Chapter Twenty-One
Ghost
The alarm on my phone buzzes on the nightstand next to us, pulling me reluctantly from sleep. Tizzy stirs next to me, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she stretches. Her arm brushes against mine, and I take the opportunity to pull her closer, tucking her against my chest. Mornings like this are rare—quiet, unhurried—and I’ll savor every second of it.
“We need to get up,” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.
“We’ve got time,” I reply, nuzzling into her hair. She smells like lavender and the faintest trace of gun oil—a mix that’s become distinctly hers since developing a habit of helping Caesar clean the weapons in the armory in her downtime.
She laughs softly, her body shaking against mine. “You’re the president. Don’t you have things to do?”
“You’re in my bed,” I counter. “That takes priority.”
Her laughter turns into a mock groan as she sits up, her hair a mess and her tank top twisted. “Alright, alright. But if I’m late, I’m blaming you.”
I watch her climb out of bed and start getting ready, the warm lamplight catching on her bare shoulders. She’s all lean strength and quiet confidence, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to drag her back under the covers. But I’ve got responsibilities, and so does she.
I pull on jeans and a black T-shirt, running a hand through my hair to make it look halfway decent. By the time I’m lacing up my boots, Tizzy’s already got her heels on and is fluffing her hair in the mirror. She glances at me, her eyes sparkling with that mix of mischief and determination that’s nothing but trouble.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Always.”
We step out of my room and head down the hall, the sound of her heels on the hardwood echoing in the quiet morning. The common room is already buzzing with activity, with Taz and Rasputin around the pool table, mugs of coffee in hand, while the others can be seen through the glass in the gun range. The sharp crack of gunfire echoes faintly from that direction.
“Looks like the boys are getting some practice in,” I say, nodding toward the range.
“You like watching the guys shoot, don’t you?” Tizzy asks, sliding up next to me and wrapping her arms around my waist.
Wrapping my arm around her waist, I tug her against me and tuck her under my chin. “Yeah, something soothing about it.”
“I can see that,” she responds, snuggling into me, but I can feel the curious tension in her body as we continue watching the guys get a few rounds off.
Deciding to poke a little, I ease into a question that’s been nagging at me. “I notice you don't mind the blood and shit that comes with their training. Not very squeamish, are ya, Bunny?”
She simply shrugs, giving a noncommittal grunt, still staring at the gun range. I decide to keep going.
“Kind of reminds me of my Piper, not in a creepy way, mind you. But she was always tough when she was growing up. Man, I have never seen a stronger kid. I won't lie and say the minute I found out I was having a kid, I wasn’t wishing for a boy. I would have sworn I wouldn't know what the fuck to do with a little girl. I was a badass military man with blood on my hands. I served my country in the most dangerous of ways. I had seen all the evil in this world and never wanted to subject an innocent kid to that world. Still, when Piper was placed in my arms, that day changed me forever. I swore then and there, I was going to do all I could to prepare her for this world. To make sure she could get out of any situation she might find herself in.” I sigh, thinking back on the fights I had with Piper's mother about our training.
“Diane, her mother, wanted a little beauty pageant princess, and I wanted a survivor. I guess we were both wrong. I sometimes pushed her so hard that I knew she would never be a normal little girl, but Piper still loved it. As she got older, Piper pursued more training with me, spending more time shooting and practicing her survival, knife, and bow skills. You name it, she wanted to try it and master… and she did.” I chuckle at the memories of a ten-year-old blonde girl hiding in the bushes, waiting for her prey.
“By the time she was fifteen, I had taught her everything she needed to know. She still had to work and keep her skills up, but sometimes I would catch her at three am, cleaning her weapons, or practicing her martial arts. I don't know if I jaded her to this world, but there is one thing I know. When she had to depend on those skills for two years to survive, those fuckers didn’t even get close to her.” I smile proudly at the memories that come back. The frustration of Hector every single time Piper evaded his men and his reach. He never even got close to her.
