Chapter 1
Larry Donovan was ready to close for the night when headlights panned across the front of his store, emblazoning the tall letters that dominated the plate glass.
GUNS.
Of course, from where Larry stood behind the counter, the letters were reversed.
SNUG.
Which is exactly what Larry wanted to be: snug on his couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. If Susan beat him home and got the zapper first, she’d spend the whole damn night clicking through their Netflix queue, trying and failing to pick something to watch.
Unwilling to lose yet another night to his wife’s indecisive scrolling, Larry hitched his pants and leaned on the counter, ready to tell this last-second, would-be buzzer beater too bad, so sad, shop’s closed for the night. Because let’s face it. If somebody comes in at two minutes to closed, they’re going to buy maybe a pack of gum, maybe nothing at all, and they’re going to take their time doing it. Murphy’s Law loves showing up right around quitting time with a busted watch and a big old shit eating grin.
Then the bell tinkled, the door opened, and Larry’s jaw dropped.
The tall blonde looked like a runway model, though her big glasses made her look like a schoolteacher.
Not that Larry had ever had a teacher that looked like her.
The woman’s tight white blouse and short black miniskirt hugged her nice, trim figure. She smiled brightly, clicking across the tiles in black heels.
“Hello,” the beautiful woman said. “I am preparing to learn to use firearms and would like to purchase ammunition, please.”
“Well, you came to right place, ma’am,” Larry said. “I was just getting ready to close up, but I can stay open a few extra minutes. What kind of ammunition?”
“I would like to buy all of your .45 hollow-points, please.”
“For target shooting?”
The blonde nodded. “How many do you have in stock?”
Larry turned, gesturing toward the shelves. “I have two boxes of Federal Hydra-Shoks in 230 grain. But ma’am, I have to be honest, people don’t generally use hollow-points for target practice.”
“Thank you for your assistance. I would like to purchase both boxes, please. I was, however, hoping to acquire more ammunition. Do you carry regular .45 ammunition in bulk?”
“Bulk? I got three tubs of Blazer Brass. Good ammo for the price. Two hundred rounds per can.”
“I would like to buy all three buckets, please.”
Larry did his best to hide his surprise.
“Also,” the woman said, “I would like to purchase both boxes of your 9mm Luger +P ammunition.”
“Ma’am, in good conscience, I have to tell you that most folks don’t use the +P for target practice, either.” Then something struck him. “How did you know I had two boxes?”
The blonde smiled. “I have good eyes,” she said, pointing past him to the wall of ammunition, and twitched her nose cutely, walking her glasses upward.
“All right.” Larry didn’t understand how she could have spotted and read the boxes from where she stood, but it didn’t matter. He started stacking her purchases on the counter.
“You have 7.62 ammunition in bulk, correct?”
He nodded. “Got some boys that come up from Key West that really peel through the AK rounds, so I keep a good deal in stock.” He leaned, counting. “Right now, I’m sitting on seven thousand-round cases. They go for two seventy-five a pop.”
“I’d like four cases, please, and I am also hoping to acquire 12 gauge shotgun shells.”
“Okay,” Larry said, and the little calculator in his head started making happy sounds. “For a beginner, it seems like you’re diving right into things.”
The blonde smiled. “That is accurate. My husband says he has too many triggers and not enough fingers.”
“Wise man,” Larry chuckled, thinking, And a lucky man.
He directed her attention to the 12 gauge ammo, and she surprised him again, ordering the eighty-round case of nickel-plated 00 buck he’d been unable to move for a year and all six of his two-hundred-and-fifty-round cases, half in #4, half in #6. “Anything else?”
“Yes, I would like to purchase your Glock 43, please.”
Larry wondered again how she had known that he had a single Glock 43 in stock but decided not to ask. The girl was as strange as she was beautiful, and a tickle of unaccountable dread tiptoed up his spine.
He went to the case, brought out the slimline 9mm, and set it on the counter before her. He started to explain the features of the tiny carry piece, but the blond woman stopped him.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, “but there is no need to explain. I have already made up my mind and would like to purchase the firearm.”
“All right,” Larry said. Despite the weirdness, he was happy for the sale. It had been a slow month. “Anything else?”
“I desire a cute carry purse for the Glock 43.”
“Okay,” he said, coming around the counter and directing her to his small collection of concealed carry bags. He began to extol the various advantages of each model, but again the woman cut him off, selecting her choice quickly.
“Sounds good,” he said, wishing his wife could be half this decisive with the TV as this woman seemed to be about everything. He pulled the small black purse from the rack and carried it back behind the counter. “Anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you,” she said cheerfully. “I am excited to fire my first firearm.”
“Your first?” The woman was purchasing a lot more gear than Larry would’ve expected from a first-timer. But that was her business, not his. He reached under the counter and withdrew paperwork for the Glock.
“Oh,” the woman said, “paperwork will not be necessary for this transaction.”
Larry laughed and started to tell her that yes, it would be necessary. The ATF would close his ass down faster than you could say license revoked if he didn’t secure paperwork for a firearms transaction. But then, blinking into the woman’s brilliant smile, he realized she was right.
For this transaction, paperwork was unnecessary.
