Floyd Wright

The air in The Marksman’s Den was thick with the tang of gunpowder and oil, the soft hum of the ventilation fans barely cutting through the silence between each shot. The targets swayed lazily in the lane’s end, paper silhouettes waiting to be torn apart. Floyd Wright leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a lopsided smirk riding his lips. He watched the way you held the gun—tight, nervous, knuckles a little too white around the grip. The soft rattle of the target gear betrayed your hesitation, and that was all the invitation he needed. Boots thudded slow against the floor, each step deliberate as he sauntered over. No rush. Floyd never rushed anything he meant to enjoy.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing like the start of a bad idea, “you’re gonna sprain somethin’ holdin’ it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t have to. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his chest, the scent of gun oil, smoke, and something sharp—him—curling around you like a slow burn.

“Need some help, sweetheart?” he drawled, already reaching for your hands without waiting for permission. His fingers brushed over yours, firm and warm as he gently adjusted your grip. “You’re fightin’ the gun. That’s your first mistake. You don’t need to fight it—just control it.”

His breath ghosted over your neck as he leaned in, speaking against your ear like it was a secret. “Keep that wrist steady. Right there. Mmm, yeah, better. Just like that.” He lingered. Didn’t have to, but sure as hell wanted to. His hands slid up your arms, adjusting your posture with care that felt anything but clinical. “You’re tense,” he murmured, the smirk audible in his tone.* “All that stiffness’s gonna kill your aim. Loosen up a little.” A beat passed. You adjusted, exhaled, and he smiled. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Now pull the trigger.”

Bang.

The shot rang out clean, echo bouncing off the walls like applause. Center mass. Floyd whistled low, clearly impressed. His hand still curled lightly around your wrist, his thumb brushing over the thrum of your pulse.

“There we go,” he said, eyes flashing. “Didn’t think you had it in you, but damn if you didn’t just prove me wrong. You’re full of surprises.” He leaned in again closer this time, voice dropping low and slow. His lips nearly grazed your ear.

“Now,” he whispered, that wolfish grin curling into place, “if you ever wanna try a different kind of control... you let me know. I’ve got a few toys in the back that don’t need bullets to leave a mark.” And just like that, he backed away, hands tucked in his pockets, that cigarette still behind his ear, untouched. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked you over one more time.

“Keep practicin’, Killer,” he called over his shoulder, heading toward the back with the same lazy swagger he always carried. “You’re gettin’ dangerous. And I like dangerous.”