Shelby
With my habitual Prick Patrols, Tuesday mornings are always a mixed bag of the unexpected. This Tuesday morning is like an angry pit bull tore into the bag and gave it a good shake with its teeth, scattering surprise after bleeding surprise at my feet. Least of all being the fact I’m actually back at the Ranch and ready to participate in something called Hell Camp.
Especially here, on the northern outskirts of town. Everyone avoids this area after it experienced its own kind of hell two years ago, when a tornado ripped through, leveling the place and destroying everything; lives, livestock, farms, and crops. Rumor has it a Texas cattleman bought up most of the cleared acreage, then built a wall around the property line. Rumor also has it that local aid money earmarked for rebuilding never made it to this side of town but instead was redirected to the wealthier west end of Shelby. Everyone knows Franco DiCapitano had something to do with that. Yet the Texan—Hayden?—never made a fuss about the misappropriated funds. It’s a never-ask, never-receive policy around here. And even when you do ask . . . beg . . . plead . . . for someone to do something, even investigate your father’s death, you still end up with nothing.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Devastation. Sadness knowing lives were lost out here on this now uninhabitable side of town.
Not this.
Not the sign that greets me, which hangs over the entrance of what has to be acres upon acres of red Oklahoma soil. FREEDOM’S BLUFF. Bluff, as in to call someone’s bluff—something I immediately realize after keying the code into the monitor, passing through the gate, and, avoiding the electrocuted, barbed wire–topped fence that likely surrounds the place, walking the ten minutes of unpaved winding driveway to the Ranch. The last time I was here, I’d been ushered out an exit doorway next to the library and into a car. The driver took off before my bottom touched the seat, like a bat out of hell up this very same driveway and out the gates, slowing only to drop me off in town. Why bring any more trouble home, right?
No one is getting inside—and quite possibly outside—Freedom’s Bluff without a code. Not without Hayden’s thumbs up.
The second shocker is the Ranch itself. I thought Hell Camp would be held in either some kind of military base, complete with tin-roof structures and armed soldiers running amok. The entry gate—that fence—did nothing to dispel this idea. I certainly wasn’t expecting an exquisitely beautiful, sprawling ranch, with its grand entryway and large bay windows. There’s even a wraparound porch, like in Southern Home magazine, complete with freaking white rocking chairs.
A tall tank of a man waits for me at the double-doored entrance. He’s an intimidating sight, with cropped blond hair, taut muscles that seem to cover every inch of him, an icy aura about him that’d freeze fire, and a vocabulary the size of a toddler’s. “Come,” he grunts and strides away, fully expecting me to follow him.
I’m led through room after marvelous room, and into a space with that’s easily three thousand square feet in itself. A supersize state-of-the-art gym, complete with a basketball court on one end, a weight station on the other, and smack in the center, a boxing ring, of which most of the men are crowded around.
That’s when the Jack in the jack-in-the-box jumps out of that mixed bag of the unexpected.
Not Jack . . . Jaxson.
I push my way forward until I’m close to the ring, my focus on one man.
Holy sweet Mary, it’s hard to miss him. And he’s more beautiful, sexier, more hard-core male than I remember him.
His six-foot-two frame, his powerful, shirtless chest dripping with sweat, the flexing of his pecs as he moves. My jaw goes slack at the sight of him. He’s like Brad Pitt in Fight Club, but impossibly hotter. He’s got this laid-back attitude and a deceptively charming way about him, with the way he moves, with that smirk. My gaze drops. His well-worn gray running shorts hang temptingly low on his waist. I hold my breath, eyeing the waistline as he lightly jogs around the ring, waiting for the relaxed elastic to give and for the cotton material to slip even further down on his taut lower abdomen. Far, far below his sexy eight-pack. Following the path of his deliciously cut V to temptation land. And with that tight ass . . . I won’t complain if that old elastic waistband decides to snap while his back is to me. Polo shirt, bare sweaty chested, shorts-less—it doesn’t matter, he’s impossible not to drool over. Yeah, Jaxson was made to be eye-fucked.
