Page 28 of Rogue
I shake free the fragments still clenched between my fingers. Hastily snatching up my satchel, I take off running.
8
Shelby
“The bitch is back,” someone says, his heartfelt welcome echoing across the Ranch’s great room. The room has a warm, rustic southwestern charm that makes you want to flop down into one of the dark-chocolate-leather winged chairs and simply admire the décor. Which is exactly what I do—or pretend to do, well aware of the wave of heads turned in my direction and the unforgiving glares being cast my way.
I raise my water bottle and take a long, in-your-face sip. Yep, making frenemies.
But I’ve no lingering allusions about the men assembled here on this dismal, rainy morning, and certainly none about Freedom’s Bluff and the man running this dog-and-pony show.
It feels like we’re training for a military position, with ten-mile runs, hours of sparring and strength training, drills, and something I seem to have a knack for: target practice. Two weeks of hard-core physical tasks. And so far, so good. That is, except for the knife-throwing debacle.
But today, I wouldn’t put it past Hayden to send us out into the pouring rain for his twisted version of Iron Man.
I’m quickly learning to expect the unexpected. That everything is not what it seems.
Hayden’s recruits, for instance. Not sinners nor saints. Not demons or angels. Not rule followers yet not completely rule breakers. These men operate within the shades of gray only visible through the cracks. Each man dangerous in his own right, most with backgrounds in the military or with street credibility, whatever that means. There’s a few unknowns, like that stone-cold nonconversationalist Declan, whom I can’t quite figure out. Or Francis—who seems even more out of place than I do. My would-be employer, with his jagged-lined explanation for what TORC really is . . . really does . . . spying on mobsters . . . holding vendettas against Pricks. Yeah, I’m drowning within TORC’s shades of gray.
And then, there’s Jaxson. I didn’t see him coming, not by a long shot. And my instinctively feminine response to him, a constant desire to be near him, to be on the receiving end of his naughty smiles—has my body doing the hot-flush cha-cha.
“You’ll help me through Hell Camp,” he’d said. I never dreamed what that would entail.
His teasing me. His taunting me. His making me want him like I’ve never wanted anyone.
Two weeks and I’m a goner. A walking-talking schoolgirl blushing casualty of lust. Yeah folks, you can keep your apricots and plums. Jaxson’s the ripest, naughtiest, most temptingly ripe bit of fruit around.
I don’t dare look up and give into the urge to scope him out. Not caring to draw attention to my lust-crush on him. Not with all eyes zeroed in on me. Usually when I arrive, the guys either greet me as they’ve done this morning or make these annoying hooting calls, which in a way is much worse. Surprised I’m still here and back for more fun on the Ranch?
Yeah, they’re getting a taste of the unexpected as well.
And I’m growing accustomed to life on the Ranch, probably because Hayden’s allowed me to return home each evening to tend to my mother. No one but Hayden has been told about my mother’s illness. Hey, it’s not exactly the topic for idle chitchat, not that any of these men cared to shoot the breeze. As for Madelyn, I can only hope he never finds cause to dig any further into my private affairs. Keeping her out of my business has always been tough, but the less said about my having a younger sister, the better. Though if my baby sister were running TORC, she’d have the dirt on everyone.
She’s such a nosy thing. Always asking a million questions and wondering where I’ve been disappearing to. What can I tell her? “Hey, sis, I’m training to become a lean, mean spying machine?” She’d have a coronary. There’s no need to drag my family into my business. Besides, with the money I’ll earn, we’ll be taking a turn for better, with no one the wiser.
Better, right. My early-morning conversation with the doctors at Johns Hopkins fills me with hope. Mama’s qualified for several alternative treatments. Screw the insurance company and their mantra, “No, dear, we won’t cover that.”
So Hell Camp it is. And every morning, I faithfully find my way back to Freedom’s Bluff.
I tug my white sleeveless T-shirt with the yellow, black, and fuchsia-pink Sex Pistols album coverNever Mind the Bollocksbrazenly decaled on it. Yeah, like most hard-rock fans, my love for music that gets your blood pumping extends to British punk. Not having time for laundry, I’ve borrowed a pair of fuchsia-pink running shorts from my sister, whose a bit shorter than me, which means the hem barely covers my ass instead of falling nicely on the back of my thigh. A fact that became annoyingly clear on the sprint over here, but I was tired and running late, and there’d been no time to change into another pair of shorts stashed away in my overnight knapsack.
I give into temptation, raising my eyes to skim the crowded room in search of Jaxson.
No one is looking my way. Not even Broken-Nose, who’s been a constant thorn in my side after having consumed not one but two bottles of laxi-flavored water. He’s constantly watching me, waiting for a sign of weakness so he can swoop in and get some revenge. Good luck with that, asshole.
When I locate Jaxson, I feel like throwing my water bottle at his fickle, playboy head.
He’s sitting on the arm of a leather sofa across the room. Grinning like a saint and flirting like a fool with a woman seated on the sofa. Her long, dark hair hangs down back and shines like black licorice. She’s in a tight gray pencil skirt, black fishnet panty hose, and three-inch fuck-me heels. A suit jacket has been discarded and lay on the sofa’s backrest. Leaving her in a form-fitted, Victoria Secret–worthy bodice, designed to push up her gals like two white melons offered up for grabs. I suddenly feel drab in comparison, even though my girls are bigger and my body just as rocking.
So much for us being a thing.
I square my shoulders and sit up straighter in the leather winged-back chair. Lesson learned. I won’t be so damn malleable going forward.
Hayden strolls into the center of the room, commanding attention. “We’ll begin. I’ve brought in Sabrina Jenkinson, who has a doctorate in psychology and who has graciously agreed to train you in—”
“Manipulation,” she cuts him off and stands. Quite the attention seeker. I notice how the lines of Hayden’s mouth tighten, the tiniest sign that her interruption—which is in fact, an obnoxious display of manipulation in itself—pisses him off. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist with a doctorate in psychology to figure that out, though she continues on, oblivious. “Hayden has asked me to spend the morning showing you the ins and outs of body-language cues, anticipating actions and provoking reactions, analytical reasoning and anger-management skills . . .” On and on she goes, though I’m pretty damn sure most of the guys are still caught up on the wordsinandout. Only Hayden and myself seem unfazed by her spell and how she’s been parading back and forth across the room, her arms on her gyrating hips and her girls bouncing. Familiar moves I know only too well.
Jaxson has this massive grin on his face. One I plan on wiping off his lying mug with a quick heel to the crotch the next chance I get.
