I looked down the barrel of my glock and positioned a vital corner of his chest in my sights. I had a small window of opportunity to get the shot right. Too far south and I’d hit his heart, to my left was his lung and to the right was a major artery. In other words, there was a reason why my hands were shaking and sweat was making my finger slip on the trigger. One false move and he was toast. Dead toast.
There was something about this man with his warm, trusting honey brown
eyes, teasing smirk and the way he reached into my heart and screwed
around with my normally sane sense of judgment. He messed with my head
in a way that messed with my gun performance and that wasn’t good. I
needed to shoot him. In fact, it was imperative.
If I cared
much, much less for the man, pulling the trigger might have been easier.
However, I wouldn’t know if that was a true statement. After all, how
could I shoot an innocent man? Much less, pull the trigger on him
knowing I was deeply, madly and irrationally in love with him?
Maybe I should back up and explain that...