The door opened, jangling the little bell overhead, and in walked a tall, wiry guy in jeans and a white t-shirt with his arm around a gorgeous woman who looked like she might have just escaped from a lunatic asylum.
She wore combat boots, fishnet stockings, and jeans cut so short they’d probably be illegal in the Bible Belt. Her purple half-shirt exposed a flat midriff and the tops of her round breasts. Mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—gleamed above her bright smile. One side of her head was shaved. The other was covered by a thick spill of purple locks. And if that wasn’t crazy enough, she was wearing a tinfoil hat that appeared to be held in place by a rubber band stretched down under her chin.
“Hi,” she chimed, and gave Larry a happy, little wave.
The hint of dread he’d experienced earlier returned, only this time, instead of tickling up his spine, it kicked him in the ass. Hard.
“Sorry, folks,” he said, standing up straight. “Shop’s closed. This young lady’s my last customer for the night.”
“It’s okay,” the blonde said. “These people are with me.”
“With you?” Larry said, trying to square this prim and proper blonde with the crazy-looking punk rocker and her swaggering boyfriend.
“Yes,” the blonde said, as the pair reached her, and the man slipped his other arm over her shoulders. “This is my husband and his other wife.”
“Other wife,” Larry said.
The purple-haired woman leaned in with a hopeful look on her face. “Do you sell pie?”
“Pie?” Larry said. “This is a gun shop, ma’am.”
The beautiful lunatic frowned. “It was worth a try.”
“What’s the damage, hoss?” the tall man asked.
Larry had been so distracted by the women that he hadn’t paid much attention to their man. Now, Larry looked at him, really looked at him for the first time, and his jaw dropped wide open. For a second, he couldn’t believe it. He took in the pale blue eyes, wiry body, and lean face so hard that it might have been carved from stone. Then Larry’s eyes fell to the gold belt buckle that read Professional Bull Riders World Champion. “Holy shit,” Larry said, “you’re Brawley Hayes.”
The world champion bull rider shook his head.
“Sure you are,” Larry said, grinning from ear to ear. He couldn’t help it. This was Brawley-fucking-Hayes, the greatest bull rider and toughest son of a gun on the planet. Larry had watched Brawley get stomped, thrown hard, and slammed into the wall. He’d seen him break limbs and ribs and one time fracture his orbital on the horns of a bucking bull. He’d seen him climb into the gate with a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder and Lord only knew how many other injuries and still cover a top bull for 90 points and the win.
And through it all, not so much as a grimace from Brawley.
Old Time Tough, the fans called him, loving him for his grit and swagger and the fact that he always wanted to ride the rankest bulls.
Then the rankest bull of them all, Aftershock, who still hadn’t been ridden successfully in two years of competition, had broken Brawley’s neck and the hearts of PBR fans.
“Sorry, partner, but you got me mixed up with somebody else,” Brawley said in the deep drawl Larry had heard in countless interviews.
Then a funny thing happened. For a second, just a second, Larry thought he’d made a mistake. Despite the man’s unmistakable appearance, familiar voice, and gold buckle, he understood that no, this wasn’t Brawley Hayes.
But the feeling passed, and Larry laughed. It was understandable that a celebrity wouldn’t want the attention. “No worries, Mr. Hayes. I won’t tell anybody you’re here, and I sure won’t say anything about your friends.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” the blonde said. “You have my husband confused with someone else.”
A strange feeling passed over Larry. Confusion followed rapidly by clarity tinged with embarrassment. How had he mistaken this guy for Brawley Hayes? Considering the man again, he saw rough similarities, but that was all. What had he been thinking?
This man’s eyes were brown, not blue. He was maybe an inch or two over six feet, not six-four like the PBR champ. And this guy’s muscles were larger, those of a weightlifter, not a cowboy.
Larry shook his head. “Sorry, sir. For a second there, I could’ve sworn…”
“No problem, friend,” the man said, and even his voice was different, not so deep and washed clean not only of that West Texas drawl but of any recognizable accent whatsoever.
What a strange night. Time to close up shop and head home. Susan could have the damn remote. He just wanted to pound a six-pack, hit the rack, and start over in the morning.
He rang them up. It was just shy of twenty-five hundred dollars.
The man he’d mistaken for Brawley Hayes paid in cash while the girl in the tinfoil hat told the blonde how cute the crossbody carry purse was.
Larry started to hold the hundreds up to the light.
“They’re good,” the man who wasn’t Brawley Hayes said, and Larry knew he was right.
“Sorry,” Larry said, not even sure why he was apologizing, and fed the bills into the register.
The trio thanked him and went on their way, the blonde clutching the purse and the Glock, the tall man carrying everything else, and the purple-haired beauty telling them if she didn’t get pie soon, she was going to go into serious withdrawal.
Hearing the guy’s laughter, Larry was confused again for a second—it sure sounded like the laughter of his favorite bull rider—but then the man held the door for his women, and another set of headlights pulled into the lot.
“No sir,” Larry said, starting around the counter, meaning to flip the sign from open to closed. “Not tonight.”
But as he reached the end of the counter, the women came hurrying back into the store, and the night erupted in gunfire.
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