Chapter 9
Jason
Friday morning. The gun range.
I've never been to a gun range in my life.
Never held a gun, never wanted to, never saw the point.
I'm a lion—if I need to hurt someone, I have claws that can shred steel and teeth that can crush bone.
Guns always seemed like a human thing, a tool for people who don't have natural weapons built into their bodies.
But Ash invited me. Ash, who's trying. Who made my popcorn from a recipe he found pinned to my corkboard. Who touched my ankle in the dark like it meant something. Who said stay and meant it.
So here I am, pulling into a gravel parking lot at 8:45 in the morning, trying not to be nervous about spending time alone with a man who tied my stomach in knots just by existing.
The range is in an industrial area on the edge of town—warehouses and auto shops and the kind of businesses that don't need foot traffic.
Neutral territory, technically, but just barely.
The building itself is nondescript, just a long low concrete structure with a sign that says "Delgado's Range" in faded letters.
The parking lot is half-full, mostly trucks and a few motorcycles.
I park my bike next to Ash's Kawasaki—that matte black monster looking even more intimidating in the morning light—and head inside.
The smell hits me before I'm through the door.
Lion.
Different pride. Older male, established territory. The scent is everywhere, soaked into the walls and floor and furniture, years of it layered on top of itself. This isn't neutral ground at all—this is someone else's space. Someone else's claim.
Fuck. I should have called ahead. I should have asked Knox. I need permission to be here, and I walked in like I had every right to be here, and that's a serious breach of protocol.
Ash is at the counter, leaning casually against it while talking to the owner—a man in his sixties with graying hair pulled back in a short ponytail and the kind of weathered face that comes from decades of sun exposure.
He's human-shaped, but now that I'm looking, really looking, I can see it.
The way he holds himself, loose but ready.
The predator awareness in his eyes when they flick toward the door.
The subtle dominance in his posture that says this is his territory and everyone in it exists by his permission.
Ash sees me and smiles. Actually smiles, warm and genuine, his whole face transforming into something softer.
Then his smile falters. He must see something in my expression, my posture. "Hey. You okay?"
"I need a moment with—" I look at the owner, trying to figure out the protocol here. Different prides have different rules, and I have no idea what applies in this situation. "I should have called ahead. I need to ask permission to be in your territory."
The owner's eyebrows rise slightly. He nods toward the back. "Office is—"
But Ash puts his hand on my arm, stopping me. His grip is firm but not painful, his eyes suddenly sharp. "Permission for what? What's going on?"
"It's a shifter thing. Territory protocol. He's a lion, different pride, and I should have asked before—"
"Wait." Ash turns to the owner, and his voice goes cold in a way I've never heard from him.
Military cold. Mission cold. The voice of someone who has made life and death decisions and will do it again without hesitation.
"If there's an issue. If for any reason Jason isn't welcome here, I want to know now.
I've been coming here since I was a teenager.
Twenty years of business, three generations of my family.
But if he's not welcome, I'll take it elsewhere. "
The owner laughs—a genuine, surprised sound that breaks the tension. "Relax, soldier boy. Your lion's welcome here. Him and his whole pride, as long as they don't cause trouble."
"Your lion?" Ash repeats, blinking.
"Never thought I'd see the day when Ashley Martinez would defend a shifter so quickly." The owner's eyes are amused, crinkling at the corners. "It's refreshing. Your daddy would've had a heart attack."
"You're a shifter?"
He's still smiling. "Yes, and we recognize our own. I know what he is. Just like I knew those special forces boys you brought here on leave weren't all human. You think I've been running a range in this town for forty years without recognizing my own kind when they walk through the door?"
He turns to me, and his gaze is assessing but not unfriendly. "You're one of Knox's, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him he's welcome here anytime. Professional courtesy between prides." He winks. "Plus, anyone Ash vouches for is good in my book. That boy's been coming here since he was barely tall enough to see over the counter. Now go on, teach your boy to shoot. Lane six is open."
He heads into the back office, leaving us alone in the front area.
Ash is staring after him. "Twenty years," he says slowly. "Twenty years coming here, and I never knew he was a shifter."
