Howdy Honey (Rolivia)

Hit Me with Your Best Shot

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, strap on your pistol
That gun in your hand, my heart goes asystol'
As a birthday gift, you may think it strange
But even a sharpshooter should hit the range
Once in a while, to brush up on technique
Have I mentioned how much I adore your physique?

The shooting range was a smokescreen. She had taken a page out of the Amanda Rollins how-to manual "Cover Stories and When to Use Them"—there was a whole section devoted to what could conceivably be blamed on a dog—and decided to make her announcement someplace where the detective could be as loud and rowdy as she pleased.

So far, it was going over like gangbusters, and Olivia hadn't even mentioned the promotion yet. It had been difficult not to just blurt it out at Sugar Mama's, while they sat across from each other, gorging on sweets and grinning like a couple of lovesick teenagers sharing a milkshake at a 1950's soda fountain. Then Amanda had taken her completely by surprise with a stealth announcement of her own, and Olivia all but forgot the secret she'd been keeping for the past two days.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. When she floated the idea to Chief Garland, she had fretted he might accuse her of playing favorites, of trying to secure rank for Amanda because of their relationship—which was precisely what she was doing. But not for those reasons alone. Promotion to detective second grade was merit-based, and Amanda had proven herself an exemplary officer time and again. Plus, she had the years in. She deserved the salary bump (a major incentive for Olivia, considering the way their year had started out) and she could flex her leadership muscles by bossing Kat around.

Olivia hadn't mentioned the last two points in her speech to Garland, though she'd caught herself edging towards an impassioned plea under his shrewd gaze. At times, she missed Dodds and their rapport—and his tendency to be a pushover, especially with a certain tall, brunette captain. But after a ten-minute presentation that included examples, quotations, and at least one visual aid (a picture of Amanda with Mandy Fowler, now a campus rape counselor who regularly invited Olivia and Amanda to speak at her university), Garland had silenced her with an upraised palm and simply stated, "I agree."

The next day, Olivia got word that Amanda was on the grid, and a week later the commissioner had approved the recommendation. Olivia had rewritten the next to last riddle right there at her desk, in a flurry of divine inspiration—she was particularly proud of rhyming pistol with asystole, minus the "E"—and now the time had come for the big reveal. She couldn't just undercut it, though. That was Amanda's way: wait till the most ordinary moment and casually give the love of your life an aneurysm.

No, it should be more of a production. And that's how Olivia ended up severing a guy's arm at the elbow.

He was only a paper man, in the form of a B21 silhouette target, but his forearm separated completely from his black sleeve when she emptied all fifteen rounds from her Glock into the circle marked "D2" at his elbow. Normally she went for the "X" at center mass during these little tune-ups at the range, which inevitably turned competitive with Amanda in tow. Even now, the detective was over there pumping her target's gut full of lead, all but one shot a perfect bullseye—that one, she'd purposely put between his eyes. Show off.

Olivia soothed her smarting ego with the knowledge that she had thrown the competition on purpose and her grouping was tight on a small, difficult area to hit. Still, two points per bullet almost wasn't worth it. Why couldn't there be a ninth grade for Amanda to be promoted into, dammit?

Swallowing her pride, she stood back to watch the blonde bombarding the poor paper bastard with her last two bullets. She had to admit, it was a pleasant sight to behold—the laser focus in those blue eyes, that much keener than Olivia's scalpel-sharp precision; the cobralike stance, slightly crouched forward, lean legs steady beneath her, but fluid and poised to strike; the floe of pale hair over one shoulder; the shapely back pockets of those snug Levi's, clinging like a second skin. God bless you, Mr. Strauss.