Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,12
red Oklahoma soil. freedom’s bluff. Bluff, as in to call someone’s bluff—something I immediately realize after keying the code into the monitor, passing through the gate, and, avoiding the electrocuted, barbed wire–topped fence that likely surrounds the place, walking the ten minutes of unpaved winding driveway to the Ranch. The last time I was here, I’d been ushered out an exit doorway next to the library and into a car. The driver took off before my bottom touched the seat, like a bat out of hell up this very same driveway and out the gates, slowing only to drop me off in town. Why bring any more trouble home, right?
No one is getting inside—and quite possibly outside—Freedom’s Bluff without a code. Not without Hayden’s thumbs up.
The second shocker is the Ranch itself. I thought Hell Camp would be held in either some kind of military base, complete with tin-roof structures and armed soldiers running amok. The entry gate—that fence—did nothing to dispel this idea. I certainly wasn’t expecting an exquisitely beautiful, sprawling ranch, with its grand entryway and large bay windows. There’s even a wraparound porch, like in Southern Home magazine, complete with freaking white rocking chairs.
A tall tank of a man waits for me at the double-doored entrance. He’s an intimidating sight, with cropped blond hair, taut muscles that seem to cover every inch of him, an icy aura about him that’d freeze fire, and a vocabulary the size of a toddler’s. “Come,” he grunts and strides away, fully expecting me to follow him.
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 in Fight 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