Page 20 of Rogue
“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 itlustpaint? 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 nailSeñorDummy 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.
