Shelby
“You want me to throw a knife at your head?” I ask, and just like that, a week’s worth of manning up and acting like I belong here at Hell Camp, convincing myself that I’m going to make it through the daily obstacle of horrors, is shot to high hell in a handbasket.
Jaxson shrugs, then favors me with one of his lazy smiles. I swear it feels as if the sun’s rays puckered up then warmly kissed every blessed inch of my body.
When God created beautiful men, he must have waved Jaxson forward and said, “Cut the line, you stud.” His dirty-blond hair is cropped on the sides with lighter finger-length highlights on the top, giving him this laid-back, rumpled bed-head vibe. I imagine weaving my fingers through it, grabbing hold of him by the hair, and drawing his lips to me. His eyes are light blue like mine. Except his shimmer with a constant glimmer of mischief, which captures your attention and sets your thoughts on the edge of naughty-land. He possesses a lightness of spirit mixed with a spark of purpose that only he holds the secret to. Naughty eyes.
I’m overwhelmed by him.
He knows it, too. His smirk seems to be as big, and as blatantly suggestive, as the impressive package I felt under his shorts that first week.
Is this only a game to him? Is it because he’s a man with enormous sexual appetites and little ol’ lucky me, being the solo female in the group, is his one hope at some fun fuckery? Or is simply entertainment for him, the How Many Times Can I Unsettle Kylie show?
But knives raise the game to an entirely different level.
In my first week of Hell Camp, I shot pistols at a gun range, improved my time in completing a grueling obstacle course, with an impossible wall I’d never have gotten over without a helpful hand from Jaxson, whizzed through ten-mile runs—running is my thing—and managed to give as good as I got in hand-to-hand combat, at which I’m surprisingly capable even against these hard-core professionals so long as weapons aren’t involved. At the end of the day, the men assigned to each obstacle hand Hayden their scorecards. Points are tallied, then posted on the wall by the refreshment table inside the gym. I hover somewhere at the lower end of the pack. Not surprising, given how these men are much more experienced in military-like training. Each night, I return home to Mama and Madelyn, tired, weary, exhilarated. And, truth be told, feeling a little guilty for not being around as much.
Now training has changed from being an individual task to a team effort. And Jaxson has shifted from being someone constantly next to me, taunting me, touching me, keeping up with me, or falling behind simply to train with me, to being this and being my teammate.
“Leave it to you to fix things with Hayden? We’re not talking about a leaky faucet, Jaxson. Jesus, don’t you take anything seriously? My ability with knives is limited to buttering buns and carving off slices of pot roast. Not throwing them at targets. Not throwing them at a live mark. No. You’re out of your bleeding mind. I won’t do it.”
As I speak, he draws in closer. Crowding my space. Making me far too aware of him. I draw in a breath and am rewarded with the tantalizing smell of his skin. He has this spicy, woodsy, rugged, outdoorsman scent, like pepper tree bark, if such a thing exists. Yet what makes my toes curl is that sweet citrusy undernote, like summertime lemonade, that makes me want to sip and lick at his skin . I wiggle my upturned toes—yep, it happens every time I’m near him.
“All this talk about buttered buns and meat is making me hungry. What do you say, fireball? You ready for me yet?”
Ready for him? Hell, no. He’s going to be the death of me yet.
I know this is a tactic of his to throw me off track. Distract me with a hazy fog of lust that seems to kick up on a dime whenever he’s around. And, every single time, my imagination follows him off course and down the naughty path called temptation.
He reaches out and runs a thumb across my cheek. I’m seconds away from raising my chin, arching my spine, and preening like a cat who loves being stroked. Up until I met him, I’d like to believe I was born ready. But now . . . My pulse quickens double time.
A sexy rumble comes from deep within his throat as he holds up his thumb for inspection. The pad is coated with dirt. Damn it. I immediately wipe the back of my hand across my cheek. “Don’t,” he says. “I like you dirty.”
Oh, holy hell. “Sure you do,” I mutter.
“You’re . . . you. Down-to-earth. Smart. Ballsy. Holding her own within this hard-core crew. Yeah, you’ve got a set of tits I’m dying to get my mouth on. And a fine, tight ass I’d love to leave my handprint on.” He leans over and flicks my cheek with his finger. “But don’t believe for a second that a little dirt is going to stop me.”
God, and in less than five minutes, I’m going to be throwing knives at this man? I knew the second I ruined my Bon Jovi T-shirt a month ago bad luck was coming. Reality check: “wanted dead or alive” is just a turn of phrase, folks. If Jaxson thinks he’ll come out unscathed from this . . . “Be serious for just a second. The point is I’m not holding my own. Why did you have to go and negotiate with Hayden on my behalf?”