Jesus, someone please crank up the air-conditioning. The impassive, nonchalant vibe I’d hoped to give off has vanished in the flex of a muscle.
He’s in the ring with a man with a busted nose and a familiar face. His abs flex as he sidesteps a punch, and my mouth goes dry.
While my pheromones battle it out, I force my brain to appreciate Jaxson’s fighting skills, if that’s what you’d call it. He’s doing what he does best—antagonizing the hell out his opponent. Hadn’t I learned that the hard way? It’s like he’s on the inside of a joke of which Broken-Nose is the literal punch line. Working a verbal offensive and chipping away at the overly aggressive man’s defenses.
I developed a similar tactic in my self-defense classes, where one gullible newbie after another believed they could take me only to find themselves winded, then biting the mat. Hey, it’s not my fault their egos get crushed by the dumb blond who turns out to be anything but. I feel the tension in my body relax. I’ve sparred with big men before. If this is what Hell Camp requires . . .
“Grrr,” Broken-Nose cries out, beyond frustrated. Evidently, this fight has been going on far longer than he anticipated. He’s dripping sweat and breathing hard. Winded and looking the worst for wear. Still, he raises his clenched fists, nostrils flaring, and charges. Throwing his massive body weight into his punch and fully intent on knocking Jaxson on his ass.
Jaxson shifts lightly on his feet then ducks, dodging his attacker. He says something to Broken-Nose and the man’s face turns from pink to bright red.
I roll my eyes.
“Lucky we’ve time to warm up. Things are going to get uglier when the weapons arrive,” the tall, thin man next to me says in a nervous, high-pitched voice. “I’d tell you what my choice is but I’ll then have to . . . kill you.” He chuckles as I stare at him wide-eyed. “Just joking about the killing part.”
“What weapons?”
“Declan didn’t tell you?”
“Who the heck is Declan?” I ask, though my brain is still caught on what he means by weapons.
“The big blond with the stone-cold attitude. Hayden’s right-hand man. Didn’t he tell you to select one weapon for today’s training? You write your request on a scrap of paper over by the refreshment table and stick it in the big blue box. It’s over there.” He points to the wall near the weight equipment.
Jesus. “Weapons like guns?”
“No guns. Physical combat weapons only. Nunchucks, brass-knuckle rings, knives.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“Hurry before they take the box away.”
I step forward, then stop. “What’s your name?”
“Francis.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
He shifts on his feet and his body does this weird wiggle that starts at his ankles and rolls up his spin to his head. Like he’s doing a more subtle version of the Worm but instead of being on his stomach, he’s on his feet. Talk about nervous ticks. We’re both out of our element at the Ranch—yeah, it hasn’t escaped my notice that I’m the lone woman here. I wonder what special talent Francis has that’d make Hayden sit up and take notice.
I brush aside thoughts about Francis and everything else. Hurrying toward the table containing lines of bottled water and a big blue weapon-request box, my attention turns toward what I’ll write.
The entire week leading up until today, I practiced handling the Ruger I’d been given out in a clearing within an abandoned wheat field. Until I was able to hit the targets I’d hung up. Cardboard cutouts of frowning faces with the word Prick scribbled across their foreheads. Hey, nothing better than a little incentive and the prospect of a reward at the end of it. It helped turn an amateur shooter into an okay shot. Still, am I prepared to kill someone, even a Prick? Will I ever be prepared? Will I ever be in a situation where I’d do such a thing?
Suddenly, I’m doubting my decision to return. Nunchucks, brass knuckles, knives. The only knives I’ve ever used were to cut steak with or butter a bun. Yeah, my odds of not getting hurt are worse than holding a winning lottery ticket. I gaze around the gym, roughly counting the men assembled. Twenty-five?
My throat feels dry.
Money or no money, getting my revenge or not, coming to Hell Camp was a stupid idea.