"You couldn't smell it."
"No, I just—" He shakes his head. "I've known shifters a lot longer than I realized. Been around them my whole life without knowing."
"It happens more than you'd think. We're good at blending in when we need to."
He turns to look at me. "You were going to ask permission. Even if it meant you might have to leave."
"It's protocol. Respect. You don't walk into another pride's territory without acknowledgment."
"But you wanted to be here."
I hold his gaze, letting him see the truth. "Yeah. I did."
Relief crosses his face. Maybe pleasure. "Come on. Let me show you how to shoot."
---
The range is louder than I expected, even with the ear protection Ash hands me.
Other shooters in distant lanes, the crack of gunfire echoing off concrete walls, the mechanical sounds of slides racking and clips being changed.
Ash leads me to lane six, far enough from the others that we have some privacy.
He moves like he belongs here. Every gesture efficient, practiced, automatic. He handles the weapons like they're extensions of his body—checking chambers, laying out supplies, setting up targets with military precision. This is his element the same way the kitchen is mine.
"Ever held a gun before?" he asks.
"No."
"We'll start with a nine millimeter. Good beginner pistol.
Manageable recoil, easy to control." He picks up a handgun from the case—black, compact, deadly-looking—checks that it's empty with practiced efficiency, and holds it out to me grip-first. "First rule: always assume it's loaded.
Even when you know it's not. Even when you just checked yourself. "
"Okay."
"Second rule: never point it at anything you don't want to destroy. Not as a joke, not by accident, not ever."
"Got it."
"Third rule—" He moves closer, adjusting my grip on the handle. "Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. Finger stays along the frame until the moment you're committed."
His hands are warm and calloused, repositioning my fingers with care. His touch is professional, instructional, but I still have to fight not to react to it. His fingers against mine. The heat of him standing so close.
"Good." He steps back, evaluating my stance with a critical eye. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight slightly forward, leaning into it."
I adjust. He circles me, looking at me from all angles like he's assessing a piece of equipment.
He adjusts my ear protection and then helps me put on safety glasses, which make everything look slightly yellow. He steps back to look at me and his mouth curves. "Looking good."
He smiles and then moves behind me.
This was a mistake.
His chest presses against my back. His arms come around me, hands covering mine on the grip, adjusting my aim toward the paper target at the end of the lane. He's so much bigger than me, surrounding me completely. His breath is hot against my neck even through the ear protection.
"Relax," he says directly into my ear, voice low enough to feel as much as hear. The vibration of it travels down my spine. "You're too tense."
I'm tense because I can feel he's half-hard against my ass.
Because his hands are everywhere—on my wrists, my shoulders, my hips.
Because this is the closest we've been since the garage and my body remembers exactly what happened there.
Remembers his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, his voice saying all the things he was going to do to me.
"Breathe," he instructs, apparently unaware of the crisis he's causing. Or maybe very aware and enjoying it. "Slow and steady. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Smooth and controlled."
I try to focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Aim at the target—a paper silhouette, human-shaped, with concentric rings marking the scoring zones. Squeeze.
The gun goes off and I jump despite expecting it. The sound is sharp even through the ear protection, the recoil kicking through my arms, absorbed by my stance. When Ash hits the button to bring the target back, the bullet hole is surprisingly close to center.
Ash makes an impressed noise against my ear. "Good instincts. Try again."
We go through a full clip, him adjusting my stance between shots. Tilting my hips. Repositioning my fingers. A solid warmth at my back. Each shot, I get a little more comfortable. Each adjustment, his touch lingers a little longer than strictly necessary.
My grouping gets tighter with each round.
"You're a natural," he says, finally stepping back. "Want to try on your own?"
I nod, already missing the warmth.
He watches from beside me while I load a fresh clip the way he showed me and empty it into the target. Occasionally calls out adjustments—"Elbow up. Breathe. Don't anticipate the recoil." My shots cluster closer and closer to center, a tight grouping that surprises me.
"You're enjoying this," he observes when I finish.
