Stars & Stripes

“Okay,” Ty said. He rolled up the sleeves of his thin linen shirt and wiped at his forehead with the buff on his wrist. They came up to the main table and surveyed the gear laid out. “Rifles, pistols, knives.” Ty began to laugh. “The things you get me into.”

Zane grinned. “Texas,” he said, since that was the answer to everything. “What are you up to, Ty?”

Ty just hummed as he wandered off toward the end of the table. Zane had no idea why Ty had offered to enter the contest, other than for the chance to stand close to one or more armed men they knew wanted Ty out of the picture.

They wouldn’t know what shots they were taking until they were unveiled during the contest, so they wouldn’t know if there was a possibility of danger either.

If anyone was going to take a shot at Ty, though, this would be when they did it. Zane followed along, checking out the competition. He recognized a few of the men. Stuart and one of his asshole companions were there. Several hands from another neighboring ranch had signed up, as had Cody and Joe. Mark and Jamie made up the fifth team, and he and Ty would be the sixth. Zane shook his head as butterflies fluttered. He didn’t have anything to prove here. It was for charity, and he didn’t care what the others thought about him. What he was really looking forward to was Ty showing them all up. Or arresting them in the middle of it.

“Zane, are you entering the competition?”

Zane looked up to see his mother and two of her friends approaching. “Yes, Mother. Along with Ty.”

Beverly looked him over. “Well. Good luck,” she said. She lingered a moment, looking torn, but then moved away without saying anything more.

Ty chose that moment to come sauntering back to Zane’s side. He’d managed to grab another bottle of beer from somewhere, like he was producing them out of his ass. “That’s not awkward at all.”

Zane shook his head.

Ty met his eyes, still grinning. “You really want to go into this thing with me after I’ve been drinking and baking in the sun all day?”

Ty’s smile and his shining eyes were enough to make Zane forget all about his mother. “Absolutely. Let’s kick some ass.”

“Or shoot some.” Ty shoved his shoulder into Zane’s and they made their way toward the gathering of shooters awaiting instructions.

Ty and Zane were deemed Yellow Team. Judges directed them to stations set up through the corral and around the barn, and partygoers began gathering with them, bringing their cocktails along. The bleachers began to fill. Looking around, Zane wondered if he was the only sober person here. The thought was wildly funny for some reason.

He was catching snippets of conversation from people around him, their words traveling in the heat in unpredictable ways.

“Is that guy drinking?”

“Is that the Garrett boy’s gentleman friend?”

“He’s not anything like I thought he’d look. He’s quite strapping.”

“Zane looks good, doesn’t he?”

Zane shook his head and turned his attention to their first challenge as all the teams gathered. It was a gallery of ten weighted ropes hung in a row, all different lengths and with varying sizes of weight attached. The idea was to shoot through the rope and make the weight drop. They would have a limited number of shots. He glanced to the judge approaching with a rifle.

“Preference?” he asked Ty.

Ty leaned back to look at the gun, then eyed the ropes with a growing smirk. “I kick ass with a rifle,” he whispered, then took a slow sip of his beer.

“Then by all means,” Zane drawled, sweeping one hand toward the judge.

“Gentlemen, pick your shooters. The rest of the team members, if you will please join the crowd.”

Zane waited until Ty was passing by to whisper, “I’d kiss you for luck, but it would probably cause a ruckus.”

“So will your shooting,” Ty told him, and he smacked Zane on the hip for good measure, then handed him his beer bottle. “Hold this.”

Zane took the bottle with a good-natured snort. With Ty in his line of sight, the beer in his hand wasn’t even a temptation.

Zane scanned the crowd. He found Harrison standing over to the side, talking to some of the judges. When Harrison looked up, Zane caught his eye and nodded. To Zane’s delight, Harrison mimed a pistol with his finger and thumb to shoot at him.

Zane turned to watch the competition, feeling much lighter all of a sudden. It still shocked him how much his parents’ approval meant to him. He knew he would never gain his mother’s, but Ty had been right about his father; he was epic.

