Chapter 22: Target Practice
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"Am I gonna get in trouble for not having a shooting permit or something?" Rachel asked nervously as Frank prepared the target board outside.
"No, you're on private property," he assured her, shuffling unfamiliar objects around in the snow while she watched. "None of these are loaded," he said when he noticed her flinch at the sight of the open gun case.
"You mean I don't get to shoot anything for real?" she asked, disappointed.
"Not right away. I want you to get a feel for the pistol first." He picked up one of the guns with an expert hand, facing it down as he moved over to her. "Have you ever held a gun before?"
"No," Rachel admitted with an excited grin.
"See what I'm doing?" He gestured to where he held the gun, barrel facing the ground. "Always point it downward."
He let her hold it.
"This is a Glock 17, 9 millimeter."
It was slightly heavier than she'd thought it would be. He began rattling off the anatomy of the pistol to her while she half-listened. Something about safety, a slide stop and release, and something about a magazine release.
"I've been on the cover of many magazines in my time. That ain't no magazine," Rachel said with a snicker.
He gave her a dubious look as he snapped the slide back into place. "Don't touch this part," he gestured to the top of the gun. "It goes back and forth when you shoot. You don't want to get slide bite."
She giggled again.
"You want to start by holding the gun with your strong hand," he positioned her right hand around one side of the pistol and arranged her fingers in an uncomfortable way. "And bring your other hand around the opposite side, making sure there's none of the gun showing between your fingers."
"I don't like this," she complained. "Can't I just use one hand like they do in those Old Westerns?" She theatrically waved the gun around in her right hand before he caught her hand and roughly adjusted it back to his liking.
"No. The recoil will make the gun move in the direction you aren't supporting. That's why you hold it with both hands." He stood behind her, hands covering both of hers on either side of the pistol. "An effective marksman knows that proper shooting grip is key."
She glanced suspiciously back at him over her shoulder. "You shot one handed."
"Only when my left hand was out of commission," he reminded her darkly. "Now keep your hands just like that and make a straight line with your right arm and the slide of the pistol."
He guided her arm to fully extend and locked it into position against his. She started to shake with nervous laughter.
"Are you gonna be doing that the whole time?" he asked, agitated. "There's no way I'm even loading this gun with practice ammo if you keep giggling like this." Him being so serious only made her laugh harder.
"I'm sorry. I'll be good."
He didn't look convinced. "Alright, get into proper stance. Bend your knees slightly, feet shoulder width apart. " He nudged her heel with his boot. "See, you're already relaxing your arm. Straighten it out. Now put your shoulders forward a little. Lean into the target. Finger on the trigger."
Rachel wasn't as concerned with her posture as much as she just enjoyed having his hands all over her. She glanced flirtatiously back at him as he placed his hands on her hips from behind. "There ain't no way I'm hitting that target with you touching me like that, Farmer."
She finally saw a hint of a smile on his face as he backed away.
"Alright, you can dry fire this one. Go ahead and pull the trigger."
For a moment she forgot that the gun was empty, and her heart pounced when it gave an anticlimactic 'click' under her finger.
"Good," he approved, coming up behind her to take the gun from her hands, move the slide back into place and hand it back to her. "Now try it yourself."
Distracted as she was by the intense way he was watching her, Rachel found it very difficult to replicate the stance he had just coached her on.
"Like this?" She looked at him for approval.
He adjusted her hands slightly and pushed her back gently forward. "Keep your grip as firm and as high up as you can on the pistol without touching the slide here," he tapped the top of the gun and repositioned her thumbs. "Got it?"
"Yeah."
"When you pull the trigger for real there's going to be a lot of back-pressure from the shot," he explained, making distracting little motions with his fingers on the side of the pistol. "Just make sure you're prepared for that."
Rachel smiled to herself, amused by the amount of innuendos he'd just uttered in the last minute. "Uh huh."
"Okay, I'm gonna load it now. Just target rounds." Rachel watched as Frank fed the gun with ammunition and locked it into place. She looked at him in confusion as he handed her a pair of white earplugs. "It's loud," he said with a smirk.
She placed the earplugs in and listened carefully to his muffled instructions as he helped her get back into the proper position and explained where to aim on the target board. Overexcited, she pulled the trigger before he'd given her permission. The force of the fire nearly sent her stumbling backward, and she screamed.
"Sweet baby Jesus! What was that?"