"It's..." I consider, trying to articulate what I'm feeling. The focus required, the precision, the immediate feedback of seeing where each shot landed. "Controlled. Requires focus."
"Like cooking."
"And building bikes."
"Yeah." I set the gun down carefully, the way he showed me—slide locked back, chamber empty, muzzle pointed downrange. "I can see why you like it."
He moves to his own station, and watching him shoot is like watching a dance.
No wasted energy, no hesitation, no adjustment needed.
He empties a full clip in maybe thirty seconds, and when the target comes back, his grouping is so tight it's basically one ragged hole dead center where the heart would be.
"Show off," I mutter.
He smirks, pulling off his ear protection. "Twenty years of practice."
We shoot for another hour. He teaches me different stances—isoceles, weaver, modified weaver. Different grips. Shows me how to clear a jam, how to reload quickly, how to transition between targets. Always patient, explaining things twice when I don't understand without any hint of frustration.
But his hands linger. His body gets closer than strictly necessary. And every time he presses against my back to adjust my aim, I feel exactly how much he's enjoying this.
"Want to get breakfast?" he asks as we're cleaning up, packing away the gear. His voice is casual but there's hope underneath it. "There's a diner down the street. Good pancakes."
"Yeah. Breakfast sounds good."
The diner is a classic American greasy spoon—red vinyl booths, chrome accents, a counter with spinning stools, the smell of bacon and coffee saturating everything. A bell jingles when we walk in. A waitress in her fifties with a beehive hairdo waves us toward the booths.
We slide into one by the window, and I realize this is the first time we've been alone together in public. Sitting across from each other like normal people. Like a real date.
He orders coffee, black. I get orange juice and something called "The Lumberjack Special" that turns out to be approximately nine pounds of food—pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast. He steals a piece of my bacon without asking and I let him.
"You were good today," he says after the waitress leaves us alone. "Steady hands. Good instincts. Better than most beginners I've trained."
"Good teacher."
"I mean it. You've got natural talent."
"Lion thing," I say, shrugging. "Good eyesight. Steady hands for hunting. Predator instincts."
"Maybe." He's quiet for a moment, turning his coffee cup in his hands. Looking at it instead of at me. "Jason, I... I don't know what I'm doing."
"Eating breakfast?"
"You know what I mean."
Yeah. I do.
"I've never done this before," he continues, still not meeting my eyes.
"The dating thing. I don't know the rules.
I don't know what's expected. I'm probably going to fuck it up.
" He laughs, but it's not a happy sound.
"Actually, I'm definitely going to fuck it up.
It's not a question of if, it's a question of how badly. "
"You're here," I point out. "You invited me to something you love. You taught me something new. You're trying."
"Is that enough?"
I think about it. Really think. He's not offering me forever. He's not even offering me certainty. Just this—effort, presence, the willingness to figure it out. The willingness to try something he's never tried before because he wants to try it with me.
"For now," I say. "Yeah. It's enough."
He nods slowly, tension draining from his shoulders. We eat in silence for a while, working through our respective mountains of food. Under the table, his foot finds mine. Not playing footsie—just touching. Resting there.
A point of connection.
He grabs the check before I can reach for it, pulling it across the table. "I invited you. I pay."
"That's not—"
"It's how it works." He's already pulling out his wallet. "You can get the next one."
The next one. He's already planning a next one.
Outside, the morning has warmed up, the September sun bright and pleasant. Our bikes are parked side by side, his sleek black monster next to my customized Harley. They look good together. Complementary.
He stops at his bike, hands in his pockets, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. Nervous, maybe. Or hopeful.
"This was nice," he says.
"Yeah. It was."
He steps closer. Cups my face in one hand—gentle, careful, giving me time to pull away if I want to.
I don't want to.
He kisses me. Quick, just a press of lips, almost chaste compared to what happened in his garage. But it's in public. In daylight. In a parking lot where anyone driving by could see.
"See you at the bar," he says, and swings onto his bike.
I stand there watching him drive away, lips tingling, smelling like gunpowder and gun oil and him.
We shot guns together. We ate breakfast. He kissed me in public.
It's not a promise. It's not a guarantee. But it's a start.