Pieces of Lies by Angela Richardson Read Free Book Online Page B

driver’s seat, reassuring him I was just mucking around. He didn’t look happy at all. In fact, I think he was sulking that I had belittled the love he obviously had for cars. 
    The air between us grew eerily silent as he watched me. I waited a moment before starting the engine, because he looked like he was deep in thought about what he was about to say.
    “You know Norah, you have quite an apartment and quite a car for being just an artist.” There was a dark edge in the way he made his statement.
    FUCK!!!
    I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as he waited for me to bite on that comment. He was looking for a reaction which would give something away, but I knew better than that. He wasn’t the first person to question the peculiarities of my lifestyle, and I had to give it him for picking up on them already. He was clearly paying close attention.
    As he waited for me to respond, my heart rate moved at lightning speed, my head screamed to run away from Clint and his incessant need to poke into my private life, which was, as I knew, extremely dangerous to do.
    Breathe Norah, breathe.  
    I turned, shrugged, gave him the sweetest smile I could, and simply just said, “Yes Clint, I suppose I do, don’t I?” and I started the car and drove out of the basement, having just won my hand in our game of poker face.
    After driving for about twenty minutes, we pulled into a parking lot just on the outskirts of town. Clint stared out the car window, completely confused.
    “A gun range. You brought me to a gun range?” He was looking at the sign over the top of the large industrial cement building which read ‘Seth’s Gun Range & Café’.
    “I find it very relaxing.” I was already feeling more at ease just being in the car park. He was looking at me like I was some kind of alien.
    “You like guns?” he asked, the shock evident in his voice.
    “Clint, I’m a firm believer that having knowledge and respect for guns is an important part of everyday life. Everyone should know how to handle one, how to fire one, for their own protection. I think people are too ignorant about the fact that gun-related death is such a high killer in this country.” Clint was thinking, still looking a little unsure. “Plus,” I said, “it’s really fun and you can blow off a lot of steam in the process.”
    His facial expression changed into a quirky grin. He then hopped out of the car, hurrying around to my door and opened it for me, “You know what Norah, I couldn’t agree more.”
    Inside the range, Clint selected a couple of the bigger handguns and I chose a Glock. I liked the feel and the weight of the gun in my hands, and often resented myself for how comfortable I naturally felt holding the weapon. It gave me the worst possible thoughts, but holding it, firing it, controlling it, gave me the power I needed to overcome the constant feeling of darkness which swirled in the back of my head. Like my painting, shooting a gun was a very therapeutic way for me to vent when I felt overwhelmed by dark thoughts and feelings.
    Clint and I fired our rounds with ease. He had quite a knack at shooting and almost hit his target on a few shots. I however, hit my target perfectly every time. After my third round, I looked over to Clint who was watching me with an odd look on his face. It was as if he wasn’t so sure about the girl he was on a date with and probably thinking about what I would do to him if he tried to pull something. The idea of his fear made me chuckle.
    After our allocated rounds, we decided to grab a bite to eat in the range’s café. The gun range café was modern looking, with exposed brick walls and steel tables and chairs throughout, and on the walls were large framed posters of scantily clad women in bikinis, holding mostly machine guns and other assorted weapons. If I didn’t love firing a gun so much, I might have been offended by the degrading pictures, but I had to respect the business’s marketing gimmick.