"Newton's Third Law," Frank laughed as he grasped her hand and turned the gun to face downward.
Still shuddering, Rachel's hand fell limp as he took the pistol from her. "How the hell do you do this?"
"You'll get used to the kickback the more you practice."
"I don't know when I'll have much opportunity to practice," she said, eyeing him from the side.
"They have shooting ranges in L.A.," he said casually. She had hoped he would have offered her private lessons. "Do you want to try again?"
She nodded and he helped her arrange her fingers around the pistol. Feeling slightly more comfortable now that she knew what to expect, Rachel squinted at her target and pulled the trigger. She still couldn't resist crying out in startlement at the force of the shot.
"That was better," he said.
"Did I hit it this time?"
"No." He chuckled at her disappointed pout and cautiously removed the weapon from her grip.
Arms crossed, she pursed her lips and stood back as he got into position to shoot next.
"Get behind me," he instructed, jerking his head to the side. She obediently took several steps back until she was at a safe distance, and then he fired several fast rounds at the board, the shells falling into the snow beside his boots.
The echo of launching bullets rattled her ribcage, even though she wasn't holding the pistol this time. He pointed the gun at the ground again, hit the magazine release, and quickly inserted something before firing another burst of rounds. From what she could tell, not a single one missed the target.
Watching him shoot so confidently seemed to weaken her eyelids and make her heart swell with adoration. Rachel had never been so smitten with anyone before in her life. She assumed this must have been what her obsessed fans felt when they watched her performing on stage. But luckily for her, Frank Farmer had only been unattainable for a decade. In some ways she still found it exhilarating that he was even alive, standing right before her very eyes.
When he finished, he locked the pistol and looked over to find her staring at him. "What?"
"Nothin'," she murmured, shaking her head with a knowing smile.
He laughed sheepishly and reloaded the gun. "I might be out here a while."
"I don't mind."
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Rachel was incredulous. "You don't have a TV here? Not one TV in this whole damn house?"
"No, I don't watch TV," Frank replied flippantly while cleaning up the table from their early dinner.
Rachel narrowed her eyes. "What do you do?"
"I talk to myself," he deadpanned.
She gave him a dubious look.
He smirked as he dropped the silverware one piece at a time into the dishwasher. "I read."
"Well, I read too, Farmer, but I still like to watch TV," Rachel said, leaning onto her elbows on the counter.
"I've seen what you read," he hinted, a sarcastic edge to his low voice.
"You don't enjoy a good romance novel?" she asked sweetly.
"Not the kind you do."
She raised her eyebrows as he began to rattle off some of the provocative titles from the books she used to keep on her nightstand back when he was her bodyguard.
"You have a disturbingly detailed memory, Frank."
"I have a photographic memory."
"I've heard of that. I always thought people made it up."
"No, it's a real thing." He traced the lines in his forehead with one finger. "It can be a curse."
"Well, I'm still disappointed I can't watch the New Year's Rockin' Eve show. I was a featured performer before. I've got a soft spot for it."
"What do you want me to do? Go into town and buy a TV and a satellite dish just so you can watch a stupid ball drop?"
She looked at him expectantly through her lashes. "Well, what am I supposed to do all evening if I can't watch my New Year's Eve special?"
From the look in his eyes, she knew what his suggestion would've been. But the unexpected ring of the doorbell made him pause. He narrowed his eyes in the direction of the foyer and held out his hand for her to stay put as he left the kitchen to investigate.
Rachel listened from the kitchen as the door opened and the sweet matronly voice of an older woman greeted Frank. "Oh, Frank, dear, I expected one of your tenants!"
"Beverly," Frank addressed the woman, sounding just as surprised. "What brings you down here?"
Rachel quietly entered the hall to observe their exchange. The short gray-haired woman, who wore a beige coat and thick knitted scarf, looked to be in her late sixties.
"Earlier this afternoon, I was out walking and I heard gunshots and a woman screaming on your property," she said, clearly concerned. "Ron told me not to meddle, but of course I had to sneak down here and make sure everything was alright."
"Everything is fine. I'm sorry if my target practice disturbed you."
"Oh, no. We're used to that sort of thing," the woman said before adding carefully, "I guess I was just curious about the woman I heard–"
"That was me," Rachel interjected, stepping out from the hallway. Frank looked apprehensive about her introducing herself, but Rachel didn't let it stop her from walking right up to the woman to shake hands with her. "I'm Rachel."
