Undercover Badge; Next Generation

Chapter thirty-two

I'd kept as straight a face as possible, promised we would, and cackled like a mad woman after I closed the door behind him. Still high on my On-Top-of-The-World moment, I did a little jig to the bathroom, picking up my duffle on the way.

There, I brushed my teeth and combed out my hair, gently untangling the long strands from the bun I'd had it in. My pajamas consisted of baby blue boxers with cloud-like white sheep frolicking across the fabric and a white silk tie in the waistband that I tied into a bow paired with a long sleeved white cotton V-neck shirt.

I then grabbed a pillow and blanket from a linen closet I found in the bathroom, setting up my bed on the warm leather couch. It was deep enough that when I landed on it on my back, the cushions made this long, satisfying puff-ff-ff-ff as I sank into it.

A book found its way into my hands- a Mills and Boon type story line and plot with a mercifully ambiguous cover that didn't hint at the cliché inside. And that was how Matthew found me an hour later.

It was some time after two in the morning but I was far too wired to sleep. My previous victory and the energy of Chicago had spiced up my bloodstream, chasing away the fatigue I thought would have taken over. He walked in, shaking out strands of his hair that sported a few drops of water, his heavy coat finding the coat rack. It was drafty in the lofty apartment but it was decidedly warmer than the outside of the building.

My victory gave me a certain confidence, so I calmly closed my book and watched him with a raised eyebrow. His eyes were narrowed imperceptibly, a hint of crow's feet at their corners and the muscle in his jaw ticked though with less fluidity and rhythm than I was used to from him in anger.

"So?" I asked quietly, so as not to startle him. He didn't jump the mile that I would have, but his shoulders visibly grew tense and still for a second, before they lowered and relaxed as if the reaction had never been there.

"So?" he muttered back.

I sighed. Rolled my eyes.

"What. Happened?" I asked him slowly, condescendingly, like I was speaking to a child. His shoulders tightened, fists clenched. Both relaxed moments later before he turned to face me. His eyes went to my makeshift bed and narrowed. "I said you can have the bed." He snapped.

"I heard you." I placated. "What happened?"

He sighed, grumbled, stepped closer. "Everything is in order." He said and sat down on the arm of the couch. I pulled my legs up and folded them underneath me and he followed my cue, shifting into the cushion my legs had vacated.

"We'll be at the hotel at six; party starts at seven. I was angling for gigs as waiters- they get to move more freely but the only available job on the floor was as security staff." He said, grumbling the last part. He ran a hand through his hair.

"What do you mean? I thought we were guests?" I'd been having fantasies that we'd be dressed up together, be the couple of the evening. That he'd look at me like I was a princess. Apparently not.

"No. It's too obvious. Kat and James would see through that. If we're security, we have reasons to watch them. To be aware. On a guest that's suspicious."

"Me?" I asked him with a flat look. "Security. Right. That's believable." My sarcasm was scathing. The quirk of his lips told me he was thinking what I was thinking.

On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning before school, Matthew had taken me to the shooting range. He insisted things like aim and weapon preference were genetic. I told him that was stupid and biologically completely inaccurate. I told him that Jean-Babtiste Lamarck would have loved his theory, but that Charles Darwin would call him a fool. He's scowled deeply and told me that not all aspect of evolution were easily and neatly understood by theories. I didn't think he'd get it, but he did- of course.

The first problem was stance. Exposed to nothing but movies, I tried leveling the gun with one hand. Matthew had leaped forward with a concerned shout and quickly relieved me of the first gun like I was mad. By the time he was done, I was standing with my feet shoulder width apart, my right hand holding the gun, finger to trigger, my left cupping the bottom of the gun and my own hand on the grip. I felt like a moron. I kept bending my elbows, trying to keep the gun close to my body. Matthew yelped and clucked like a mother hen every time.

Matthew had handed me a gun; a bulky, awkward thing with a square shaped slide that was metallic, the grippy bit made of some hard black plastic. It was made in Austria, he told me. It was heavy and annoying and when I pulled the trigger my arms were shaking. I was put off by it. I hated the way the gun felt and no matter what I did, I couldn't shoot straight. It felt detached from me and gross and far away as I stared down the flat topped barrel. "Well." He said, staring down at me. "That's not it."

As it turns out, the Glock was my father's favorite handgun. Apparently, all his other favorites were Russian made and automatic, and after my epic fail with the Glock, Matthew had no interest in seeing me "Spray and pray". He handed me a small handgun next, something he called a Sig. It was littler than the Glock and a nice gunmetal grey all over. It had more shape and curvature to it, somehow looking more feminine, the slide arching away from the tip and down in a delicate curve, with all sorts of interesting little metal leavers and switches. "Is that the safety?" I asked excitedly. "No." he said. Concern suddenly lit his brow. "Uh, there's no safety on the Sig... uh. Maybe you should just give it back..."

But I ignored him and tried shooting again. It went better- still didn't hit the target at fifty feet but my arm shook less and it felt more comfortable. Matthew gingerly but quickly took the thing from me, clearly concerned about me without safety. After that he handed me a James Bond gun. A Walther PPK, he called it. This gun was kind of feminine too. Littler than both previous guns and a shiny silver all over with rectangles of black rubber on each side of the grip and safety, I liked it the most. Matthew had scowled deeply at me when I'd called it "So cute." The tip gently rolled down into the curve around the trigger, the magazine jutted out of the bottom slightly pronounced and my thumb fit super snugly under the curve below the hammer and overall, the gun felt the best in my hand.

But when it came time to pull the trigger, it was uncomfortable. It fit perfectly, of course but somehow pulling the trigger was awkward with my long, slim fingers. I also compensated for a kick like with the Glock, and when it never came, the shot flew wayward because of how little it knocked back. In spite of the fact that I'd liked it the most, the gun still didn't work for me.

Lastly, Matthew palmed me a tiny little thing similar to the PPK. It looked a bit haphazard, the bottom part of the gun bulky, the slide slim and short. It didn't quite look like it fit together. Matthew called it the "Ultimate Girl Gun." I hated it. The grip felt awkward and stupid in my palm, and I again hated the distance between me and the thing.

The feminine guns were all one's used by my mother, Matthew told me. And they used to all belong to her. Suddenly, I wished I'd been told that before. I suddenly felt the need to have the metal in my hands again, as if they'd bring me closer to her. Until I saw the long, navy blue bag in the deepest recesses of Matthew's truck. 

"What's what?" I asked with Genuine interest, forgetting my anger at him. He snorted. 

"That gun isn't genetic." He informed me.

My interest was piqued but I said nothing. The next days I tried them all again trying to feel traces of warmth in the steel as if my parents had transferred some of the heat in their palms through the metal, as if it was hidden deep inside the weapon and I could coax it out. I never found it.

"It's doubtful you'll ever have to be security. God forbid pull a gun." He said it calmly, cutting off my memory, with the intent to chill me out about the danger. But I could see the tension in the skin around his eyes, the way his eyebrows were furrowed minutely. Without thinking about it too much, and with narrowed eyes, I reached out with my index finger and gave him a hard poke between his eyebrows. The space between them relaxed, his skull rearing back on his neck like one of those blow up dolls with water in the bottom- the ones you punch that always swing back up.

"What the fuck?" he exploded when his head had finished its swing, a hand going to the top crest of his nasal bridge.

"You furrow your eyebrows when you're lying." I deadpanned, mouth set stubbornly. He scowled again, but didn't disagree.

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