Chapter Ten #11
Carefully, Zavier broke it open to show the chambers.
Empty. Then he angled it so Flynn could see every angle at the same time.
He found himself watching those hands as much as the shotgun.
Long fingers. Strong wrists. Control without any showiness.
It should not have been so attractive. And it changed absolutely nothing.
“This stays pointed downrange at all times,” Zavier said. “You brace it into your shoulder. Lean forward a little. Let the recoil move through you instead of fighting it.”
“Love that for me. Already sounds violent.”
Something sparked in Zavier’s blue eyes. There and gone. “Only if you do it wrong.”
“Fabulous. No pressure.”
Flynn felt absurdly pleased with himself at the faint quirk of Zavier’s mouth, even while standing next to a machine designed to humble his entire frame.
After loading the shells, Zavier positioned himself behind Flynn. “Pick it up.”
Flynn wrapped both hands around the shotgun and nearly yelped. “Jesus.”
“It’s not that heavy.”
“For you. You’re built like you could deadlift a train. I’m built like I could deadlift the toy version.”
“You’re built perfectly, kitten,” Zavier said close to Flynn’s ear, leaving him breathless.
Keep your mind on the loaded gun, not the loaded weapon.
Flustered, Flynn lifted the weapon. Holy. Crap.
The weight was solid, immediately dragging through his arms. The stock pressed into his shoulder. Metal cooled his palm at first, then warmed under his grip. His pulse jumped hard enough to feel it in his throat.
From behind, Zavier adjusted him with quiet patience. A hand settled on Flynn’s waist and nudged. “Feet apart.”
Flynn spread them awkwardly. “You frisking me for contraband, officer? I have a rubberband I forgot to leave at work. Petty workplace theft. Throw the book at me.”
“Didn’t bring any cuffs. A little more.” With two fingers at Flynn’s ankle, Zavier nudged one sneaker outward. Then he stepped in behind him and adjusted Flynn’s shoulders with warm, strong hands.
Pressure at the top of his arms. Breath near his ear. The solid line of Zavier at his back for only a second, but it still sent Flynn’s thoughts skidding into a ditch.
He swallowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“More than you know.”
The hand remained at his side for one more maddening second before sliding lower to shift Flynn’s hip. Heat soaked through Flynn’s jeans where Zavier touched him. Then his other hand covered Flynn’s, guiding the angle of the gun.
I’m not going to survive this man.
“Lean into it,” Zavier said near his ear. Even through the muffs, his voice made those wicked thoughts return. “Good. Tuck it tighter here.”
He pressed the stock more firmly into Flynn’s shoulder. Every place they touched ignited something deep inside.
Flynn was holding a gun and still somehow thinking about kissing Zavier. His priorities were a tangled mess.
“Eyes downrange,” Zavier said.
“I am looking downrange.”
“You were looking at me.”
Flynn stared harder at the open field. “Briefly. For structural purposes.”
A clay launcher sat angled off to one side. Orange discs stacked beside it. They looked harmless, but so did bees until they targeted you.
“When you’re ready,” Zavier said, “call for it.”
For a second, he thought Zavier was talking about something else.
Before his mind sank deeper in carnal thoughts, Flynn said, “Pull.”
The launcher snapped.
An orange disc shot into the gray air so fast Flynn almost lost it.
Panic hit first. Then instinct or luck or divine intervention by the patron saint of dumb twinks took over.
He followed the blur, squeezed the trigger, and the shotgun kicked hard into his shoulder with a concussive boom that punched through his bones.
Out there, the clay exploded.
Flynn froze, staring at the burst of orange dust hanging in the air where the disc had been. Holy hell. He’d actually shot it.
His whole body surged with startled triumph.
“Oh my God!”
He lowered the shotgun and bounced on his feet, doing a ridiculous little happy dance. It felt incredible that he didn’t actually suck at this. Some crazy cheer ripped out of him, half laugh and half victorious screech.
“I shot it! Did you see that? I shot it!”
Pleasure flashed across Zavier’s face. “Yeah, kitten. You did.”
Flynn grinned so hard his face hurt. His shoulder ached and his hands were shaking, but he’d hit a tiny moving object!
“Well,” he said, drawing himself up. “Turns out I’m a natural.”
“Based on one shot?” Zavier’s blue eyes sparkle, from either disbelief or pride. Flynn would believe it was the second one.
“Based on one shot?” Zavier’s blue eyes sparkled, from either disbelief or pride. Flynn wanted to believe it was the second one.
That earned him a low and easy laugh. God. Zavier should’ve been banned from doing that. He could cause car accidents.
“One more.” Zavier winked. “Let’s see if you’re a natural or a lucky shot.”
