For the first couple of weeks, Courtney learns how to shoot from Duncan Clyde and how to drive from Harold Hamilton. Duncan keeps trying to teach her the ins and outs of operating a car but Courtney finds she learns better with Harold, if only because their newest crew member practically idolizes her. Unlike Duncan, Harold never shouts at her when she hits the brake instead of the clutch. He also never derails her lessons by pulling off on the side of the road and taking off his clothes like some other people she knows.
Since picking up Harold, they have two successful robberies, small gas stations near the state line, but Duncan makes her stay in the car both times, "Til ya can figure out what a straight line is and how to drive and shoot in one."
"I'm getting better!" she insists, holding the car door open with her foot when Duncan tries to shut it. "And I'm already skilled at the other element of being a good criminal," she adds, running the same foot up the front of Duncan's pants.
He grabs her ankle and puts her foot back in the car. "Yer not going in there without a script," he says, shutting the door. His voice is muffled through the closed window. "And yer not getting a script till I'm sure ya know how to handle yerself if anything goes south. And that means shooting and driving."
Courtney rolls down the glass as Heather and Al meander inside the store and Harold chatters at the gas station attendant. "Duncan, I swear," she says, eyeing Harold, "if I have to sit in this heat and listen to one more conversation about the Yankees or the brilliance of Ford engines…"
Duncan leans through the window and pecks her on the lips. "He's yer driver, love. Yer responsibility. Just like yer mine."
"Just hurry back," she mutters.
Courtney starts dragging herself out of Duncan's bed late at night to go practicing on her own. No matter how exhausted she may be from a night spent tangled up with Duncan Clyde, she takes his spare revolver and their car-keys-of-the-week from his jacket pocket and tries not to wake anyone by accidentally wrecking the car or shooting too close to the house. In the Southern night humidity, she wears one of Duncan's breathable shirts and layers on her perfume extra strong to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
Al joins her on a night she's having trouble shooting a snuff box at twenty yards.
"Can't sleep in this heat either, huh?" he jokes, sitting on a stack of firewood behind the shed of their Arkansas hideout. "You know, you might do better with a smaller gun like Heather's."
"I like this gun," Courtney insists, shooting and missing again.
"Just because my brother gave it to you?" Al laughs. "No offense to Clyde, chica, but he's not the weapons expert in this family. Hang on."
He goes inside and comes back out with Heather's smaller caliber pistol and a rifle.
"Try this. And don't tell Heather I let you borrow it," he says with a wink and hands her the pistol.
Courtney checks bullets, points, and fires. The kickback is much less severe and she knocks the snuff box sideways. With the next bullet, she knocks it clean off the fence.
"Huh," Courtney says, turning the pistol over in her hand. "Not bad."
Al chuckles. "I can pick one up for you when we pass through Tulsa."
"Thanks, Al."
He walks over to the fence with two firewood chunks and sets them up. "My brother teach you how to handle a Browning Automatic Rifle?"
"Not yet," she says, putting Heather's gun on the stump Al had just vacated. "Is it any different?"
"Oh, very. The BAR is frankly my gun of choice but they're mighty hard to conceal in discreet robberies."
He slaps in a cartridge, loads the chamber, and puts the gun in Courtney's hands. It's heavy and longer than her arm's length. Courtney holds the butt to her shoulder and points it at the logs.
"Not bad," Al says. "Sure you've never held one of these?"
"My grandfather fought for the Confederacy," she says, holding it just high enough to look down the sights. "I grew up with a dozen pictures of him holding muskets in my house."
"Well, a musket and a Browning aren't exactly the same. For one thing, besides the size difference, you don't need to load a Browning fifty times for fifty shots." Al walks around behind her and moves her hands further apart on the rifle. "And between you and me, there's nothing sweeter than the smooth RATATAT of the BAR." He presses up close behind Courtney. Very close. "How does that feel?"
Courtney shifts. His sticky wifebeater crawls up her spine. "It, um, feels odd."
"Probably because you're not bracing it against your shoulder right," he says, adjusting the butt of the gun so that it's right where it should be. "Chest up," he adds. His hand brushes down her breast to lay flat against her ribcage. He pushes up and Duncan's shirt rides up her thighs.
Courtney drops the position. She steps out of his reach. "Maybe Duncan should be showing me this."
Al holds out his arms. "All right. If you'd prefer. You were just getting the hang of it though."
She hands the rifle back and pulls her shirt down. "I think I'm done practicing for tonight."
As she grabs her gun and walks back to the house, Al calls after her, "So you're aware, Bonnie, just because you think my baby brother hung the moon, doesn't mean he actually did."
Courtney buttons her shirt all the way up and says, "Goodnight, Al."
"Night, doll. You owe me one."
When the rapid string of RATATAT rings out, Courtney jumps but doesn't turn around.