The first shooter was given the rifle and told where to stand as the others moved to a safe observation point. They weren’t wearing earplugs or safety glasses like they should have been. Ty glanced around and pulled his aviators out of his shirt pocket to slide them on. He looked in Zane’s direction as the first man took aim and fired at his first weighted rope.

Ty didn’t flinch away, holding Zane’s gaze with each rifle blast. Just because he could, Zane gave Ty a quick wink.

Ty smiled, the same evil smirk Zane knew so well. Whether they won the whole thing or lost every single contest, Zane knew he was getting laid later. It almost made him want to ditch the entire day and take Ty somewhere secluded.

Ty finally turned his attention back to the shooting. The first contestant had hit four of the ropes but only snapped three. He’d also hit one of the weighted bags, and sand was gushing out of the holes. His score of three was chalked up on a large board on the side of the gallery, and the rifle was reloaded and new ropes tied up. There was a smattering of distracted applause as the next shooter, Stuart’s teammate, went up. He didn’t fare much better. The ropes were tough and thick, and though they snapped when nicked with the heavier weights, the lighter weights weren’t enough to pull a missed shot.

Annie appeared at Zane’s elbow. “What do you think?”

“I think your husband is in for some stiff competition.”

“I think you’re blinded by love.”

Zane nodded, acknowledging the truth in that. He looked over the other competitors standing with Ty. They were all capable ranch hands, and Mark had been a Marine. But like Ty had said, this sort of competition was as much a puzzle as it was a test of skill. What he was really concerned about was Stuart, and the idea that Mark was the mastermind behind their trouble.

“Mark keep up with the rifle range?” Zane asked.

“Like clockwork,” Annie replied.

As new ropes were hung up and the rifle reloaded, Ty stepped away from the others and began fiddling with his shirtsleeve again. Apparently it was his turn. Zane watched him, recognizing some of the quirky mannerisms, but not others. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what was going on, or he was drunk, and he seemed supremely distracted by the cuff of his shirt. It wouldn’t roll up like he wanted it to.

“Is he okay to shoot?” Annie asked.

Zane covered a laugh by clearing his throat. “Yeah, he’s fine. Superstitious, you know? Never steps on home base before a game, that kind of thing.”

Annie hummed but she didn’t say anything else, and Zane gave her a regretful glance. He prayed they were wrong about Mark.

Finally, Ty stepped closer to Mark and said something, to which Mark gave him a tolerant look and reached out to fix his shirt cuff for him. Ty thanked him with a smack on his shoulder that sent Mark stumbling sideways, and Ty sauntered up to the judge holding the rifle and took it with an easy grin.

He looked the rifle over and hefted it. “That’s nice,” he said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “What is it, Marlin .44 Special?”

The judge nodded, frowning.

“That’s real nice,” Ty said. He cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm, the muzzle aimed carelessly toward where Stuart stood. Stuart flinched as the barrel swung his way.

“Watch where you aim that damn thing!” Stuart shouted. A round of laughter followed.

“I’m watching,” Ty said, his tone lazy but his words heavy. He rested the rifle in the crook of his arm, using his other hand to discreetly keep the barrel aimed at Stuart as he moved forward to stand on the X marked in the sand.

Stuart sidestepped but couldn’t get out from under Ty’s aim. He flushed in the hot sun. Zane read his lips as he called Ty all kinds of unsavory names.

Annie turned a look of disbelief on Zane, who had to cover his mouth to muffle the laugh. He knew Ty; there was no way he’d pick up that rifle while drunk unless he or someone he loved was threatened. Ty was playing it up. He was also sending Stuart a clear message: they had him in their sights.

“Shooter ready?” the judge called, and Ty brought the six-pound rifle up to snug it against his shoulder. His stance was wide and even, and something about the way his shoulders rounded was incredibly fun to watch. But he was having a hard time gripping the rifle. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd; they expected him to make a fool of himself.

“Zane, I told you we should have cut off this cast,” Ty called out.

He had a point. He couldn’t just switch up and shoot lefty with a rifle. The cartridges were made to eject to the right of the shooter, and if he fired with his left hand, the hot cartridge would eject right into his face after every round.

