Chapter Ten #10
Zavier would’ve suggested quitting, but knew how much joy that bookstore meant to Flynn. The last thing he wanted to do was take away anything that brought his mate peace.
“So, same as I always do.” Flynn nodded. “At least it’s a consistent plan. The definition of crazy, but consistent.”
Under the table, Zavier tapped his boot against Flynn’s foot, just needing the connection.
His mate tapped back as he ate, but his focus had drifted to the same window, staring out, expression suggesting he was deep in thought.
Xavier tapped his foot against. Flynn glanced at him.
“No drifting. Stay with me in the present, kitten.” He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “What have I taught you?”
“Stop leaving my dirty dishes in my bedroom.”
Zavier chuckled. “You’re just asking for bugs.”
“I’m asking to be lazy,” Flynn huffed. “No one wants to take their dishes to the kitchen when they’re half asleep.”
“Your apartment is small enough—” Zavier sat back, refusing to have their ongoing debate in public. “The other lesson I taught you.”
“Be aware of my surroundings. Swivel my head.”
“Keep your head on a swivel.”
“Same thing,” Flynn argued. “Keep swiveling. Swivel it. Both make your head move around.”
If they were alone, Zavier would kiss the hell out of him. “Swivel your food so we can bounce.”
Flynn threw his head back and laugh. End of argument.
Chapter Six
“I don’t see why you won’t tell me,” Flynn huffed, clicking his seatbelt in place. Wherever Zavier was taking him, it required borrowing Colton’s shiny black pickup, which made him even more curios.
“It’s not a surprise if I tell you.” Zavier turned the key.
The truck started so quietly, it didn’t even sound like it was running.
Every car Flynn owned had been loud enough to get a few tickets, falling apart, or both.
One winter he’d had to pull over on a snowy back road just to grab his muffler.
The wire hangers hadn’t lasted aa long that time, and Flynn ended up fighting two raccoons just to get it back.
What were they going to with a rusty muffler, sell it for tiny mittens and scarfs?
“I can give you a small clue.”
Flynn bounced in his seat like a caffeinated gremlin, dying for any information Zavier would give him. Surprises were the worst. Not the gifts, unless that person didn’t like you. It was the waiting that made Flynn feral.
Why make people suffer? He would’ve been perfectly peachy celebrating Christmas the day after Black Friday.
“What is it?” he asked eagerly, hoping he could figure out the surprise from the small clue.
“It’s a forty minute drive.” Zavier pulled from the apartment parking lot then made a left.
“What kind of clue even is that?” +Flynn muttered, watching the town thin out through the passenger window. “You’ve basically told me distance exists.”
The gorgeous prick only smiled and kept driving.
A man should not be allowed to look so smug while withholding information. It was unfair. Criminal, even. Between the fitted dark Henley stretched across Zavier’s shoulders and the relaxed grip on the steering wheel, he looked less like a bodyguard and more like the embodiment of sin.
Flynn was trying not to stare, but failing with quiet dedication.
Beyond the glass, Crimson Hollow gave way to stretches of open land and low fencing. Thick clouds pressed over everything, turning the late afternoon flat and silver.
No rain yet, but the air felt heavy with it. Fields ran dull green beneath the brooding sky, and patches of brush moved faintly in the breeze. Here and there, weathered signs leaned by the roadside, paint peeling, arrows pointing nowhere Flynn cared about.
“Am I being murdered romantically?” Flynn asked. “Because if this is a ditch situation, I’d like a little warning. And a ten minute start.”
With one hand loose on the wheel, Zavier glanced at him. “You talk more when you’re nervous.”
“Silence is where dread breeds.”
A low chuckle filled the truck. “You trust me?”
Annoyingly, yes. Flynn looked at his own hands folded in his lap, then back out at the long strip of road ahead. “That feels like a manipulative question.”
“Still waiting on the answer.”
Through the windshield, a rusted sign finally appeared up ahead, bolted to two wooden posts beside a chain-link gate.
FLYING CLAY SHOOTING RANGE read the top line in fading red letters. Smaller black text beneath listed rates, lane rules, and a warning about eye and ear protection.
Flynn blinked. “...Oh.”
Zavier pulled in.
For a long moment, Flynn just stared. The range opened up over a wide stretch of packed dirt and scrub grass, fenced off in long rectangular lanes that pointed toward open fields and berms beyond.
