Page 29 of Cherry Picked
I was doing the right thing, with Hawkandwith Evola. I knew I was. So why did I feel so shitty and… bereft?
I crept out to my dark living room, fell on the couch, and turned onDeath Comes to Pemberley,reciting Hawk’s usual commentary in my head about Wickham getting what he deserved. My last conscious thought before I finally closed my eyes wasIf even someone as foolish and blind as Mr. Darcy can sort his shit eventually, surely I can, too.
But spoiler: I was no Mr. Darcy.
ChapterSix
HAWK
“Angry people are not always wise.” ~ Jane Austen
The steel throwing knifethunkedloudly against the wooden target before falling to the cement floor with a clatter that made me jump.
“They should consider providing ear coverings or something,” I murmured.
Crys shot me a sympathetic sideways glance. “Or you could try hitting the target occasionally, boo. It’s less noisy that way.”
I sighed. “I’m not sure this is the hobby for me,” I admitted cautiously. “There was a pickup truck outside with an ‘I-heart-weapons’ bumper sticker. I’m more of an ‘Introverted but willing to discuss Pemberley’ kind of guy.”
Jack wasn’t wrong about me despising violence and weapons… even if he was an ass for pointing it out.
“Don’t think of it like handling weapons. Think of it like darts,” Crys said for the seventieth time in an hour.
“Yeah, I’m not sure how I led you to believe I was good at darts either.”
Crys snickered, then let loose a knife that thunked into the dead center of her target. “Keep practicing,” she advised.
I blinked. “You’re shockingly good at this. I thought this was your first lesson, too.”
“Nah. I got really good with knives when I was… you know, younger, but I haven’t practiced in years.” She flicked her wrist, and another knife landed so close to the first that both of them vibrated. “Turns out it’s like riding a bike.”
Sure. Like a very large, incredibly sharp bike.
“How’d you learn? Did your dad teach you?”
“Not exactly. But my granddad was an outdoorsman. Super into knives and shit. You should have seen the scars on his hands.”
I carefully set down my last knife on the table next to me and shuddered. “That’s… not as reassuring as you might think.”
She picked up her final knife, flipped it in her hand, and launched it at the target. Muscles I hadn’t noticed before bulged in her shoulder and biceps. “Fuck yeah! Bullseye again. Give me that other one if you’re not going to throw it.”
I picked my knife up again and weighed it in my grip. “I’m going to throw it! Just… give me a minute to remember the stance.”
The large muscular throwing instructor—Vinnie? Vicky?—walked over and grabbed me by the hips, manhandling me into throwing position without waiting for permission.
Was it a little weird that I’d practically gotten to second base with this guy and I couldn’t remember his name?
“Angle your hips like this. Chin up, eyes on the target.” His voice sounded like it had been sanded down over time by every nicotine product on the market. “Spread ’em wider.” He kicked one of my feet out to the side a few inches.
My face ignited. This guy’s scent—tobacco and Old Spice—was like a knockoff version of Jack’s delicious, spicy cologne, and I couldn’t help but get a little hot under the collar.
“Better,” Vlad—Van? Valentine?—approved. “You needa be able ta rock your center of gravity over your front foot.” He moved his hands up to my shoulders and squared me to the target.
I tried not to imagine Jack’s hands touching me that way… or how much I’d like it. I couldn’t imagine a knife-throwing boner was a great idea.
As soon as he moved off to help someone in another lane, Crys elbowed me. “Bro, you should see your face. Jack would say it was eight serrano peppers on the Scoville scale.”
The mention of Jack sent my blood pressure into the danger zone. “Can we not talk abouthim, please?”
