Just My Type(34)

“Did you know the average person walks by a murderer thirty-six times in their life? Blake and Rachel have an obsession with gruesome things, so I know some shit.” Okay, not exactly what I was going for, but I see the corner of her mouth start to twitch, so… progress.

“You’re thirty-two; you probably didn’t start walking until around one, so we’ll say thirty-one years—twenty-four hours in the day, times 365, divide by six, carry the five, and you probably walked by two murderers just in the last hour alone.”

Ember is full-on smiling now, and the power of it aimed right at me is just as strong as when she looked on the verge of crying a few seconds ago.

“So, you suck at math and throwing a hatchet. God, you’re making this way too easy, Baker.” She laughs, as I turn my head back around to face the bull’s-eye twenty feet in front of me, feeling quite satisfied with myself, even though my dick is still pulsing in my fucking jeans just from hearing her say my name.

All of a sudden, she takes a step closer to my back, brings her arm around the outside of my arm, and wraps her hand around mine that’s currently holding the hatchet down by my thigh. I have to clear my throat like a nervous teenage boy who just saw his first tit.

“What are you doing? Getting a little frisky there, aren’t you?” I ask, trying to add a little sarcastic laugh to my words, but it just comes out as a choked groan when she steps even closer to me, until she’s pressed up against my back.

She pushes herself up on her toes a little, the motion forcing those glorious tits to slide up my back until her face is close to my ear.

“I’m imparting my wisdom while you talk,” she says softly. “You have to grip the handle sort of like a baseball bat. Firm. And choke up on it a little. Now, talk.”

Her hand squeezes around mine on the handle of the hatchet, and I know I’m supposed to be doing what she says, but all I can hear are the words firm and choke coming out of her mouth in a sexy, breathy voice.

Talk? What’s that? What are words?

She lets go of her hold of my hand on the hatchet, and I quickly do as she instructed with the grip.

“You and your sister seem really close. Why don’t you tell me about that?” Ember asks.

Her hand is back on me, but this time, it rests against my forearm then slowly runs up until she’s sliding it behind and under my bicep. She gives it a gentle push, indicating I should lift my arm. She’s still pressed up against my back, and that goddamn delicious smell of pumpkin pie wraps around me like a warm blanket. Thank God she brought up my sister. There’s nothing that will kill a boner faster than talking about family.

“We’re definitely close. We had to be. Our parents are assholes,” I tell Ember as she helps me lift my arm out in front of me, holding the hatchet pointed at the bull’s-eye.

“You want the edge of the blade to be perpendicular to the target. If it’s off even a fraction, it will fly through the air all wonky, like your last hotdog attempts,” Ember quickly whispers as she pushes her body more firmly against mine so she can reach around me and slide her hand back over mine gripping the hatchet, helping me line it up correctly.

“When Blake came out at eighteen, they disowned her. We lived in Florida, and she packed up her things and moved to Chicago to live with a friend,” I speak rapidly; thinking about that time in our lives is always a surefire way to keep my dirty thoughts away while Ember is pressed up against me. “I wasn’t even allowed to speak her name in their bullshit, judgmental presences. It was like she didn’t exist to them anymore. A year later, as soon as I graduated high school, I told them to fuck off and I followed her. I lived on her couch until I went into the Army, and after I was discharged, I came back here.”

Ember’s hands move to my hips, and the anger that started rippling through me, just like it does every time I think about our parents, immediately disappears.

“Square your hips to the target,” Ember says softly, gripping my hips tighter as she helps turn my upper body the right way.

“Blake always stood up for me whenever they would get on me about taking over my dad’s insurance business, telling me my lifelong dream of joining the military was ridiculous and a waste of time,” I add. “She’s always been my best friend, even though she’s a pain in my ass. She always encouraged me to follow my dreams and all that shit. I never would have opened The Barracks without her pushing me to do it.”

“Being a parent is hard. But pushing your child away because of who they love? That’s just disgusting. Your parents really are assholes. You don’t need them. Fuck those bitches and hos,” Ember states, making me smile, when nothing about this trip down memory lane ever brings me any kind of joy. “Your feet should be shoulder-width apart.”

When Ember adds that last part, her hands on my hips slide down to the outside of my thighs, and she gives them a pat.

Christ, this woman.

My grin is so big right now as I spread my legs a little that my face is starting to hurt. “I don’t recall hatchet-throwing to require such hands-on instruction. I might have to report you to HR.”

Her hands immediately yank away from my thighs, where she was still resting them long after she needed to.

“Shut up,” she grumbles. “I’m just making sure you don’t kill anyone when you throw it this time, ensuring that I will, in fact, walk by a murderer this evening.”