“The key to being a good fighter is knowing your own limits. Do you honestly believe you’d survive round two in the ring with any one of these guys? Wake up, sweetheart. Half of the men here are killers. Former cons. Street punks. Soldiers who’ve seen action. Trained mercenaries used to blood on their hands. You’re clever and you’ve got gumption. But until you’ve been trained properly in all forms of weaponry, it’s best if you stay out of the battle ring.”
Jesus, I can’t believe Hayden agreed to this.
“Earth to Jaxson. I’m. Not. Trained. With. Knives. How is this any better, you getting hurt instead of me?” I demand.
He runs his hand across his jaw, his action taking his casual don’t-give-a-fuck smirk away with it. “It just is,” he replies softly.
“But heads up . . .” I continue, ignoring the funny feeling his words stir up inside of me as I try to put the threat back in threatening, “ . . . call me sweetheart again and I’ll gladly put a knife between your eyes. Understand?”
My glare doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Sure thing, fireball.”
I shake my head, exasperated. “I’m going to go talk to Hayden and tell him to forget your offer.”
He grabs my elbow before I can walk way. “Don’t.”
Exasperated, I tap my temple. “You insane in the membrane?”
“I’ll ask you the same question. Why’d you pick Francis to be on our team?”
To my dismay, Hayden chose “the bitch who caused the shits” to be one of five team leaders, with the challenging responsibility of selecting men for her team and convincing them to follow her. For my team, I’ve picked Jaxson—yeah, surprise, surprise—along with Declan the Conversationalist, Diego the dark-haired stud, and . . . Francis, a.k.a. Worm. Yep, the first three are a no-brainer. Highly skilled, seasoned men who evidently have been through Hell Camp before. I’m starting to wonder if these three extremely capable men were part of the team that’d failed Hayden, which in an ironic twist of fate is the reason why he recruited me.
Clearly, Diego and Declan hate failure. Having won their matches, our team lost points an hour ago after Francis got cut up pretty badly inside the ring. Diego’s likely still cursing a blue streak. Declan favored me with a thanks-for-choosing-that-bleeding-worm kill-stare, then stalked off without a word. And while I was processing it all, horrified at the violence and frantically trying to help Francis tend to the cuts covering his arms, neck, and legs, unbeknownst to me, Jaxson strolled over to Hayden and negotiated this screwed-up alternative that’s saved me from the war ring.
I get the feeling our would-be TORC boss is expecting a few hoots and giggles at Jaxson’s expense. Seems they have a sketchy relationship to begin with. No surprise there, being they’re two polar opposites. Hayden’s the chess master, pulling everyone’s invisible strings. Guess that’s why he’s the boss, right? And Jaxson? He’s the smooth-talking operator who could piss off the Pope in one breath then, in the next, be the smug-faced recipient of some special Vatican homily. If anyone is equipped to yank Hayden’s chain, it’s Jaxson.
“I don’t trust the guy. Why chose him?” he asks a second time.
I sigh. I’ve been struggling with this same question myself. Pity? The fact that my choices were limited to Francis and Ball-Busted, which was really no choice at all. “I owed Francis a favor for giving me a heads-up about needing a weapon for the battle ring. He might not be the best fighter out there . . .”
“ You can say that again.”
“ . . . but he did right by me and I returned the favor. Never underestimate the power of loyalty.”
“Ah, loyalty. Is that what this is about?”
“Yes.”
“And you’d call yourself loyal?” he asks softly, his eyes thoughtful as they fix on me.
I feel my eyebrows furrow. I think about why I’m here, why I’m putting myself through this. After all, revenge in a weird twisted way is the utmost form of loyalty, right? “Beyond a doubt.”
He keeps staring, assessing the truth behind my words. Something crosses his face . . . a subtle flash of awareness, like he sees past the bullshit, sees me. I blink, and it’s gone just like that.
“Mutts are loyal. Pat them on the head. Throw them a bone. Show them a little affection.”
I snort. “Are you comparing me to a dog? That’s ironic, being such a horndog yourself.”
He smirks, not denying it. Knowing full well the highly arousing effect he has on womankind.
“Sworn to fun, loyal to none,” I murmur. “Yeah, I’d bet my entire T-shirt collection that’s your motto. More your ammo.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Then, he does just that . . . surprises me, by taking his thumb and running it across his jawline. Marking his otherwise perfectly clean skin with my dirt. Like he’s putting on war paint. Or is it lust paint? I can only stare at him as he winks then walks away.