With shaky hands, I pop open a bottle of water and take a sip.
Aside from Francis, I’m dealing with cavemen here. Every single man is built—or just big all around. “Ex-military, street thugs, convicts . . . only the best,” Hayden had said. No way in hell will I survive a fight with any of these professionals if weapons are involved. Maybe I should fight like a woman and throw them off their game. Does a tiny white string bikini qualify as physical weaponry? Dumb thinking. Any one of them would likely cop a feel with one hand and slit my throat with the other. I take another sip of water and think, What am I good at?
I swallow hard, then my eyebrows arch. That’s it. I quickly scribble down my sudden yet brilliant idea and, folding the paper, slide it into the blue box.
Time to start assessing the competition. Moving away from the table, I work my way back into the crowd.
I naturally find myself searching out the man responsible for dragging me before Hayden, and—aided by some screwy decision-making on my part—into this mess.
Instead I catch Declan’s attention. I offer a friendly smile—why make an enemy of the fiercest man here?
His brows immediately furrow and I swear to God, he bares his teeth to me.
Okay. Wrong man to faux-friend.
I hastily turn away, only to come face-to-face with the man I’d nailed in the balls. “Bitch is back,” he bites out to the guy next to him. Yep, Ball-Busted is a man with a short fuse and a long memory.
With a shrug of my shoulders that only irritates him more, I begin to circle the room, repeating a drill I often do at the Dayton gym. It’s helpful to pause and take notice of your competition, their strengths, their weaknesses. Though as I hit the halfway mark around the room, I’m starting to think these cavemen came out of their mamas’ wombs with raised fists.
“Chiquita, roll those hips at the wrong guy and you’re going to be fighting a different battle.” I turn toward a man with hair the color of black ink and with brown eyes filled with such unbridled lust, he could set the room on fire. “Diego,” he says, sticking out his hand.
I take it and feel the tight, powerful squeeze of his fingers. Jesus. I’ve poked a puma with one shake of my hip. A sexy, warm-blooded cat, ready and raring to pounce. “Kylie,” I reply, withdrawing my hand but standing my ground nevertheless.
He flashes a predatory smile at me.
Back at you, I think, giving him my best faux grin.
He nods, and I get the impression I’ve somehow earned his respect. “Better prepare yourself. You’re going to need to do more than shake your ass if you want to survive Hell Camp.”
“Shake my bootie? How about I give three shakes of a firm fist cast in your direction?” I mutter beneath my breath.
“Guess I’m the lover and you’re the fighter.” With a conspiratorial grin, he stalks off.
I ignore his warning and continue my rounds until the weapons arrive and an excited murmur sweeps across the room.
Yeah, men and their toys.
I’m handed a small plastic bag. “Hey, handsome,” I say to the harried deliveryman, “do a girl a favor? Turn off the air conditioning. It’s going to be hard enough fighting these beasts without my nipples perking up and getting in the way. Pleaseee.”
Fighting back a wince—Jesus, this innocent female bullshit is for the birds—I watch as he rushes out of the room, only to reappear a few minutes later.
Still, anxiety kicks in as I take in the literal arsenal of weapons he proceeds to hand out. Knives, machetes, chains, and ropes, you name it. Men begin posturing, attitudes switching on a dime toward the ugly. Hand a guy a weapon and his machismo kicks in. As if his weapon is an extension of his penis.
With a sigh, I get busy, twisting off the caps on the water bottles and methodically adding my own special flavoring to them. Then it’s caps back on with no one the wiser. But will this work?
I take an unpolluted bottle and return to the group being gathered around the boxing ring. My spine stiffens when I spy the ringleader—Hayden. I keep searching, looking for another man until, at long last, I spot his blond-haired head.
Our eyes connect.
Jaxson winks.
My lips part in surprise.
Then Hayden speaks, and I feel a sense of loss as his attention shifts away. “I suggest you hydrate your bodies. It’s going to be a long morning. Remember, I’m looking for winners—the smartest of the bunch. First to fight are Diego and Timuran.”
