Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about this baby… while Rachel is sort of able to treat it like a road bump in her life.
CHAPTER 8
Rachel
I normally love the sounds of a gym. Clanging of metal on metal, the hum of a treadmill, and the grunts of exertion. It’s certainly no chore when the gym is busy such as it is now with hot, ripped guys. I’ve never been able to explain the phenomena, but for some reason, men have to be insanely gorgeous and built to perfection to work at The Jameson Group. My eyes are having a tough time staying focused on my little work area because I keep wanting to let them stray over to Bodie while he works out with Cage. We’d all flown in on a private charter from L.A. this morning, and then we shared an Uber to come right to the gym to workout.
It was slightly weird flying back with the team, and by weird, I mean sitting across from Bodie and not continually thinking about how great sex is with him. He and I stayed up a good chunk of the night and into the early morning hours just gorging on each other. I kicked him out of my bed around three AM, so I could get a few hours of sleep before our flight. He grumbled about it, but he eventually went. Whenever I happened to look at him during the flight, he would either shoot me a wink or knowing smile. One time, he even licked his bottom lip. I almost combusted.
Damn pregnancy hormones.
The Jameson Group’s gym is state of the art and geared for more than just strength or cardio training. A huge rock wall takes up the eastern side, extending up two stories. There’s an indoor obstacle course that would rival any military boot camp facility, and just off the gym complex is an indoor shooting range. My favorite, though, is the knife station. Three straw dummies are set up with head, chest, and femoral artery targets, and there’s a case full of different-sized throwing knives.
I’m practicing trying to hit the femoral artery of the dummy that’s furthest away. So far, I’ve managed to hit his little straw nuts three times in a row. I pick up a six-inch Japanese Shinobi, flip it in the air so I catch it by the blade, and cock my arm back to launch. Clearing my mind, I focus my gaze to the left side of the dummy’s nut sack and let my confidence clear the way. I launch, and the silver knife glints as it tumbles end over end.
Solid strike to the testicles once again.
“Goddamn motherfucking hairy balls,” I growl a little too loudly. Tank Richardson, another explosives expert at Jameson, gives me a startled look as he throws knives at the dummy in the lane next to me.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Take a deep breath,” he says as he chooses a knife from the tray beside him.
“Excuse me?” I snap. I don’t need to be told to calm the fuck down, which given the quick flush of anger that overtakes me, might actually be good advice.
Fuck you, pregnancy hormones.
“It helps if just before you throw, you take a deep breath and hold it,” he says, either unaware of the anger brewing just under the surface or not really caring.
Knowing Tank, he just doesn’t care. He’s a big brute of a guy with the personality of a fresh Brillo pad. All abrasive and uncaring if he scratches people up.
“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter under my breath. Tank throws his knife, and it hits the dummy’s right eye. He gives me a knowing smirk, and I contemplate launching my next knife to see if I can hit that curve of his lip on the left side of his face.
Even though I can’t stand him in this moment, I grudgingly accept Tank’s advice and suck in a deep breath. I cock my arm, take aim, and laser my eyes onto the target.
Launch.
Strike.
Direct hit to the testicles yet again.
Fury at my own ineptitude paralyzes me for a moment. It’s how I felt when I saw Joram take a bullet, and then an image of Tank smirking at me fills my gaze. He’s not actually smirking at me right now because I’m still staring at the knife lodged firmly in the center of the dummy’s groin, but I can just imagine it.
The paralyzed feeling melts away, and I’m able to move. In a burst of frustration, my hand flies out, sweeping the entire knife case off the table beside me. It goes flying a good ten feet before the knives clatter out against the concrete flooring.
“You stupid motherfucking useless testicle-guided butter knives,” I yell at my adversaries, cringing when the echo of my own petulant tantrum is thrown back at me.