Shotgun reports cracked through the overcast air at irregular intervals, each one sharp enough to make him flinch.
Orange clay fragments glittered against the dark ground in broken pieces near some of the stations.
A cinderblock office sat near the entrance with a faded vending machine humming beside it and a rack of protective earmuffs hanging by the window.
“You brought me to shoot…things,” Flynn said carefully.
“To learn,” Zavier corrected as he parked. “Thought it might help.”
He looked from Zavier to the range again.
Men in ear protection stood at stations farther off, lifting long guns to their shoulders, calling something out, then firing their weapon.
A clay disc launched from one side in a bright flash of orange, sliced through the air, and exploded into dust a second later.
A tiny, ridiculous spark lit in Flynn’s stomach.
“Well,” he said, adjusting in his seat. “That’s deeply butch of you.”
“You objecting?” Zavier had the nerve to wear a crooked smile. Any person with a pulse knew that was a foul because every person with a pulse couldn’t resist them.
But resist Flynn must.
“Please. Not on your life.” He reached for the door handle, then paused. “Nervous, yes. Backing down, dream on, buster.”
Outside, the air felt cooler than it had in town, carrying with it dirt, oil, and the faint bitter tang of spent shells.
Somewhere nearby, old grass and damp soil gave off that earthy smell that came before rain but never followed through.
Wind moved across the open lot and lifted the edges of Flynn’s shirt against his stomach.
At the office window, Zavier handled everything with the same maddening ease he seemed to apply to breathing.
He paid for a lane and time outside, collected a box of shells, two sets of protective glasses, and earmuffs without fumbling a single thing, then thanked the bored teenager behind the counter like they picked up a coffee order instead of firearms.
Flynn stood a little off to the side trying not to look like he had wandered into a man calendar by mistake.
On the walk to their lane, crushed orange bits from old clays popped underfoot.
The ground was uneven, pocked with divots and scuffed boot prints.
Farther out, the field stretched broad and empty, a dull green-brown under all that cloud cover.
Wind skimmed over it in cool passes, carrying the dry smell of dust and metal.
Every crack of a shotgun echoed across the place and bounced back thinner a second later.
At their station, a waist-high bench held boxes of shells, a launcher control, and a stack of paper towels that had clearly seen better days. Zavier set everything down and turned to him.
“Before we do anything,” he said, “safety.”
His voice dropped into that smooth, steady register Flynn was finding harder to resist.
Against his own will, he straightened. “I like safety. Emotionally, physically, mentally. I like all of them. Bundle package.”
Just stop talking.
Without comment, Zavier stepped in close and handed him the protective glasses.
Flynn put them on. A second later, Zavier lifted the earmuffs and settled them over Flynn’s head himself, adjusting the band with both hands.
Strong fingers brushed the tops of Flynn’s ears.
Pressure closed gently around his skull.
Zavier’s knuckles grazed Flynn’s hairline, then the side of his jaw when he checked the fit.
Such a small thing, really. Nothing dramatic.
Just touch, heat, and the scent of warm summer fire and bourbon.
Flynn forgot how normal breathing worked.
“There.” Zavier’s mouth tipped at one corner. “Comfortable?”
“Sure,” Flynn said, voice slightly thin. “Give me safety. I mean safety rules! Give me safety rules.” Jesus.
“Sure,” Flynn said, voice slightly thin. “Give me safety. I mean safety rules!” Jesus.
“First rule,” Zavier said, his expression softening. “Never point the muzzle at anything you don’t plan to shoot. Second rule, your finger doesn’t go near that trigger until you mean it. Third rule.” His expression softened. “You do what I say.”
“Bossy.” Flynn pressed his hand to the side of his neck, hating how hot his face felt.
“You like that.”
He was learning Flynn a little too well.
“Rule four.” Zavier’s gaze moved over him. “You don’t do anything fast.”
Flynn snorted. “That has never once been an issue.”
“Good to know.” Zavier opened the case on the bench and lifted out the shotgun.
Flynn’s mouth went dry.
Up close, the thing was longer than he’d expected, heavier. All dark metal and polished wood. Beautiful the way something could be beautiful and still make your stomach drop.
“Zavier,” Flynn said slowly. “That’s a gun-gun.”
Zavier watched him closely. “Shotgun.”
“Still categorized as a gun.” He’d never held one before, and Zavier wanted him to use a weapon that looked like it would tip him over.