I remove myself from the crowd and walk around the gym. Shaking off both nervous tension and my unwillingness to witness the sexy Latino get his face beaten in. A few minutes pass then the crowd shrieks. “Diego. Diego.”
We have a winner, folks. I silently chuckle. That’s right, fellas. Scream your heads off. Parch those throats.
“Andrew and Declan, take the ring.”
A wave of “oh shit”s sweeps through the crowd. I draw closer, and see that Hayden’s paired up the two largest men; Andrew with a beer belly the size of a Great Dane and the Stone-Cold Conversationalist himself. They both hold knives in their hands. Hardcore fighters—they’ve done this before.
Which is why I gasp along with everyone else, when less than a minute into the fight, Declan punches Andrew square in the face and knocks him out cold.
So much for big men and their knives. And at this rate, we’ll be done in no time.
“Jaxson and Kylie.”
Oh shit. I was banking on being one of the last to go.
I feel everyone’s attention narrowing on me. Sizing me up. Underestimating me. Writing me off as weak. I don’t know why this pisses me off. I am the weakest, unknived, unroped, unmilitary-trained link. Stubbornness—along with a healthy dose of stupid pride—fuels my movements. Squaring my shoulders and with my chin held high, I make my way inside the ring.
Of all men to fight . . .
Jaxson saunters into the ring like some hot-as-hell runway model. Bare chest on full display. Shorts dangling precariously off of his hip bone. Cocky-ass attitude filling the space between us. But the corded rope wrapped around his arm like a fire hose ruins the perfect picture.
I hold my ground and my breath as he stalks toward me. Jesus, he’s even more beautiful close up, with eyes a pale blue color, reminding me of a cloudless sky after a long, hard rain. He unsettles me like no one I’ve ever met. Frozen, I stare at him, unflinching as he leans toward me. “No weapon?” he whispers, his breath warm on my ear.
I shrug my shoulders.
He steps back and tosses the rope aside. He drags his gaze over me, from my worn sneakers and neat white socks, up my long legs, to my small pink shorts, over my Deep Purple T-shirt with the BAD ATTITUDE decal pulled tight across my chest, where he hesitates briefly before racking his eyes up to meet mine. Caressing me without touching me. Causing my throat to tighten and my internal thermometer to spike.
The last thing I’m thinking about is fighting him. Unless that consists of throwing myself at him, taking him down to the mat and taking his eye-fuck of a caress a few steps further.
Or am I misinterpreting his actions? Is he simply searching for my weapon?
I narrow my eyes at him.
He runs his tongue across his bottom lip.
Oh yeah? Two can play this hand. Without batting an eyelash, I sweep my leg across the mat, behind his heel and knock him off balance. He lands on his ass on the mat, just like the many men that have underestimated me before.
Yet his lips lift into a naughty curve, throwing me off-balance.
Wrong move. Wrong reaction. I want him slack-jawed and weak-kneed. Instead, it’s the other way around. Damn it. I better be careful or I’ll lose this battle.
There’s a time to attack and a time to retreat. I do the latter, shifting a few steps back. Feeling my T-shirt’s a bit too loose and can easily be grabbed, I bring it up and over my head, tossing it off to the side. My sports bra is worn, pink, and one size too small for my girls. Tight, just like the money I didn’t have to invest in better bras.
I sigh. It is what it is.
The cavemen react predictably: catcalls, shouts about tits and ass, what he’d do to me if he were the lucky sucker to be inside the ring. Yeah, let’s see who’ll be getting the last laugh, fellas.
Jaxson springs to his feet, stepping forward and invading my space. “Can’t say I’m going to miss the Bad Attitude.” Blocking my body from the crowd and faster than a blink, he touches me, then just as fast, steps back and away.
Holy hell. He just flicked a nipple. It warms like a pinprick and instantly pebbles up. My body is on fire. And my shorts’ built-in panty is suddenly wet. Jesus, it’s going to be uncomfortable fighting him with one perky nipple and a wet crotch.
