Something sharply pokes Courtney in the side. She jolts awake, panicked, wildly looking around the safehouse parlor. Duncan's silhouette stands over her, two guns in hand.
"Get up," he says. "I ain't wastin' the night if yer not letting me jump yer bones. Yer learning how to shoot."
"No, I'm going back to sleep," Courtney tells him, laying back down and wrapping herself tightly in the plastic. "I'm still mad at you."
"Ya can't be mad at me if yer dead," he snaps. He yanks up the back of the couch and drops Courtney onto the floor.
"Will you two keep quiet or take it outside?" Heather barks from elsewhere in the house.
"Takin' it outside," Duncan calls back before throwing a dry shirt and the second gun at Courtney, indicating the door. "Don't make me come back and drag ya out," he adds, then walks out the back door into the moonlight.
Courtney glares at the door for a long minute before she snatches up the gun and fumbles to open the chamber. She does. Six bullets.
She puts on shoes, throws Duncan's shirt over her damp underwear, and walks out the back door.
In the moonlight, the house looks completely isolated. It's set up against a swamp forest on one side. The crickets chirp loudly.
"Where are we?" Courtney mutters as Duncan sets up some bits of trash on the fence posts around the perimeter of the house.
"Shreveport, Louisiana," he says. "Stand over there."
Courtney sloshes over in the inch or so of water that seems to be all over the ground.
"Is this really necessary at this hour?" she grumbles. Duncan ignores her.
"Do what I do," he says. He takes his gun out and holds a shooting position. Courtney sighs and looks at him over her shoulder. She sets her feet apart, puts both hands on the gun, and raises it to eye level.
"Like this?"
"See what happens when ya shoot," he says. "Hit that beer bottle."
Courtney mutters a swear but points the gun at the bottle and squeezes the trigger.
The kickback on the gun is unexpected. The gun recoils back so strong, Courtney hits herself in the cheek with it. The bullet doesn't come near the the beer bottle and Duncan is doubled over hollering with laughter.
"You are a new breed of asshole!" she shouts at him, holding a shirtsleeve to her bruised cheek.
Still laughing, Duncan walks over. "Well ya gotta admit ya had that coming, doll." He puts a hand on her. "Move yer shoulder like—"
Courtney jerks out of his reach. "Don't touch me. Just tell me what to do."
"Shoulders back," he says, still snickering. "Angle yerself to the target. Straighten yer knees s'more and try it now."
"Hell no," Courtney says, making his adjustments. "Not until I have it perfect."
"Yer not gonna get it right every time. Get used to firing with a fucked up stance and still hitting yer target. Now shoot."
Courtney aims at the target again and, bracing herself, squeezes.
The new position absorbs more of the kickback but the bullet still doesn't come near the bottle.
"You even looking down yer sights?" he asks.
"My what?"
Duncan groans irately. "This," he says, indicating the top of his gun. "Line this up with the tip of yer gun and yer target."
He raises his gun, looks down the length of it, and fires. A snuff box on the fence clatters loudly then sloshes into the swamp.
"Clyde!" Heather barks from a window of the house.
"Unless ya wanna come out here and teach her yerself, keep yer goddamn mouth shut, Heath!" he shouts back.
A window slams and Courtney says, "Why do we have to do this now? The bottle's too far and it's too dark for me to hit anything."
"If ya manage to hit one of these suckers, you can hit a copper for sure," he says, twirling his gun around his trigger finger. "People are larger targets."
Courtney stares at him. "People?"
Duncan looks at her, confused. Then annoyed. "Jesus Christ, Courtney, what didya think this job entailed? Pickin' flowers and sewing dresses?"
"I can't—Duncan, I'm not going to kill anyone!" she stammers at him, "I didn't sign up for that!"
"Yeah, ya did," he snaps. "And ya will put a bullet in someone if any of our lives is on the line cuz that's what you do in a crew. Now shoot the bottle."
Courtney turns over the gun in her hands. She can see a few nicks on it in the moonlight.
"How many people have you killed?" she asks quietly, still looking at the gun.
"I've lost track," he snarls.
"Fifty? A hundred?"