“Sometimes I worry about her still, now that she has a family of her own. I know her man has her, and he would lay down his life for hers, but I also know she would do the same. I don't think there is one person on this planet who could get hold of Piper and take her down. However, if they got to her family, she would be the first to jump in front of a bullet, and did, for those she loved. She was lucky to survive.” I pause, softening my tone. “I have a feeling you’d do the same for Lyra, or any of the other women and kids without a second thought.”
I watch the moisture gather in the corner of her eye and know I’ve struck a chord. She tilts her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “I’ve held a gun before, shot one a few times. But I never really learned the right way to do it.”
“You’re serious?”
She shrugs, looking almost shy—which is a rare sight. “Yeah. Just never had anyone take the time to teach me.”
I grin. “Guess it’s your lucky day, then. Come on.”
She follows me toward the range, a small smile playing on her lips. The guys glance our way as we pass, a few of them offering nods or grins, but they don’t comment. They’ve learned to keep their thoughts to themselves when it comes to Tizzy.
The gun range is tucked under the lanes of the bowling alley above, a long, narrow space lined with targets and stocked with every kind of firearm you could need. The smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, mixing with the faint scent of oil and metal.
I grab a pair of earmuffs and safety glasses from the shelf, handing a set to Tizzy. “Alright, first things first—safety. Always treat a gun like it’s loaded, even when it’s not. Never point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot. Got it?”
She nods, slipping the glasses over her eyes. “Got it.”
I select a Glock 19 from the rack, checking the chamber and magazine before handing it to her. “This is a good one to start with. Lightweight, reliable. Comfortable grip.”
She takes it carefully, her fingers wrapping around the grip. “Now what?”
I step behind her, placing my hands over hers to guide her. Her body stiffens for a moment, but then she relaxes, leaning into me slightly.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” I say, nudging her foot with mine. “Arms straight but not locked. Keep a firm grip, but don’t choke it.”
She adjusts her stance, her movements careful and deliberate. I guide her hands, helping her aim at the target downrange. “Alright, take a deep breath. Exhale slowly, and squeeze the trigger gently. Don’t jerk it.”
She takes the shot, the sound loud even through the earmuffs. The bullet hits the edge of the target, far from the center, but she’s grinning, anyway.
“Not bad,” I say, stepping back to give her space. “Try again.”
She takes another shot, this one a little closer to the center. Then another. With each pull of the trigger, her confidence grows. She has a steady hand and sharp focus, and I can’t help but admire how she throws herself into learning something new.
After a few more rounds, she lowers the gun and turns to me, her face flushed with excitement. “How’d I do?”
I glance at the target, nodding in approval. “Pretty damn good for a beginner.”
She beams, and it’s a look that could knock the wind out of me if I wasn’t already so used to her taking me by surprise.
“Alright, let’s try something a little different,” I say, grabbing a 1911 from the rack. “This one’s got more kick, so be ready for it.”
She takes the gun, her expression serious as she adjusts her stance. I step back again, watching as she lines up her shot and squeezes the trigger. The recoil jerks her arms, but she recovers quickly, her jaw set in determination.
By the time she finishes the magazine, her shots are clustered closer to the center of the target. She turns to me, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad at all,” I agree, smirking. “You’re a natural.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faint blush on her cheeks. I step closer, brushing a hand over her arm. “Seriously. You’re good at this.”
“Thanks,” she says softly, her eyes meeting mine. There’s a moment of quiet between us, the noise of the range fading into the background. It’s just her and me, and the weight of what we’re building together.
“Come on,” I say, breaking the moment before it gets too heavy. “Let’s reload and go again.”
We spend the next hour practicing, trading tips and teasing remarks. By the time we’re done, Tizzy’s grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, and I’m more convinced than ever that she belongs here—not just in the club, but with me.
As we pack up the gear, she leans against the counter, watching me with a sly smile. “So, what’s next? Knife throwing? Hand-to-hand combat?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Let’s stick to one thing at a time, darlin’. But if you’re interested, I’ve got plenty more to teach you.”
She smirks, crossing her arms. “I’ll hold you to that.”
As we leave the range and head back toward the common room, I glance at her, the warmth of her presence settling in my chest. Teaching her to shoot wasn’t just about the skills—it was about trust, about letting her deeper into my world. And if the look on her face is any indication, she’s all in.