The Glock’s body is metallic rose gold in color, but when I shift it, I can see vivid hues of warm pink on it. There’s a lovely swan, along with the lettersC.A.embossed on the gun’s grip – just above the magazine.
A gentle, cool breeze brushes over my sweaty neck and exposed midsection as I raise my arms and center myself. Letting go of a breath, I dig my shoes into the grass and pull the trigger, but the bullet still, to my fucking dismay, doesn’t hit the bullseye.
“Shit,” I hiss, then shoot at the target board again, only to groan in frustration when I fail for the third time in a row.
“Fuckinggreat,” I yell into the air, then wipe a hand over my purple yoga pants.
I know fussing over my nonexistent shooting skills, when we’re only hours away from the gala, isn’t exactly helping. But practicing has been a great stress reliever for me recently, so I thought that instead of stewing in the condo, waiting for Dor to get back from his meeting with Aras, I could come out here and practice. But I guess my anxiety is at an all-time high right now, because I can’t focus on anything at all.
I think the #1 factor I’m upset about is not being able to contribute anything tonight; of turning out to be a liability to the crew. And I know they would never see me that way, but how the hell do I stop my brain from thinking about it?
I feel a familiar presence behind me, which is then followed by the addicting smell of leather and pine. A second later, a warm, calloused hand grabs onto my waist, while the other cups my left hand before lifting my arm towards the target board. He covers my index finger with his, and his soft, even breaths caress the shell of my ear as he pulls the trigger.
Bullseye.
“Fuckinghow?” I groan, then lean back against his solid frame.
He holds onto me as he chuckles. “Years of training,” he says easily.
“But you don’t even use a goddamn gun.”
“It’s all muscle memory from the extensive practice sessions Solo put Jayce and I through, Cigs. It’s the kinda shit that just stays with you.”
I push off him and turn around to face him. “Then why don’tyoutrain me? Give me all the tips and tricks.”
His curls shift with the wind as he smiles at me. “Because Varsha offered to train you first, and I’m not gonna ask her not to. Besides, she’s far better at it than me, so trust me when I tell you that you’re in good hands.”
“And they say chivalry is dead in this world.”
He laughs, then shakes his head. “Alright, come on; let’s see your combat moves now.” He shrugs off his leather jacket, and I watch as it slips down his body, exposing his contoured biceps and the prominent veins on his forearms. He fixes the hem of his signature white tank top, then gives me a quick wink. “Come at me, sweetheart.” He gets into a boxing stance.
I place my Glock on the small table next to me, then mimic his posture. Raising my left fist, I move forward, but he easily blocks my advance and turns sideways, making me stumble.
“Seriously? You’re starting with anoffense? Have I taught younothing?”
“What the hell am I supposed to start with, then?” I fix a strap of my sports bra and face him again.
“A false move,” he states as if it’s the most obvious thing. “Trick the opponent into thinking you’re going for their stomach, or maybe their side, andthenhit em’ up top. If you start with what you just did, there’s a strong chance you’ll be knocked out the next second, and that’s most certainly not on the agenda.”
“But isn’t it predictable to try to trick the other person?”
Dorran’s right fist flies in my direction so fast, I barely have time to dodge it. “Not if you keep them distracted with words.”
I go for his midsection, but he steps back and avoids getting hit. “Now see,thatwas predictable.”
I grit my teeth and move forward again, using both my fists to open a back-to-back assault on him.
Dorran chuckles as he manages to block them all, but when he turns his upper body to the right, thinking that’s where my attack is about to come from, I hit him from the other side, successfully catching his jaw.
He hisses at the impact, then spits on the ground before grinning at me. “Good,” he praises.
“You deserved that,” I muse.
“Oh, I know I did,” he agrees.
I laugh, then duck when he comes at me again. But unfortunately for me, he’s faster. He grabs my wrist and pins my arm behind me, then pulls me to him before pressing my back to his front. The tip of his nose brushes against the skin belowmy ear, right before he says, “Fuckingoranges. You always smell like them.”
“I’m offended that you’re surprised, even after all this time,” I retort, a little out of breath.
