Page 12 of Rogue
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 inFight 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 wordPrickscribbled 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.