If he winked like that again, Flynn just might faint. He knew Zavier was just trying to boost his confidence, but Flynn could pretend, briefly, that it was real.
Turning, Flynn positioned himself this time. He must’ve gotten it right because Zavier didn’t correct his stance.
You can do it again. It was just luck. Believe in your newfound Jedi powers.
“Pull.”
Flynn missed.
“You’re flinching,” Zavier said.
“I’m not flinching. I’m artistically anticipating.”
“Kitten.”
“Fine. A little.”
From behind, Zavier laid a hand over Flynn’s shoulder, his thumb pressing into the tense muscle. “Relax.”
The slow pressure and calm voice made Flynn moan. His eyelids fluttered close, letting out an exhale.
“There you go,” Zavier murmured. “Release the tension.”
Flynn’s eyes popped open when another pressure starting building. He stepped away from those magic fingers, positioned himself, and bent his knees just a touch.
“Pull.”
This time, when the clay launched, Flynn tracked it better.
Fired. Orange burst against the leaden sky, and joy shot through him all over again.
Flynn gave another strangled, delighted noise and did a little hop because evidently, he was incapable of winning gracefully.
“Did you see that? I obliterated it! I’m incredible! ”
At his side, Zavier’s grin came slow and devastating. “You just needed to relax.”
“That was talent. Raw talent. Natural-born excellence.” He lifted the gun a little, absurdly pleased with himself. “Say hello to my little friend—”
In less than a blink, the gun was gone from his hands.
Flynn stared, his fingers curled like he was still gripping the shotgun he’d held mere seconds ago.
Zavier had possession of it now, his expression flat with only the faintest edge of amusement. One hand was on the stock, the other on the barrel, and Flynn had not seen him move. At all.
“What the hell,” Flynn said, in awe of the elite-level training Zavier must’ve had. “Give it back.”
“Not while you’re channeling Antonio Montana.”
Flynn frowned. “Who?”
“Scarface.” Zavier arched a brow. “You quote him but don’t know his character’s name?”
“Okay, not the point.” Flynn reached for the shotgun. “Give it back. Also, teach me that move. That was hot and deeply disturbing.”
Trying to grab the gun from Zavier was useless and felt ridiculous. Not because Zavier played keep away. Because of the look in his eyes asking Flynn to back down. He could’ve easily demanded Flynn obey. Zavier outweighed him with at least eighty pounds of muscle.
But he was asking.
Wind tugged at the hem of Flynn’s shirt as he took a step back. Somewhere down the line, another shooter called for a target. The clay launched, then a shot rang out. They missed.
Then, very calmly, Zavier broke open the gun, checked it, and held it just out of Flynn’s reach. “You get it back when you stop threatening the atmosphere with movie quotes.”
“I was celebrating.”
“You were escalating.”
“On success.” Flynn pressed his hand to his stomach. “Which is healthy.”
Still refusing to hand it over, Zavier loaded fresh shells and stepped into position. “Watch.”
Oh, Flynn would. Happily. Religiously. Potentially with a candle lit. Zavier had an ass worth ogling. Patting too, but those muscly glutes weren’t Flynn’s to touch.
“Watch my aim, not my ass.”
Flynn’s gaze darted away. “Been watching the entire time.” Never said which.
At the line, Zavier settled the shotgun into place like it belonged there. No wasted movement. No fidgeting. Just a quiet shift of weight and the smooth alignment of shoulders, arms, and focus. The overcast light shimmered over the angles of his face, catching the dark stubble along his jaw.
“Pull.”
The clay flew.
Boom.
It burst.
Before Flynn could finish being impressed, Zavier called again.
Another launch. Another shot. Another orange disc was blown apart.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Five in a row.
Each report cracked through the open air with controlled force, each recoil absorbed. Empty shells popped free in clean motions. Fresh ones went in. Zavier moved with such skill, Flynn forgot to blink for at least half the sequence.
By the last shattered clay, Flynn’s mouth had gone a little stupid. If he’d been the one shooting that quickly, he probably would’ve taken out an entire V-formation of geese.
“Well,” Flynn said after a moment, because dignity was dead and someone had to bury it. “That was obnoxious.”
Obnoxiously good.
Lowering the shotgun, Zavier glanced back with that same infuriating half-smile. “You asked.”
“I regret everything.” Flynn crossed his arms, then uncrossed them because that strain bothered his shoulder. “Actually, no. I regret nothing. But for the record, I’m still better.”
A soft huff left Zavier as he unloaded the gun. “Based on what?”
“Vibe.” Flynn lifted his chin. “Potential. Star quality,” he said. “Besides, you don’t even carry a weapon. What kind if bodyguard doesn’t have at least one holstered at his ankle?” Flynn squinted at him. “I bet you just karate chop bad guys. You got the hands for it.”