“Hope he shoots better than he fights,” Stuart said loudly, and another round of laughter followed.

The first shot of the .44 kicked Ty back, but his aim was true and the bullet snapped through the rope just an inch above the weight. A murmur of surprise went through the crowd. He rattled off six more shots in rapid succession, his long fingers cocking the rifle with practiced speed and ease despite the cumbersome cast. Each shot drew more sounds from the crowd, until many were hooting and whistling every time he dropped a target. It was an impressive show.

And then he missed. The eighth rope twisted as the bullet grazed it. A groan ran through the crowd. Ty shrugged his shoulders and looked up from the sights of the rifle. He grumbled something. He tried the next rope and missed again, fraying the rope but not enough to make the lighter weight drop. He graced the crowd with a distinctive curse, held up his broken right hand and waved it, then aimed at the last rope.

The weight dropped with an anticlimactic plop in the sand, followed by a round of rowdy calls.

Ty handed the rifle off, then threw his hands up and took a cheeky bow for the crowd. They ate it up, and Zane had to shake his head. His lover was a born entertainer who liked to kill things. How he wasn’t in a psychiatric ward or on a Most Wanted list somewhere was anyone’s guess.

Zane tore his eyes away from Ty to glance at Stuart. The man looked a little green now, and even Mark was shifting his weight nervously.

“Huh,” Annie said, turning to Zane with a suspicious look.

“What?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “You brought in a ringer.”

Zane’s lips twitched. “No. Although his lethality is a hell of a benefit.”

Annie smacked his arm once, then again, and Zane shoved at her hand, rubbing his arm and laughing. “Hey, I’ve got to shoot. Stop it!”

Annie poked him in the chest. “I have to go home with Mark! You know what kind of mood he’ll be in if you beat him?”

“You’re the one who pushed us to enter!”

“Yeah, well, I thought you’d bomb!”

Zane wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. It hurt to think he’d have to be the one to tell her that her husband was the bad guy, and he hoped Ty was wrong this time. He looked up to see Ty walking—no, swaggering—over to the other shooters waiting their turn. He hugged Annie tighter.

Ty stopped in front of Mark first, smirking, and held out his arm. “Luck must have rubbed off on me,” he said as he swiped at his shirtsleeve. “Want it back?”

“Oh Lord.” Annie shoved at Zane’s chest and walked away. Zane smiled sadly. Annie still thought this was a friendly shooting competition.

Ty came to stand beside Zane, valiantly trying to restrain his grin. Zane glanced at him, snorted, and pressed his lips together hard to stave off the laugh. “You’re such a showboat.”

Ty turned to him, the sun reflecting off his sunglasses as a smile flitted across his lips. He pushed his hat back. “You telling me you didn’t enjoy that?”

“Oh, I enjoyed it a little too much. One down, several to go.” Zane grinned. “And at least you look good.”

Ty clucked his tongue. “Damn good.”

Zane couldn’t stop himself from sliding his hand against Ty’s back. Mark took up his spot and readied to shoot.

“Watch this,” Ty said, almost laughing.

“What’d you do?”

The crowd fell quiet. After a few heartbeats, Mark pulled the trigger. His shot grazed the rope but merely frayed it. He had missed the first and easiest shot.

Zane cleared his throat and stared at his boots for a long moment, trying not to tip their hand with his expression. “What’d you do?” he asked Ty under his breath.

“Got in his head, stole his luck,” Ty said. Mark turned to glare at them, and Ty pointedly wiped his imaginary luck off his shirt cuff, still grinning.

Mark rolled his eyes and set up again. He made the next shot, and the next. Ty was still laughing, obviously enjoying the mental game as well as the physical one. This was the same part of Ty that enjoyed profiling.

Mark ended up scoring one less than Ty, and although he looked like he was shaking it off, Zane didn’t miss his narrowed eyes as Mark walked off the range.

“I don’t care if we win,” Zane said as he watched Mark and Annie talk. “But I’d really like to beat him. And Stuart.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">