"I'm going to kill one more if ya don't shoot that fucking bottle sometime tonight!"
Courtney meets his glare. "I'm not a killer," she says firmly. "I can be a thief and an accomplice and your gun moll, but I'm not a killer."
"Then guess what!" Duncan shouts, "Yer gonna have to be twice as good a shot as I am if ya wanna shoot someone and not kill 'em!"
Duncan snaps back to the firing line and fires singlehandedly, in quick succession, and knocks off every item of trash from the fencepost except the beer bottle. He opens his chamber and dumps six empty shells onto the ground.
"Now shoot. The goddamn. Bottle."
She watches the thin trail of smoke from the tip of his revolver catch the moonlight as it dissipates.
"Can I do that?" she asks. "Shoot and not kill?"
"Shoot the bottle," Duncan says, icily, "or go home."
Courtney turns from him, the shape of the revolver slippery in her sweating hands. She squints at the bottle in the distance, then glances at Duncan over her shoulder. He's watching her.
Slowly, Courtney takes a few steps closer to the fencepost. She carefully takes her stance again and lines up her shot. The bottle catches the moonlight. Courtney pictures the glint in someone's eyes and lowers the gun again. She walks closer, where it's clearer that the bottle is just a bottle.
Then she snaps the gun up and fires once, missing.
Breathing deep, she takes it a little slower, holds her arms steadier. Her trigger finger feels swollen from the heat. She fires again, misses again. She shoots at it twice more in succession, but neither bullet hits.
A rattling oil can splashes into the water by her feet and she jumps.
"That's six," Duncan says, lighting up a cigarette. "Reload."
Courtney grabs the oil can and opens it to find it full of an assortment of bullets. She opens the chamber of her gun and dumps six casings out into the swamp, then she starts rummaging.
After ten agonizingly long minutes of picking through bullet after bullet, she finds only three that fit.
Courtney throws the can back at Duncan who's just started on a new cigarette. She redoubles her effort, breathes deeper.
Her next shot grazes the bottle with a tiny clink.
"If I asked ya somethin'," Duncan says, "would ya answer it honest?"
Courtney keeps her stance steady. "Would you?"
He snickers in the dark. "Maybe. I'd be straight if you were."
"Well I wouldn't know the difference if you lied to me anyway so what does it matter?" she mutters, laying on the sarcasm.
Flicking away his cigarette, Duncan walks over and looks over her stance. The cig makes a small hiss when it hits the water. "What would ya've done if I hadn't been on that train today?"
"I would have gone to see my sister in New York," she says.
"And then? Would ya have gone back to Texas?"
Courtney fires. "No," she says. "To Justin and no job and a smattering of friends who thought I was just a victim? No way."
Duncan makes a noise at the back of his throat and moves to fix her grip on the gun. She moves her hands out of his reach.
"Do ya wanna shoot the damn thing sometime tonight or not?" he snaps.
Reluctantly, Courtney puts her hands where she had them before. Duncan moves her left hand further under the gun. The touch is electric.
"Would ya have stayed with yer family in New York?"
"No, Bridgette's married now. It would be weird."
He snorts and walks around her. Closing the distance between them, he presses up closer behind her, his front to her back. He aligns their faces, cheek to cheek, and lines up her sights the way she's supposed to. Courtney keeps her flaring pulse from betraying her. Barely.
His mouth to her ear, he whispers, "Would ya have come looking for me again?"
"That's about five questions too many, Duncan Clyde," she says by way of answering.
He makes that noise at the back of his throat again. She feels it through her whole body. "Hit me with yer best shot, doll."
Courtney slowly lowers the gun. She steps out of the circle of his arms and turns to look him in the eye.
"Are you and Al really brothers?"
She watches as a tightness drains from his shoulders.
He grins. "Half brothers. Ma got around."
He doesn't fidget, or leer, or call her a pet name. So Courtney straightens her posture and asks, "Did you mean it at the bank when you asked me to come with you?"
"What?" Duncan smirks and takes a step towards her. "Dollface…"
Courtney takes her shooting position, aiming at his body mass. He stops.