"Beverly Broadbank," the woman said, her wide blue eyes flitting between Rachel and Frank with the threat of a smile on her lips.
"Sorry if I scared you earlier today," Rachel said with a charming laugh. "I'm kind of a loud person in general, honestly."
The woman chuckled along with her. "No, it's alright, sweetheart." She looked Rachel up and down. "I'm sure we've never met before. Are you from around here?"
"No, I'm just staying for the holidays."
Beverly's eyes twinkled as she glanced over at Frank. "Ah, I see."
"Shut the door, Frank!" Rachel admonished, squeezing between him and Beverly to close the front door. "The poor woman is about to freeze to death." She turned to Beverly with a winning smile. "I was just about to make myself some hot tea. Care to join me?"
The woman grinned as she removed her scarf. "Oh, that would be wonderful! Thank you, dear."
Frank glared suspiciously at Rachel as she brushed past him to escort his unassuming neighbor into the kitchen.
"I could really use some girl time," Rachel said to the woman as she filled the teapot with water and placed it on the stove. "My son was staying here with us, too. He left a couple days ago. I've been putting up with guy-talk for too long."
"Oh, you have a son?"
"Yes, he's eighteen. The light of my life."
"I have a grandson who just turned eighteen," the woman said excitedly. "He loves coming up here to hunt with my husband."
"It seems all the guys up here are obsessed with hunting and guns," Rachel said good-naturedly as she set two spoons and a sugar pot on the table.
"Did you, uh, ever meet Frank's father?" Beverly asked tentatively.
"Yes, I did," Rachel said, noting the look of surprise on the woman's face. "He was a sweet man. I hear he was a master hunter."
"Herb taught my husband almost everything he knows about hunting. We have two buckheads in our living room thanks to him," she chuckled fondly. "We were devastated when he passed."
Rachel suppressed a pang of sadness as she peeked into the hallway and noticed that Frank had made himself scarce. "You take honey in your tea?" she asked over her shoulder.
"Oh, yes," Beverly replied.
Rachel set two cups on the table and seated herself across from the woman. Rachel could feel that her face was being studied, but she pretended not to notice as she sipped her tea in contented silence.
"I hope you don't mind me asking, but how do you know Frank?" Beverly asked.
"He used to . . . work for me."
"Hmm." The woman eyed Rachel curiously from behind her teacup. "And . . . do you come here often?"
"This is my second time here," Rachel said, attempting to keep her information vague. "Frank brought me up here in the early 90's for a bit."
Beverly raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "So you've known each other for a while."
"Oh, yeah, we go way back," Rachel said dismissively.
"I've known Frank since he was nineteen years old," Beverly said quietly. "I don't think I recall him ever bringing a woman up here. I would imagine he doesn't do that often."
Rachel stared pensively into her teacup as she thought of how to respond. "I think that he prefers to be alone a lot of the time," she sighed.
Beverly lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper. "There was once a time when I thought he might be gay."
It was all Rachel could do to keep from spitting her tea everywhere as she bust out laughing at the thought. The older woman watched Rachel wipe tears from her eyes as she recovered.
"I'll assume from your reaction that is not the case."
Rachel shook her head, staring at the table with wide eyes. "Far from it."
Beverly appeared somewhat satisfied by her response. "So, I take it you're together."
Rachel cocked her head in consideration. "I like to think so."
"Has he ever brought up marriage to you?"
The woman's forwardness stunned Rachel.
"I don't mean to be nosy," Beverly backpedaled politely. "We don't get much excitement up here; you'll have to forgive an old lady like me. I've been watching too much Guiding Light."
"It's okay," Rachel said patiently, her heart racing a bit as she considered how to reply. "He hasn't brought up marriage . . . or anything long-term, really. I suspect he's still a little gun-shy from his divorce."
"Divorce?" It was Beverly's turn to look stunned. "I didn't even know he'd gotten married!"
Rachel froze, suddenly realizing that perhaps she had said too much. Frank wasn't the type to share about his personal life, even to a neighbor as warm as Beverly Broadbank. The fact that this woman had once suspected him of being homosexual made it quite clear that Frank had kept all details of his life a mystery from his father's friends.
"I don't know how long he was married," Rachel lied. "It might have just been a couple years."
"Oh, my." Beverly sipped her tea quietly for a minute as she processed the new information.
Rachel couldn't stop herself from asking, "Did Frank ever tell you what he did for work?"
