Ramsey Security (Ramsey Security #1-3)(83)

"And if I live?"

"You say oops and move on with your life. I can't imagine allowing these people to die would be the worst thing you've ever done in your life."

Irritated, I mutter, "I care about these people."

"Why?"

Shrugging, I fall into silence and hope she'll go away. Minka refuses to give me a break.

"Would you care if I died?"

"Yes," I admit.

"Would you cry?"

"If you died in a sad way, I might."

"Define sad. Like if I died holding a puppy?" I laugh at the mental image, which proves such a death wouldn't be too sad. Minka grins. "Brad seems soft."

"Is this where I tell you to f*ck off and storm away? Or am I supposed to turn to you for big sis advice?"

"I think I'm younger than you."

"You are mentally, yes."

"Touché."

"I will sleep with Brad on my terms and timetable."

"Good."

Frowning at her, I say nothing. Minka grins brightly as if she's won the argument.

"I don't have many girlfriends," she says, "For whatever reason, I've never gotten along with women."

"You have a very harsh personality, and women seek kindness."

"Do you need a hug?"

"I imagine people often want to punch you."

"I imagine that too. Hey, see how much we think alike?"

"Twins again."

"Hmm... Sarcasm is sexy on you. Try that stuff with Brad."

A flush of heat overcomes me at the sound of his name. "I know how to seduce a man."

"Sorry to talk down to you. I guess I figured you were a little frigid."

"Thanks for helping," I say, standing up. "We need to set up cameras on the roofline to know when the drones are watching."

"There are ways to jam the signals. Again not legal."

"The law pisses me off."

"Lawlessness was definitely more fun."

Walking inside the house, we find Ruth reading a book in the living room.

"The boys are training," she says, looking up to smile at Minka.

I don't particularly care that Ruth clearly prefers Minka to me. A mother's disapproval isn't necessary to quench my lust for Brad.

Finding a sweaty and shirtless Brad, I'm dumbfounded momentarily by the sight. Certain that nothing can quench my intense lust, I doubt even hours and hours in bed might help. Nothing seems enough to douse the heat in my gut.

Despite my need for this man, I notice the scars on his back. The police report indicated a cult member named Dennis Stein carved symbols into Brad as a part of a ceremony. The scars lack the precision of a professional hand. Stein wasn't accustomed to slashing into the human body. His lack of skill likely explains why he found himself dead at Brad's hands.

My thoughts return to the present when I hear Marx grunting in an exaggerated fashion. He's likely showing off for my benefit. Or possibly he thinks Minka might be nearby, and he wants her to notice his efforts. Either way, Marx doesn't interest me.

"I bet this badass could show us some moves," Marx says, giving me a big smile.

Ignoring him, I slide off my boots and walk onto the padded floor.

"You turned this room into a sparring room?" I ask Brad.

"It was Mom's yoga room first."

Now standing less than a foot from him, I smile. "We'll save yoga for another day. For now, I want you to try and hit me."

"I'm not hitting you."

Giving him a slight grin, I say, "No, you probably won't. That's why I said 'try.' I want to see what the writer has taught you so far."

Marx moves out of the way while I step back to give Brad a chance to take his shot.

"Don't be afraid," I tease.

Grinning, Brad bounces slightly before taking a halfhearted throw. When I shift easily out of his way, Marx snickers. Brad's male ego needs to prove himself worthy, so he takes another shot. When I dodge the second punch, Brad frowns. I know he isn't really trying to hurt me, yet he likely believes his weak attempts should still get closer.

"Shake it up," Marx says. "Loosen your body and use your legs."

I smile at Brad to signal him that I'm ready. He's fast and strong, but I have no trouble dodging his moves. I even slide past Brad and poke him in the back.

"I don't understand," Brad mutters, clearly frustrated. "Logically, my size should mean I'll win."

"The problem is we’re both focused on the same person. You. Rather than watching me for signals on what I intend to do, you focus solely on where your body should be and what move you should use."

"So you don't think about what you're going to do at all?"

"My focus is on where your body remains vulnerable. My reaction to your movements is instinctual, but this comes from experience. You need to take part in real matches, so you'll think less about what you're doing and more about your opponent."

"How old were you when you began training?" Marx asks.

I give Marx a side-glance, unsure if I want to answer. He bothers me with his questions. His curiosity feels forced as if I'm being hunted. He should be careful about taunting a bear.