“Well, Dollface back there isn’t a pro. She’s just a few kinds of fun.” They entered a ready room that narrowed to the lanes. “Hell, they’re all fun.”

Winters looked around at the range. Typical tactical team types practiced shots, and a few range grunts focused on the targets. But there were women. Women like Cash’s Sugar. Sexy leather pants, too-tight shirts, strapped with guns.

“What the hell is this place?”

“Something of an invitation-only gun club.”

“And all the women?”

“What? You’ve never seen a lady in the lanes before?”

“This is sex on display.”

“Sugar knows how to run a profitable business. Nothing out of line. Just gorgeous gals who have our type of fun and know their weapons. What’s hotter than a woman wearing a belly shirt, holding a grenade launcher? She’ll find you one if that’s your fancy.”

“Christ, Cash. So this is…” He wasn’t sure how to ask him if he was mixed in a hooker ring.

“It’s no different than you nailing some broad from a bar.” Cash stood in front of a lane but didn’t step forward. Winters moved adjacent to him, feet from the starting line.

“Cash, man, I don’t need a special invite to those bars.”

“It’s a social club, not a bunny ranch. Dude, what’s your deal? I’m not trying to lure you into some seedy, VD bordello. It’s a gun range that quality females with special interests frequent. If someone catches your eye, do something about it.”

He turned from Cash and stepped into the cubbyhole. After he ejected the empty clip, he loaded the rounds and donned protective glasses and earplugs. Do something about it. Cash was off his rocker if he thought a piece of leather-wrapped tail would do something for him right now.

He owed it to Mia. She’d never know, but that wasn’t the point. Sugar wasn’t appealing. Winters jumped his gaze from one lady to the next. Hell, none of them were interesting. Maybe his taste in women had changed.

Winters slammed the clip in and blew out a heavy breath. He pinched his eyes, then focused on the target twenty-five yards away. He squeezed the trigger and absorbed the kickback.

Yeah, he needed that.

He cocked another round into the chamber and fired again, and again. The kick was a relief. A constant. Something comforting that happened with every trigger-pulled blast.

“Winters,” Sugar said, almost purred, seconds before he was overpowered with her perfume.

He didn’t need to look behind him, but he did. Sugar wrapped herself around the edge of the partition.

Go away.

But she didn’t. He took off his protective shades, took out his earplugs, and gave her a nod but didn’t offer a response. Instead, he punched the button, and his shot up cardboard target raced forward on the track and came to a stop, swaying. Each gunshot landed where he’d intended. His precision was a work of black powder beauty.

“Hey, champ. That’s your everyday carry?”