Luther felt exposed. Not only was he in the presence of a lovely woman, but if Charles had told her everything, then she must know about his particular…tastes.
He offered a hand and forced himself to meet her eyes. She shook like a man, with a firm, iron grip.
“My brother told me all about your artificial leech,” she said. “That’s soooo hot.”
Luther blushed through to the tips of his ears.
“Nothing to be shy about. I like bad boys.” She slipped an arm around Charles’s waist in a way that was anything but sisterly.
“I have a whole collection of antique medical tools,” Luther said. “Not with me, but maybe I’ll get the chance to show you some time.”
“That makes me wet,” Alex said.
Luther went from scarlet to purple. “What…um…are you doing later?”
“My brother and I don’t have plans. Thought we’d get some shooting in before the range closes. Do you like guns, or are you just a sharp-edge kind of guy?”
“I do love my knives, but I wouldn’t mind shooting a few—”
“Oh my God,” Alex said, her attention diverting from Luther. “Is that…”
“James Jansen,” Charles said.
Luther turned to see who they were gawking at. The name had sounded familiar, but when he saw the man moving toward them through the crowd, he instantly made the connection.
“He stars in movies,” Luther said.
“No shit,” Alex said, “and he’s f**king smoking.”
But as the man approached, Luther had his doubts.
“He’s wearing sweatpants,” Luther said. “And flip-flops. You sure that’s James Jansen?”
“Looks exactly like him,” Charles said, “and he’s tall like Jansen, too.”
“I don’t think it’s him.”
As the man was on the verge of passing them by, Alex stepped in front of him with a big, seductive smile.
“I apologize,” she said, inching up to him, letting her br**sts brush against his sweatshirt. “You must get this all the time, but are you James Jansen?”
The man gave an uncomfortable smile, hesitating, as if debating how he should answer.
Finally, he shook his head.
“No, my name’s Lance. But you’re right. I do get that all the time.”
“You should own it,” she said. “If you’d said you were him, I would’ve believed you.”
The man pushed past Alex and disappeared into the crowd.
She sighed, and then turned back toward Luther. “You packing?” she asked.
“Huh?”
She moved in closer, breathed into his ear. “Do I need to frisk you to find out?”
“Uh, forty-five, in the car.”
“Are you married, Luther?”
“No. No, I’m not.”
“Good,” Alex said, giving Charles a narrow stare. “I’m not big on married guys.”
Luther wondered what was going on there, but then he found himself staring at the woman’s tits. She noticed, and winked at him. “See you at the range, cowboy. Nine P.M.”
“Later, Luther,” Charles said, walking off with Alex, his hand in the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans.
Never in all his life had it occurred to Luther that there might be a woman like that walking the earth. He couldn’t comprehend it.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, adjusting himself, and realized he suddenly had to piss. Really, really bad.
On his way toward the exit, Luther approached a trio of pudgy rednecks in camouflage who were loitering at a table of crossbows, pretending to shoot imaginary deer.
Was that?…no…couldn’t be…they’d actually sewn name tags into their jackets.
One of them turned as Luther passed by.
“Look at that tall, pretty, black-haired girlie.”
Luther stopped and looked at the man.
Name tag read Munchel.
Luther stared him down. Why did people always f**k with him in crowds or behind the wheels of their cars? Never in dark alleys. Never when he could actually do something about it.
Munchel could only stand about five seconds of Luther’s black-eyed stare, because he turned away, gave a little laugh Luther saw straight through, and said to his two buddies, “Look at this faggot.”
This wasn’t the time, or the place, for a fight. Too many witnesses. Worse, half the people here were armed.
Still, he couldn’t let this ass**le go scot-free. Luther took two quick steps toward Munchel, as if in a hurry to get by, and stuck out an elbow that lovingly connected with the idiot’s nose.
He muttered, “Scuze me,” as he stepped past, confident he’d broken it, the rusty smell of a nosebleed in the air.
Jack
Clay actually offered me his arm, which was a cute bit of chivalry that I hadn’t seen in quite a while. I took it, and had to smile when he started flexing his biceps to let me know how big his muscles were.
We made our way across the showroom floor, Clay stopping occasionally to ogle some unique piece of hardware. Just as we were exiting the tent, I ran into a familiar face.
He hadn’t aged a bit since I’d last seen him, still looking like a smaller, blond version of Schwarzenegger. Which is to say his shoulders were almost as wide as he was tall. He wore chinos, gym shoes, and a grey shirt that stretched tightly over his broad chest. When he spotted me, his eyes registered the faintest glint of amusement.
“Hello, Jack,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
Under his arm was a wooden box, which I had to assume contained a firearm or two.
“Hello, Tequila. This is Clay. Clay, this is Tequila.”
Clay offered his hand, grinning big. “Tequila and Jack Daniels? It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”
Tequila took the hand, and I watched, amused, as they played the macho game of who could grip the other guy harder. Though Clay had at least six inches on Tequila, he gave up first.
“You here on business?” I asked my old acquaintance. Some time ago, Tequila worked for some pretty unsavory characters.
“Are you?” he shot back.
“We’re headed for the range,” Clay said, wiggling his fingers, probably trying to get the circulation back. “You’re welcome to join us if you and Jack would like to catch up.”
Tequila stared blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
The three of us crossed the parking lot, heading over to the gun shop. I heard gunfire beyond the far wall, where the range must be. Clay led us up to the counter, where an unshaven, worried-looking fellow was mopping at his sweaty forehead with his flannel sleeve. Under that, he wore a humorous tee-shirt, which also appeared soaked with sweat.