Page 16 of Catching Flynn

They’d found a rhythm that fit them, at Flynn’s and the store, where they were currently heading. It had been close to a hundred years since Zavier had felt so at peace. Who knew he was cut out for domestic life?

Rounding the corner, Zavier smile slipped. Even from this distance, he could see a note taped to the door of Flynn’s job, the edges fluttering in the gentle breeze.

This was going to ruin Flynn’s day. As much as Zavier wanted to cushion the blow, Flynn deserved to know the truth. That didn’t mean he had to see what was written on it.

As they approached the curb, Flynn was still talking about the bacon they had for breakfast.

“Crisped edges, not burnt,” Flynn said through the helmet speaker as Zavier killed the engine. “There’s a difference, and people keep pretending there isn’t. Burnt bacon tastes like someone’s revenge. Crispy bacon tastes like love with cholesterol.”

The motorcycle gave one last low tick as the engine settled. Heat rose from the pavement in soft waves, carrying the baked scent of asphalt and old brick. Across the street, a delivery truck rattled past, and somewhere down the block a dog barked twice before going quiet.

As far as he could tell, no one was watching them.

Zavier dismounted first, removing his helmet. “You make an amazing breakfasts, kitten.”

“Very adult of me, right?” Flynn tugged the helmet free and raked his fingers through his purposely messy hair. Zavier had leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom this morning, watching his mate apply three different styling products to achieve that rolled-from-bed look. “Eggs, toast, and bacon. There was a whole domestic tableau. You missed it because you were outside doing mysterious bodyguard things and looking—”

Flynn was staring directly at the wood-and-glass door. Zavier steadied his mate when Flynn dismounted. His sneakers landed on the sidewalk, helmet still clutched in his grip. Then he just stood there, frozen.

A sheet of paper fluttered against the bookstore door, the tape at one corner lifting and sticking in the breeze with a dry little rasp. The color drained from Flynn’s face so fast it looked scraped away. One hand tightened around the helmet strap until his knuckles went pale.

Zavier turned fully toward the door. Even from a few feet back, the note was obvious. White paper. Magazine letters pasted on crooked. Different fonts, different colors, a ransom-style threat.

Careful not to jar Flynn, Zavier opened the saddle compartment and pulled out an evidence bag. Plastic crackled under his fingers. He kept his movements cautious, calm for Flynn’s sake, though every instinct in him urged speed and violence.

“Stay back,” he said. “No need for you to read it.”

Flynn swallowed, watching closely.

Without touching the paper itself, Zavier leaned in and read it.

Get rid of your new toy or I will.

For one brief heartbeat, the street narrowed to the note and the pounding of blood in his ears.

Behind him, Flynn made a sound that was too thin to be a laugh. When Zavier glanced back, Flynn was hugging the helmet against his stomach like a shield; shoulders locked tight enough to snap. His mouth had gone flat. His gaze stayed pinned to the door as though looking away might make the words lunge at him.

Zavier slid the note loose with the edge of the evidence bag and sealed it inside. “Inside the shop. Now.”

Flynn did not move.

Stepping into his space, Zavier took the helmet from his hands and set it on the bike before guiding him with a hand at his back. Flynn finally obeyed, legs stiff, breath too shallow. The bell above gave a flat jangle as Zavier unlocked it and ushered him through.

Dust and old paper wrapped around them the moment they entered, familiar and dry, a little cooler than outside. Sunlight slanted through the front windows. Zavier locked the door again and swept the entire store. Every shelf. Every aisle. The cramped back hall. The employees bathroom. Storage.

No one.

At the counter, Flynn set both hands on the worn wood and bowed his head. His shoulders lifted once with a sharp inhale. When he looked up, his expression was too blank.

“Well,” Flynn said hoarsely, “the freedom was good while it lasted.”

Zavier crossed back to him and laid the bagged note on the counter, upside down and out of reach. “Sit, kitten.”

“Standing feels better.”

“Flynn.”

A beat passed. Then Flynn dragged out the stool behind the register and dropped onto it. His knee started bouncing immediately, fast enough to shake the metal footrest.