Safety reasons. That was what I told everyone at Gunslingers firing range that morning when they asked why I wanted to learn how to shoot a gun. It was a lie. Julianne and I were there to meet men, but saying that out loud makes you look desperate. Saying we needed protection was the perfect answer. No one was going to ask us any more questions. They were afraid we had sad stories to tell. The truly clever bit is that everyone knows guys can’t resist a damsel in distress. Go read Sleeping Beauty or Twilight or see a James Bond movie and you’ll see I’m right.
Last night Julianne and me did a little manhunting at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It was pretty depressing. I seriously needed a beer after hearing all those sad stories. But you can’t drink with those guys. They get all serious about it, like one beer is going to kill them. Guys who shoot guns have to be more fun than teetotalers, right?
Damn, though, pickings were more slim at Gunslingers than they were on that online dating site for old folks. Julianne started in with the instructor, fluttering those long eyelashes she started growing since her doctor prescribed those glaucoma eye drops. That left me with grizzled grandpa, barbed wire tattoo guy, or mystery man who didn’t speak English.
I pointed at the box of guns the instructor brought in. “Is there a pink one?” I asked no one in particular. Barbed wire tattoo guy ignored me; mystery man posed for a selfie photo clutching his revolver to his chest. Grandpa smiled politely at me, so I picked up the revolver by the muzzle and looked confused.
“Do you know how to load this?”
Gramps took it out of my hands and filled it with bullets in one smooth movement.
“You’re so good at that,” I purred.
“Been doing it for years,” he said.
“Maybe I don’t need to learn how to shoot a gun. I can just take you home with me,” I said. His polite smile morphed into a surprised grin.