Beverly shook her head. "No. His father kept his lips sealed, too. In fact, we always theorized about it," she said, her eyes moving suspiciously across Rachel's face. "You mentioned that he worked for you before. Is he a private investigator?"
Rachel smiled. "I don't think I should say."
"Oh, of course not. I understand." Beverly lowered her voice again, leaning into the table. "I always assumed he was a high profile detective. CIA, maybe." She fluttered her eyelashes at the ceiling. "At least that's my own little romantic conspiracy for why he's so secretive about it."
Rachel chuckled to herself, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the woman's wise blue gaze.
"I do hope the best for you two," Beverly said, her cheeks rosy.
"Thank you," Rachel murmured.
"Frank has always been a bit of a loner. I'd always hoped he'd find someone nice and settle down."
A shy sliver of doubt infected the glow in Rachel's heart. But was she the one with whom he would settle? She had to wonder.
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Beverly stayed for exactly one hour before she insisted on heading home. "I don't want to eat up your evening. I'm sure you have exciting plans for New Year's Eve," she'd said with a wink before donning her coat and wiggling her fingers at Rachel in farewell.
Part of Rachel wished she'd taken the time to get the woman's phone number. At the very least she might be able to enlist Beverly as a personal spy if Frank ran away again.
What a ridiculous notion, Rachel thought to herself as she shut the front door. She ran her hands through her hair and sighed heavily. She didn't have to wander through the house to find Frank. He'd come out of hiding the second the door closed.
"Not one for company, are you?" Rachel asked sarcastically.
"I don't entertain much," he said curtly, his arm reaching out behind her to lock the door where she'd forgotten to.
"You know, Farmer, in a few years you're gonna be that cranky old man who sits on his porch with a rifle and yells at everyone to get off his lawn."
He looked down at her with an agitated fake smile. "I already do that."
"Oh, yeah? No wonder your neighbors have to make up their own silly conspiracy theories about what you do for a living," Rachel said hotly. "If you'd actually taken time to socialize with them maybe you wouldn't have to worry about them gossiping about you behind your back." She turned on her heel and headed into the hall.
He gave a forced laugh as he followed her. "Nice. So I'm the topic of conversation at tea time now?"
"Don't flatter yourself. We talked about a lot of things besides you."
"Yeah? Did you tell her about your career?"
Rachel stopped to stare darkly at him before she entered the bedroom. He hesitated instead of following her inside, his hand clutching the door jamb.
"It never came up," Rachel admitted, drawing down the sheets of the bed. "But I wouldn't have had any problem telling her what I did for a living. She seems like a lovely woman, and I'd trust her."
Frank sighed, massaging his temples. "Rachel, look, I don't exactly want to broadcast that you're here. You've already been recognized in public."
"Frank, it's not like when I was out here last time. I'm nowhere near as popular, and there's definitely no one out to murder me this time."
"I understand that, but I would feel more comfortable with you keeping a low profile."
"I'm beginning to wonder if that's more for my sake or for yours." She slapped a pillow down onto the bed.
He entered the room then, his eyes like ice. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You never want to introduce me to anyone because you're afraid of their reaction, you think every stranger you meet is a threat, you waltz around in public with guns hidden everywhere but up your ass—"
"Oh, for crying out loud, Rachel. I'm sick of you getting on my case for this shit. Every time! Every time, you just have to bring it up."
"What are you talking about? I told you I was grateful for those times you stopped fans from bombarding me when we were out together. But that doesn't mean you have to hide me away from all your actual friends and neighbors!" She gestured passionately to the window as she shouted, her face flushed with frustration.
The look in his eyes told her he knew she had a point. He attempted to speak in a calmer register. "Okay, I get that you're upset with me, but you don't understand these people out here. Word travels disturbingly fast for there being a mile minimum between houses."
"Oh, you don't want your neighbors to know you have a woman out here, is that it?"
He gaped at her for a moment before answering forcefully, "I'd rather them not know the details of my private life."
"God, what is it with you? You act like the FBI is following your every move or something! You spend so much effort trying to be 'off the grid' that you can't even live your damn life." Resigned, Rachel brushed past him to grab her robe from where she'd left it hanging on the bathroom door.
He looked away and thought for a moment before he said softly, "It's hard for me to behave any other way, Rachel. I—" He paused and looked down, shaking his head. "I'm just…" His voice trailed off as he lifted his eyes to find her casually undressing in front of him.
