Cut and Run 6 - Stars and Stripes

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