“Choke her with the rope already,” someone shouts, clearly not a huge fan of mine.
His baby-blue eyes shimmer brightly, sending my pulse pounding. I try to calm down but he smoothly swoops back. I punch him in the side of his head but it’s not enough to stop him from planting a kiss on my lips. “Nice rack. Shame you had to go for the obvious choice,” he informs me, his lips move against mine in a whisper. “You shouldn’t have come back here.”
I’m tempted. To plant my own kiss on his luscious lips accompanied by kicking the presumptuous ass in the balls.
But before I can lift a leg, I’m falling, knocked off balance mentally and physically by his slick, unexpected moves. Lightening quick—I’ll have to remember that. I hit the mat and he falls on top of me, flipping me onto my back before pinning me in place with his big broad chest.
Cavemen shout out advice on what to do next. None of it has to do with kicking my ass.
It’s hard to move, breathe, think with his weight on top of me, his chest pushing against mine, his crotch pressed up against my right thigh. He’s stilled and I swear I can feel his heart beating in unison with mine.
But my right hand is free, close to my thigh, close to . . . This. Is. War. Baby.
I reach between his legs, aiming for his darling twins, but he lifts up and all I’m left grasping is his manhood.
Holy sweet hell. Balls are so much more manageable in a situation like this. Hadn’t I been trained in down-and-dirty rape-prevention techniques? Still, it’s a proven fact that men think with their cocks. And Jaxson, let me tell you, is a big thinker.
Thoughts about what I might do are probably racing around inside because beneath my palm, I feel him swelling thicker, hotter, bigger, and bigger still.
I squeeze tighter.
He laughs, then murmurs in my ear, “I like it rough.”
Sure enough, I feel him grow harder.
“My kind of woman.”
I grunt. “I think all women fit that category.”
“Fireball.”
“Jax-ass.”
“You don’t stand a chance, you know,” he informs me in a more somber tone.
Yeah, we’ll see about that. I just need to survive him. I shoot him a cocky grin and his eyes flash like I’ve caught him off guard. Perfect. With a full fist, I box him on the ear.
He rolls off me, cupping the side of his face like I hurt him.
I frown because I know better. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that little punch to crack his thick skull open. Without thinking too deeply about it, I scramble to my feet.
He comes at me and swings. I duck and shift to the side. My frown is now a full blown-out scowl. Either he’s the worst fighter in the place and just caught a lucky break with Broken-Nose or he’s messing with me.
Mimicking his prior move, he charges forward. I dodge his lame-ass punch once again.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Just play along with me.”
My eyebrows arch, disbelieving.
“Trust me,” he says with a bloody wink.
That’s all the encouragement I need to land a solid kick to his side. Instead of angering him, he grins like a fool.
I follow it up with the hard heel of my hand to his chin and a punch in the kidney. Just like I’ve trained to do.
He swings wide and misses, but keeps himself good and close and within range.
“You’re letting me win? Why?” I demand.
“This has nothing to do with being the last person standing—which is what most of these guys think.”
“You heard Hayden. He’s looking for winners,” I correct him. “Give me one good reason why should I listen to you?”
I kick and connect with his side.
“I’ll give you two, fireball.” He lands a surprise punch on my shoulder, but pulls it so it’s barely a tap. “One: I’ll need you to help me survive Hell Camp.”
Now that’s downright laughable. “If you and I make it through this morning.”
“Tsk, tsk. Have a little more faith in these guys’ total lack of understanding. This isn’t about being the strongest man.” He lands another tap on my other shoulder and I follow it up with a crack to his thick skull. “This isn’t a fight about strength. Or who’s the most brutal fighter. This is a test of wits. Instinct. Adaptability.”
“So you’re saying I don’t have to hand you your ass or anyone else theirs?” I can’t help myself as a grin spreads across my lips. “All I’ve got to do is prove I’m . . . what? Clever? Creative even?”