Unaffected, she continued to disrobe, tossing her clothes onto the end of the bed as she discarded them. It was a power she had that never seemed to expire. The sight of her bare skin seemed to weaken him every time.
She allowed herself to remain naked for only a few seconds before slipping her arms into her robe and loosely tying it around her waist. She stared expectantly at him, fully aware that his fixed gaze was in a heated effort not to fall below her neckline where she had purposefully left her cleavage visible.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she whispered.
"I think there's a lot of things we've avoided discussing."
She crossed her arms, determined that he now did not deserve the view. "Whose fault is that?"
"Mine." His reply was so quiet she barely believed she'd heard it.
Her mouth fell open in astonishment.
"I'm not . . . good at this," he admitted, an earnestness in his expression that made her pause. "I know I don't always . . . say the right things."
"That's not your problem, Farmer. Your problem is that you don't say anything half the time."
After a long pause, he deflected – whether intentionally or not, she wasn't sure. "Do you notice that you refer to me by my last name whenever you're trying to alleviate the seriousness of a conversation?" he asked.
Rachel scoffed and turned away from him. "See, this is what therapy does to you. You gotta dissect every little thing someone does and make it significant."
He didn't say anything, but instead of getting on her nerves, it made her pause to think. Reluctantly, she turned around to face him again and gave in. "I have noticed that."
She expected to see the corner of his mouth turn up in knowing acknowledgment, but it didn't happen. He stared at her with the same wickedly intense concentration that he used during target practice. The echoes of their conversation begged her to continue, warning her that there was something missing, something that needed to be said, but she had lost all recollection in the line of fire of his arresting gaze.
It was the first time the thrilling thought crossed her mind, that it was possible he was even more attracted to her than she was to him. It seemed absurd, but if he had been so adept at hiding his true feelings from everyone around him, it wasn't unthinkable. She would never know, and it maddened her.
If they hadn't been so physically attracted to each other, maybe their communication would have been better. Because as it had happened so many times before, Rachel found herself lost in his arms before she could urge him to speak.
They missed the moment where the year changed. It became an afterthought in their fervor, a lost piece of darkness that didn't quite feel significant to them. A raw, untamed heat blazed through their bodies as they fell into one another's arms. Without a care in the world, Rachel had finally lost track of how many times they had made love.
She let him carry her to the brink as many times as he desired, knowing he found fulfillment in it. Somewhere along the way, she had developed an addiction to his touch, to the exact weight and pressure of his body, the precise way he looked at her. It was as if God had sculpted him for the sole purpose of fulfilling her desires. The connection they had developed was frightening – she had never taken one man to bed so often in such a short frame of time. It still felt like she was chasing something, as if a deep part of her knew that she would not have him forever. Their vague and precarious conversation earlier that evening had heightened that fear.
She was desperate to hold on to him for as long as she could, taking in every detail of the ways he loved her. The way he rubbed his ankles against hers underneath the sheets. The way he twisted locks of her hair around his fingers as he studied her face. The slow, sensual way he kissed her.
When he at last gave in, she pleaded with him to love her harder and harder, until it physically hurt. A fierce flush of delight filled his face and shoulders as he brought the force of his thrusts to its peak, holding nothing back. If she didn't feel pain, she was afraid she wouldn't feel anything. He never once broke eye contact with her through it all, which she felt was downright obscene. She climaxed under the silent blue fire of his gaze, and watched him submit to his own euphoria moments after.
He fell asleep face down, his face turned just barely enough on the pillow to allow him access to breathe. His position offered her a full, flaunting view of his backside in the firelight, so she didn't urge him to adjust. While the rest of his body had acquired somewhat of a tan, his bottom remained whiter than cotton. She found it both amusing and beautiful.
She let her adoring hands wander across his strong back, his skin still damp with perspiration. She felt so possessive of him, in spite of how independent she knew he was. She was arguably even more independent, but the years had taught her just how overrated independence could be.
She would have surrendered it completely to him if he had asked her. She loved him, and that was a certainty. But her love for him had put her in a new state of terror. Pride did not disappear overnight, especially not for someone of her pedigree.
He had hurt her before by running away, and she could sense that he was about to do it again. Outside these walls, the real world was waiting for them like a shark with its jaws open wide. Frank still had not implied anything long-term between them beyond this trip, and Rachel was losing patience. She wondered if they had continued speaking instead of falling into bed together yet again, maybe she would have some answers.
She found it hard to fall asleep.