Girls Just Wanna Have Guns Read Free

Maimee, you don’t really want a Glock. You want to go home and talk to Mr. Edgar and work out some things.”
    “Nonsense, girl. This isn’t about Edgar. I feel the need for protection.” She plunked the Glock down on the glass countertop. “I have the right to buy a gun and you have to sell it to me.”
    Bobbie Faye rankled at being called
girl
, but she let it slide. It was probably best not to annoy soon-to-be-armed customers. “You don’t know how to shoot.”
    “Well, I heard that you’re a crack shot and you give lessons here, so sign me up.”
    “They’re kinda expensive.”
    “Not a problem. How many lessons will it take for me to be able to pick off an intruder at night?”
    “Doesn’t Mr. Edgar come in late sometimes?”
    “Here’s my credit card. Run it on through. And add some ammunition. I’m not sure how much a person needs to defend themselves. A lot, I imagine. Ring that up, too.”
    This was going to get ugly. Bobbie Faye knew it, knew she was going to be on the blaming end of things if Mr. Edgar should suddenly meet his untimely demise, just as sure as she’d known a couple of months earlier that she had to hijack a truck in order to save her brother who had called with the teeny-tiny problem of being kidnapped and held for ransom. She was sorry about destroying nearly half the state while rescuing Roy. Really.
    She had a feeling not everyone believed her, though, which made her think briefly of her ex, Detective Cameron Moreau. Sure, he was sexy and he could be charming as hell when he wanted to be (he hadn’t been an SEC Championship Quarterback for LSU without gaining a little public relations savvy), but for every ounce of gorgeous, he was also pound-for-pound the bossiest human being on the planet. (Well, okay, slight exaggeration. There were a few people she hadn’t met yet and it was statistically possible at least
one
of them was bossier.)
    Cam meant well, sure. He had a good heart. She knew that—knew, as they were growing up best friends, that he just wanted what was best for her, even though they butted heads about her choices. There was a moment there at the end of the last chase where she knew he’d been torn between choosing to shoot her and choosing to help her. For about two seconds, she’d thought they might have had a possibility of being friends again when he decided to help, but true to form, as soon as the crisis was over, he’d reverted back to being ticked off that she hadn’t called him for his advice, hadn’t let him control her every move.
    Yeah, she was really beginning to empathize with Maimee’s gun purchase.
    She picked up the gun Maimee had set on the counter, palming the weight of the sleek metal. An ill feeling gnawed at the pit of her stomach as she flashed back to her weird dream, seeing herself shooting that schlumpy guy. She could practically feel the vibrations of the impact as the man hit the ground.
    “Bobbie Faye,” Maimee huffed, tap-tap-tapping her credit card on the glass countertop, snapping her back to attention.
It was just a dream. Only a dream
. “Go on now. Ring it up. I’ve got to get to a prayer meeting.”
    The word
meeting
hung in the air above Maimee’s head just as the front door of the old Acadian-style building yanked open, bell jangling, and in flounced one royal pain-in-the-ass: Francesca Despré—all five-foot-five of her, an inch shorter than Bobbie Faye and slightly flatter-chested(something Francesca had never accepted and used push-up bras to mitigate). Francesca’s short auburn hair framed a perfectly tanned complexion and her couture clothing shrieked
Wannabe Diva!
She teetered on black four-inch stiletto heels and carried a fluffy shockingly pink feathered purse that she clutched in one hand and an alligator-clad makeup sample case in the other. It was the shredded and practically nonexistent black micro-miniskirt which was the
piece de resistance
—a skirt made of such gossamer threads barely strung