I leaned against the Plexiglas divider of our lane, watching Abby empty magazines with no fear.
She knew exactly how to turn me on.
The safety glasses kept slipping, the earmuffs dwarfing her head, but the confidence fit like a glove; by the time a spent mag hit the floor, she’d already clicked a new one in, racked and fired.
Here, she couldn’t falter, and I liked that, but being here also did for her what the meds couldn’t, and I liked that more.
My Glock therapy was promising.
All her shots center mass, I gave her a thumbs-up and she rolled her eyes, changing the targets and giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat before I took my place on the line.
I was halfway through the set when my phone vibrated against my hip, my partner’s number on the screen. Holstering on instinct, I picked up as I shouldered my way through the door, the brass bell going off behind me, then again as Abby followed.
“Nick,” I said, crossing the lot to my unmarked, pulling at my earplugs. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got one hot off the presses. Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, reaching for the door of the Crown Vic.“Where’s it at?”
“It’s twenty-six Hawkins, in the Silver Terrace development.”
“I’ll be there.” I said, ending the call, Abby watching me over the hood.
“You’re leaving.” She said.
Watching me fish the duty ammo from my pocket was more than enough confirmation.
Therapy was over.