.

He had a date with his wife.

John blinked.

Slow the hell down.

They'd get there soon enough.