“Yep. You’re sharp—I knew the moment you outsmarted my crew back in that field. Smart enough to outthink these guys. You just need to start thinking outside the box. Stop relying on the obvious.” He cross punches the air, brushing the back of his fist across my girls. My nipples harden, like one’s waving hello and the other saying, “Where are you going?”
“So you believe my tits are my weapon of choice?” I say a little too smugly.
Damn it. Don’t give yourself away. I stick out my chest, giving my girls a good jiggle as I move.
“Your rack, your entire fucking body, is your weapon and my downfall. The things I want to do to you. Pinch your nipples like I did before. Feast on your breasts, suck and fuck them. Lick you between your thighs and watch you come on my face. Fuck you and make you cry out my name. Yeah, you’re a weapon I’ll gladly sacrifice myself to have. Yep, you’ll be a pleasurable diversion helping me get through my fifth time at Camp.”
Oh sweet mother Mary. I’m winded like he’s landed a punch. “What?” I whisper.
He reaches out and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Reason two: I knew it the second I laid eyes on you. You and I, fireball, are going to be a thing.”
I jump like he’s pinch another nipple and punch him in the side of his face. “That’s goddamn presumptuous of you.”
Quick as a whip, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in tight, slamming my body into his. “When I want something, I take it.”
“Do something or get out of the ring,” someone bellows.
“Say yes.” He flashes me that grin. Holy hell, the man’s lost his mind.
“Yes to what? Listening to your insanity?”
“Becoming my lover.”
God, who says this? Yet the way the word rolls off his tongue has me screaming yes repeatedly inside my head. Thank sweet hell it’s the voice of reason who answers him. “I don’t even know you.”
“You will. I’m going to make sure of it.”
“Have you been hitting the Kool-Aid again?”
That makes him chuckle.
I feel like the winds swept straight through me and stole my ability to breath. A charmer through and through. With charm enough to con any woman, from Shelby to Sydney, out of her underwear and into his bed.
“Good. We’re in agreement—”
“—I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Are you planning on sticking around for Hell Camp?”
“Yes.”
He smirks. “Then there’s time for me to persuade you.”
God, he’s maddening. And irresistible. “If you let me win, you lose on both accounts. If you win . . .”
“Have you no faith?” He bloody winks at me. “I’m going to step back. I want you to punch me as hard as you can in the face. Got it?”
“You’re insane. I’m not strong enough to knock you out. They’ll never believe it.”
“It’s you and me, fireball.” I feel him lightly kiss my ear. “Do it.”
He shifts back but remains within arms reach. “Do your worst,” he thumps his chest and shouts like a crazy man.
The crowd erupts with cheers. Jaxson. Jaxson. Not one of them is rooting for me.
My victory is going to taste all the better.
Except Jaxson’s rooting for me, his actions prove it. He didn’t have to throw down his rope or take care not to hurt me. Still, I’m puzzled as to why. Sure he’s aiming to get inside my panties. Yeah, he’s a smooth-talking stud with a potty mouth that rivals his dirty, sinful body. Maybe there’s something to be said about lust at first sight. But whatever the reason, it has me thinking that together, Hell Camp might turn out being a sweet slice of heaven.
Tightening my fist, I pull back my arm then, using my body weight, send a punch straight into his face. Not aiming at his nose—although breaking it would have given me more credibility. Instead I hit his cheek, just below the eye.
He stumbles back and, giving a performance that would earn him a star on Hollywood Boulevard, tumbles back onto the mat. Acting like I’ve done him serious damage when anyone with their head screwed on correctly would know I barely hurt him.
Still, Hayden speaks. “I’ve seen enough. There’ll be a ten-minute break then we’ll finish up with the individual fights. And, for Christ’s sake, someone crank up the air-conditioning.”
I don’t budge, but stand there, staring down at Jaxson. Thinking about him. Thinking about the possibility of us.
But first things first. “Jaxson,” I murmur.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t drink the water.”