Page 24 of Catching Flynn

“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.