Page 57 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Exactly my point.” I untie my apron and hang it on the hook. “What do you usually do when you need to blow off steam?”
“Drink,” Garrett admits.
“Break things,” Silas adds.
“Brood in my office while making lists of everything that could go wrong,” Atlas says.
“Well, it’s too early to drink, I’m not letting you break anything in the restaurant, and your brooding is making everyone else miserable.” I grab my jacket from the hook by the back door. “Come on. Show me this shooting range you’re always talking about.”
“It’s not really meant for—” Atlas starts.
“For what? Women? Waitresses? People who haven’t been officially inducted into your little boys’ club?” I raise an eyebrow. “Try again.”
“For stress relief,” he finishes lamely.
“Perfect. Because I’m stressed too. Living with three men who are wound tight enough to snap doesn’t exactly promote inner peace.”
Garrett grins. “She’s got a point.”
“Fine,” Atlas says, standing and grabbing his keys. “But don’t blame me if you don’t like loud noises.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The walk to the range takes us through parts of their property I haven’t seen before. Past Silas’s forge and Garrett’s workshop, a dirt path winds through pine trees toward what looks like empty wilderness.
The afternoon sun filters through the branches, casting moving shadows on the ground, and for a few minutes, I can almost forget we’re being hunted.
“How much land do you actually own?” I ask as we climb a gentle slope.
“Hundred and sixty acres,” Garrett says. “We bought it piece by piece over the years.”
“That’s a lot of space.”
“Good to have a buffer between us and the neighbors,” Atlas explains. “Especially when the neighbors might ask questions about our hobbies.”
“What kind of questions?”
“The kind that start with ‘Why do I hear gunfire coming from your property at all hours?’ and end with phone calls to the sheriff,” Silas says with a grin.
“You shoot at all hours?”
“Sometimes inspiration strikes at odd times,” Garrett says. “New weapon to test, technique to practice. Three in the morning is actually a great time for long-range accuracy work—no wind, perfect visibility.”
“You’re all insane.”
“Says the woman who chose to live with us.”
“Point taken.”
The trees open up into a natural clearing that’s been converted into something seriously impressive. Multiple shooting stations with concrete barriers, targets at various distances, and even what looks like an obstacle course, complete with pop-up targets and cover positions. But it’s the people already here that catch my attention.
Two men I don’t recognize are setting up rifles at the furthest stations, while a younger guy with a Black Wolves patch jokes loudly with someone adjusting targets. Near the equipment shed, I spot faces that seem familiar from around town.
“Busy place,” I observe.
“Word gets around when we’re opening up the range,” Atlas says. “It’s a good training opportunity for everyone.”
“Kip, Zane,” Garrett calls out to two men examining a rifle with a scope that looks like it belongs on a space telescope. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”
