Hunter
SECURITY PROTOCOLS FOR DATES WITH brITTNEY RYAN
When I pitched this idea to Saint, I didn’t admit to having two motives, but I think it was pretty damn obvious.
I want Brittney to be able to protect herself, and I want some time with her.
The drive out of the city is peaceful in the car we rented, even with the twins in the back seat. I lean over the console and grab Brittney’s hand, making her smile like the sun at me.
Colton and Cody are wedged into the back, snoring in sync.
Both of them are sprawled, arms crossed, heads tipped back against the battered leather.
If I look in the rearview, I can see the way their legs mirror each other, one heel bouncing to a tempo only twins could share.
Colton and Cody came with us to provide security while Fox and Saint handled the new venue.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Brittney asks, voice sweet.
“A little something I planned for us. I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it, but I’ll be right there with you,” I say.
She shoots me a side-eye. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
I can feel her nerves down our bond, but they’re not worrying me.
“I’ll motivate you with kisses,” I say, turning down the radio. “And whatever else you want.”
She snorts. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
I let the silence hang. After about five minutes, she cracks.
“Give me a hint,” she says, half-joking, half a dare.
I keep my eyes on the road. “We are going to be there any minute.”
She looks away, but her hand squeezes mine. “Fine.”
We pull up to the shooting range. It’s empty, as I’ve requested, making the building look abandoned.
“A shooting range,” Brittney says, her voice sharp enough to chip a tooth.
I kill the engine and turn to her. “We don’t have to do this, if you’re not ready but I just want you to be prepared in case you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to protect yourself. Do you want to leave?”
She unbuckles, slowly. “I didn’t say that.”
Cody is first out, stretching like a cat and cracking his neck left to right. “Sleeping in the car always hurts my neck,” he says, but he’s already scanning the perimeter, eyes everywhere at once. Colton lumbers out after, hood up, hands in pockets, doing his best not to look tired.
Inside, it’s colder. The range is all cinderblock and rubber, the floor slicked with a film of ancient oil and gunpowder. A bored-looking beta behind the counter checks us in, never asking for ID. He just grunts and hands over a plastic bin of loaner earplugs and safety glasses.
The firing lanes are empty. Brittney hovers behind me, shifting from foot to foot, her arms crossed so tight it’s a wonder her ribs don’t snap.
I load a gun, slow and careful, then slide a fresh magazine to her across the steel table. She doesn’t touch it right away.
“Ever fired one?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Good. Clean slate.”
I show her the basics of how to grip, where to rest her finger, the weight of the slide, and the snap of the magazine when it sets. Her hands are small, but steady. There’s a tremor at the tips, but nothing that makes me think she can’t do this.
“It takes time getting used to, but you got this,” I say, keeping my tone light.
She nods, eyes locked on the gun like it’s a poisonous frog I’ve asked her to kiss.
We set up the big, cartoon silhouette target with a chest ringed in concentric circles. I take the first shot, just one where I show her what to do. The sound is a cannon blast in the empty room as I hit the target squarely in the center. Brittney flinches so hard she nearly hits me.
“You okay?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
She’s gone pale, lips pressed thin, but she nods once and steps forward. I stay close, not crowding but near enough to catch her if she decides to bail.
“Ready?” I say.
“Yeah.”
She raises the gun, arms locked, sighting down the barrel like she’s done this a hundred times in her head. For a second, nothing moves. Then, with an almost inaudible breath, she pulls the trigger.
The sound is so loud I feel it in my teeth.
The recoil snaps her wrist up, but she holds on. The bullet lands in the corner, tearing a ragged hole in the paper.
She stands there, frozen, the gun in her hand.
“Nice shot,” I say, gentle as I can.
But her breathing is shallow now, eyes wet and blinking fast. I see it: the way her body draws in, shrinking. The way her shoulders hunch like she’s waiting for a slap.
I set my own gun down and step in, slow.
“Hazel,” I say. “You with me?”
She looks up, and for a second, there’s nobody home. Then she blinks, hard, and the light comes back.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her hands shake worse than before.
I place a hand on her lower back with enough pressure to anchor, nothing more. She doesn’t pull away.
“Let’s breathe,” I say, matching my inhale to hers. “In, out. That’s it.”
She does, once, twice. On the third try, her hand steadies.
“You want to stop?” I ask.