"I learned my lesson in Chicago, Duncan," she says evenly. "I counted. There's exactly one bullet left and you're all out and I don't know if I'm good enough not to kill you yet." She pulls the hammer back. "Answer the question."
Duncan looks her over. Courtney waits, holding position.
"No," he says finally. "I didn't mean it."
A sharpness stings her eyes. Courtney rapidly blinks away the tears without taking her hands off the gun. She isn't crying in front of Duncan Clyde. She isn't.
When her voice is even, she says, "You said you never make an offer twice. Why did you?"
Duncan starts to pace around her slowly. She turns with him, keeping her shooting stance all the while.
"If ya ask me later, I'll deny everything. So listen up," he says. He takes a seat on a wooden stump nearby and pulls another cigarette from behind his ear, giving it a thorough inspection before lighting it up. Courtney takes a step closer.
"I wasn't serious when I first asked ya. That's the truth, doll. You were easy on the eyes and plainly unhappy. I pride myself at getting girls in the sack, and knowing which girls I can get in the sack. Frankly dear, ya looked like hardly any effort."
He says everything matter-of-fact. She bites her tongue and waits as Duncan taps ash out of his cigarette. "Didn't expect ya to turn me down, but wasn't about to linger. I went about my life, had a couple other gals, wound up in Chicago. Where I found a pretty looking dame asking for me at a speakie," he smirks, "all dolled up, looking like a wet dream. So determined, and so fucking horny."
Courtney blushes through his laughter and tightens her grip. "Get to the point, Duncan."
Still grinning, he says, "You surprised me, Sweetcheeks. Following me from Dallas, seducing me, trying yer damn hardest to stick me up and blackmail me. Ya had gumption, something most gals are short on. I thought, hm, maybe there's something more to Missus Courtney Bonnie Jones after all." Duncan gets to his feet and stretches. "Anyway, I was in the market for a gun moll and yer wiles'll make ya a damned good addition to the team. Heath's a hellova gun moll but she can be as seductive as sandpaper some days."
Courtney tracks his movements. Her arms are beginning to hurt but she fights to keep the gun pointed at him. "Were you so desperate for a gun moll, you settled on the first dame who was willing?"
"I settled on you, baby. There's a difference."
"So why'd you turn me down?" Courtney asks. "Why'd you send me back to Dallas if you were going to take me on anyway? Why wait so long to find me again?"
He blows a large puff of smoke out his nose. "Had to cover yer sloppy tracks. Last thing I needed was yer dead fish hubbie hunting me down cuz he thinks I stole his girl." He tosses off the second cigarette. "Didn't think ya'd be so fucking green off the bat though. You really know nothing about being a criminal."
"I'm learning mighty quick," she says, adjusting her stance.
"So ya are. Speaking of…" Duncan grabs her by the wrist and yanks her off balance, twisting her hand until she drops the gun. "...we're really gonna have to break this habit of yers for pointing guns at me." Courtney pulls to take her hand back but Duncan pulls her close. "Whaddya say we leave the rest of this lesson 'til yer gonna need it? I ain't putting another loaded gun in yer hands anytime soon and the night's still young."
He leans in to kiss her but Courtney shoves him off. "I meant what I said about not sleeping with you."
Duncan's amusement sours. "Damn, and here I was hoping that our lil heart-to-heart might've made ya reconsider." He releases her and picks up the can of bullets from the swamp. "Well, if ya change yer mind, ya know where my room is." He begins to walk back to the house. Over his shoulder, he winks. "Enjoy yer shitty couch."
Courtney watches him leave, pulling off his undershirt halfway to the house and glistening with sweat in the moonlight. When the door slams shut, Courtney holds her twisted wrist, muttering curses. After massaging her hands, bruised from kickback, she picks up her gun, watching the house and the forest behind it for any sign of life. The crickets keep chirping.
With a determined huff, Courtney sloshes out to the fence post with the bottle, points the gun at it, and shoots it point blank. It explodes in a shower of glass.
"Not counting it!" Duncan's voice calls from the house.
Courtney sighs. Then, awkwardly attempting to twirl the empty gun in her hand, she walks back inside to get some sleep.