“Damn you. Do you have a death wish?” I shout after him, but he keeps on walking as if he didn’t hear me. Of all the asinine ideas, this one takes the prize. Move over, Barnum & Bailey, here comes the Kyle and the Smooth-Talking Man-Whore show.
Jesus, why couldn’t Hayden have passed a machete or meat cleaver across his desk instead of that gun? Knives? Is this something military men even train with?
Well, what did I expect given nothing about TORC training has been predictable.
As it stands, I suck with knives. Hayden knows it—hell, they all bore witness to it during Hayden’s twisted version of darts, where we tossed knives into a dummy at various paces and points were given for each major artery hit. Plus bonus points for the kill spots, not that I came even remotely close to hitting the dummy’s heart or kidney. I did manage to nail Señor Dummy in the kneecap, earning a few points for immobilizing a target—not like this one was going to make a run for the woods on the western side of the Ranch.
Declan must have been weaned with a knife in his hand. He’s that talented. The poor dummy lost an eye, an ear, and was finally put out of his misery with a sharp blade to the kidney. So despite my weak skills, our group managed to stay in the lead.
Damn it. Where is Hayden?
I walk over to the clearing where this ridiculous obstacle is to take place and nod at Declan by way of a greeting. He scowls at me and turns away. I sigh. If you can’t lead a bull to water . . .
My nerves catch in my throat as I approach him. “You busy?” I ask.
He grunts. Yep, it’s like talking to a steep-faced mountain.
“Okay, I won’t bullshit you. We’re fucking screwed.”
This earns his attention.
“Unless Hayden changes his mind.”
“Right.” One word, but I’ve got him talking.
“Or if you give me a crash course in knife throwing 101.”
I jump as Declan withdraws a knife, takes my hand, and places it handle-first in my palm. It’s not any knife. It has a seashell handle that’s easy to grasp. A blade that’s long, thin, and average in size yet I bet is sharper than a butcher’s knife. It’s light and easy to manage. Built for a woman. Much better than those clunkers we used a few days ago. It’s . . . beautiful. Deadly. Just what a girl like me has been hoping for . . . yeah, right.
I study Declan’s beefy man-fingers, then arch an eyebrow. “For me?”
“Thank Jaxson.”
“I will if I don’t kill him first.”
“You do, and you’ll be next.”
I hold onto the knife for dear life. Jesus, I’d hate to be on Declan’s bad side. Instead of wilting like a little flower at his words, I straighten and cock my head, preparing to give him some smartass remark like, “Gotta catch me before you can kill me.” What comes out instead and in a half exhalation, half choke is, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Fuck,” Declan replies.
“Come on, what’ve you got for me? I’ve wasted too much time trying to talk Jaxson out of this when I should have been warming up. You’re the expert here.”
“Stand over there,”—he points to a white X mark someone’s painted onto the grass—“and throw it into the barn siding.”
I hurry over and stand on the X. Just like I practiced, I raise my arm and toss, hitting the barn further to the right of where I’d been aiming. God, I suck at this.
“It’s the knife. It drags. Throw it to the left of your mark and you’ll have a direct hit.”
“Really?”
He retrieves the knife and nods for me to toss it again.
This time, I do as he says. And voilà, it hits direct center. Still, it’s just an undefined, imaginary mark I’m aiming at. Not the real deal. Not Jaxson.
“Bet the bitch will get the shits this time,” Ball-Busted says as the men amble over and huddle up for this circus sideshow. Da da dah dah . . .
“You’re looking a bit parched. How about some water? Or maybe another kick in the balls?” I shoot back.
Ball-Busted steps toward me, but then his eyes widen on the man next to me and he pauses, then turns and hurries away.
“I can fight my own battles,” I snap, my nerves getting the best of me.
“Honey, if you could fight your own battles, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“He talks,” I mutter, more for my own sanity than for his benefit. Declan stalks off, leaving me to my misery.
By the time Hayden arrives, he looks positively livid.
Jaxson saunters up behind him, acting like this is some big inside joke, and goes to stand in place with his back to the barn. Folding his arms across his body. Spreading his legs. Giving me that sly, sexy smirk of his that makes everything seem okay even when it’s not.
The last of the men gather around. A nervous excitement fills the air. Eager to be entertained at Jaxson’s and my expense. Blood-hungry despite a tough afternoon slicing and dicing in the war ring. Boys will be boys, right.
Aim straight on and you’ll miss his handsome face.
“Let’s get this charade over with,” Hayden snaps. Pissed off at Jaxson, there’s no doubt about it. “No spreading them. I want your legs a hand’s width apart.”