She shakes her head, almost fierce. “No. Again.”
This time, I stand behind her, both hands at her waist, lining up her stance. She’s tense, but not rigid. I guide her arms, thumb on her elbow, and when she sights down the barrel, I can feel her focus sharpen through the bond.
“Easy,” I say, voice at her ear. “You’re not fighting it. Let it do the work.”
She fires. The shot is tighter this time, the recoil less violent.
She does it again. And again.
With every shot, the panic recedes. I see it in her posture: the way she stands taller, the way her chin lifts with every hit.
Colton and Cody watch from the next lane, pretending not to, but I can hear the pride in their quiet whispers.
After half a box of ammo, Brittney lowers the gun and blows a strand of hair out of her face. She’s sweating, but her eyes are bright.
“That was…” she starts, then laughs. “Kind of awesome, actually.”
I let her go, step back. “Told you. Nothing to be scared of.”
She looks down at her hands, flexes them. “I don’t like the noise, but the rest is okay.”
“We can get you a silencer next time,” I say.
She hands the gun back, but my fingers brush hers and linger a second too long.
“Thanks, Hunter,” she says, voice quiet.
“Anytime,” I say, meaning it.
We clean up, pack the gear, and head back out into the world. The clouds haven’t moved, but the day feels lighter, like something tight has finally unclenched.
On the walk back to the car, I signal Colton and Cody to stay back so I can have another moment alone with Brittney before we leave.
We get in the car and Brittney’s in the seat next to me, her hair wild from the wind and her cheeks still flushed.
She stares out the windshield, hands folded in her lap, but every so often she glances my way.
Each time she does, something in my chest goes off—a flicker of static, a pulse like the first shot from a starter’s pistol.
I wait until she’s not looking, then say, “You were amazing back there with the gun.”
She huffs, embarrassed. “I missed half the time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m proud of you for going outside your comfort zone.”
She shrugs, not buying it. “I almost freaked out. You saw.”
“I did,” I say, “and then you kept going. That’s what matters.”
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline crash or something else, but the need to be honest is eating me alive.
“Britt,” I say, and the sound of her name is a punch I can’t explain. “There’s, uh, something I should tell you.”
She turns, finally meeting my eyes. In the dull morning light, hers look like bottled honey with gold at the center and ringed in brown. “Yeah?”
I try to play it off, but my throat’s gone dry. “I love you,” I say, before I can chicken out.
The words hang in the air, huge and dumb and perfect.
Her lips part, surprised.
I reach for her hand, and when our fingers tangle, it feels like we’ve always done this.
She squeezes my hand, hard. “I love you, too.”
I don’t know who moves first, maybe it’s both of us at once, but suddenly her mouth is on mine, soft and urgent, the taste of toffee and chocolate.
We kiss like we’re trying to memorize each other, like we’ll never get another chance.
My hands find her waist, pulling her closer, and she climbs across the console, straddling my lap without even a hint of hesitation.
She grinds down, slow at first, her thighs pinning me to the seat.
I can feel the heat of her even through our jeans, a perfect pressure that makes me want to howl.
Her hands are everywhere. They’re in my hair, my jaw, then digging into the worn shoulder of my hoodie.
She’s not shy about what she wants, and I fucking love that.
I tug her shirt up, exposing the band of her bra and the pale skin beneath. She shivers for me. My mouth finds her throat, trailing kisses up to her ear, and the sound she makes is almost a growl.
She yanks my hoodie over my head, tossing it into the footwell, then runs her fingers down my chest like she’s checking for injuries. I kiss her harder, messier, and she responds with teeth biting my lip, nipping at my jaw, until we’re both breathless and shaky.
I slide my hands up under her shirt, fingers skating over her ribs, and when I cup her breast through the thin cotton, she gasps, arching into me. She’s warm and alive and right here, and all I want is more.
I unsnap her bra, the motion practiced, but this time it feels sacred. She shrugs out of it, baring herself to me, and I stare, dumbstruck, for a second too long.
“Do you need to take a picture?” she whispers, grinning.
“Don’t need to,” I say. “Your sexy, perfect body is already burned into my brain.”
She laughs again, the sound wild, and then pulls my mouth to her nipple. I suck, gentle at first, then harder as she presses my head closer, her fingers tangled in my hair. She rocks against me, grinding slow and steady, and my cock is straining so hard it almost hurts.