For a second, I think he’s correcting my stance on the X. But when I catch Jaxson’s smirk drop, I know otherwise.
What the hell is going on now?
A couple men laugh.
Someone says, “Let’s see if he can still get it up afterward.”
Another man adds, “My money says yes. That stud has fucked more women than anyone I know. A natural. A thoroughbred.”
“Yeah, funny how a woman is going to put an end to that.”
Jesus. My eyes narrow on the stud with his back to the barn. A certified man-whore. Even though I know everything about him screams women magnet from his smug lover-boy smile to those big feet of his, it’s different to hear the men actually confirm it.
“I’ll try not to knick your cheek or nail you in the throat. Seems I’ll have every woman from Oklahoma to Okinawa after me if I mar that handsome lover-boy face of yours.”
The men around us laugh.
“You missed the change in plans, fireball.”
Hayden steps forward. “We’re wasting time. You’ve got one throw.”
“One?” Thank God. As much as I suddenly would like to end the smooth-talking playboy’s ways . . .
I aim the knife’s tip toward his forehead.
“Lower,” Jaxson mutters.
“Lower?”
“Between the legs. He’s going to think long and hard the next time he negotiates with me.”
I stiffen. Oh no. This is insane. And damn it. Now where do I aim? Scanning the crowed, I search the crowd for Declan, who gives me the nod yes to the question written all over my face.
When I turn back to face Jaxson, I gasp. He’s kicked off his basketball shorts and is standing before me—us—in cotton briefs. Oh bloody hell, are they tight. Form-hugging. Leaving nothing to the imagination.
What’s between his legs isn’t just a big target. He’s hung like a goddamn stallion. All I can do is stare at his man-gift. Wicked thoughts flash across my mind. Me running my hand over his rigid length. Me on my knees and trying to see how deeply I can take him. Jaxson groaning with a pleasure only I can give him.
Yeah, right.
“Eyes here,” I hear him say, and I lift my gaze upward, I discover him grinning at me like a madman. “Or you taking a gander of what you’ll miss if you miss?”
I’m temped to hurl the knife at his head anyway. How can he be so flippant at a time like this?
Biting my lip, I try not to eye-fuck my target. Instead I focus on the flash of red barn between his muscular thighs and a hair’s breath of an inch below his impressive package.
“Five seconds, Kylie. Or I toss your ass into the next fight as originally planned.”
I hold the seashell handle, willing my hand from shaking. One. Two.
“Throw it, you toxic bitch,” someone in my fan club shouts. Unforgiving ass.
My eyes lift and connect with Jaxson’s. I’m sorry.
Three.
I aim my knife straight for his left thigh and release.
The knife spirals in the air, twice before landing.
“Jesus,” a man to my right cries out.
Shit. Oh shit. I can’t move. Or look away.
Grimacing, Jaxson pulls the knife out his inner left thigh. Muscle. I’ve hit muscle not bone. And, I missed his man-tool entirely.
Yet . . . he’s bleeding. I’ve hurt him.
God. I feel dizzy. And I hear myself panting like a wild animal, trying to draw air into my lungs.
My world spins. He’s injured. I’m the cause. I should have told Hayden no to his change in targets. That I can’t do it. That hurting Jaxson is a risk I won’t run. Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
“Every woman I’ve ever met has been aiming to take a slice outta me,” he says from next to me, a second before his arms wrap around me. I squeal in surprise. “But you, fireball, are the first to actually do so. Yep, my first,” he emphasizes. Acting like I achieved some monumental obstacle, gone where no other woman’s dared. Except instead of a fist pump, I feel like tossing up my breakfast up over in the bushes beside the barn. Jesus, he really knows how to win a girl over.
He makes matters far worse by swooping in and kissing me. Licking at the seams of my tightly pressed lips, demanding entry then brushing between them.
His lips are soft as they move against mine, his breath blending with my own.
I want to wrap my arms around him and pull him into me. Comfort him. Steal away the pain I’ve caused him.
Jaxson breaks the kiss, then leans in and whispers in my ear, “This is the beginning to a beautiful relationship.”
I can’t respond. Too keyed up, too aware of our audience to give into the crazy feelings he’s stirred up in me. I’m like broken glass, shattered and scattered about to be crushed beneath his heel. I care about him. The charmer. The man-whore. Silly? Irrational? Far too fast for my liking? Yes. I’m not the kind of girl who loses my head. Ever. Let alone so bleeding quickly.
But I’ve never met a man like Jaxson before.
So I simply stare at him and hoping he won’t notice the raw emotion playing out in my eyes.
I care about you.
I’m sorry.
I’ll never hurt you again.