Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(43)
“I can handle it,” I say softly. “I can handle anything you throw at me. You should know that by now.”
A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Kidnapping, maybe. Having a gun pointed at your head, sure. But this? Me, uncut and uninhibited? Not holding back? I don’t think so, sweetheart. I think you’d be terrified.”
He neglected to mention Raphael. After Raphael, nothing will ever scare me again. Certainly not Rebel. He told me himself that he would die to protect me. Common sense dictates that he would then be the last person to hurt me. Intentionally, at least. I smile, pouting a little. “I guess we’ll see then, won’t we?”
Rebel stands at my side like a statue carved out of marble as I line up my first shot. He doesn’t look at the tin can waiting to be knocked off it’s post; he stares at me instead. The heat of his gaze is palpable. Swallowing, I take aim, adopting the stance he had me shoot in before. Both my hands are on the gun, even though I can probably make it with just my right hand for support.
“Don’t miss, sweetheart,” Rebel says. “I promise you, I’m holding you to this deal. Whatever the outcome, you’ll have to deal with the consequences. Do you agree?”
“Sure. Why not.”
“All right, then. Better get to it.” He holds out his hand, palm up, an invitation to get my ass in gear and get firing.
I try to be too cocky as I let off the first round. The can makes a high-pitched, metallic tinging noise and leaps into the air. Dad would have given that a ten. The second shot is only an eight. The bullet hits the can slightly off center, but the impact sends it flying all the same. Rebel clears his throat. “Nerves getting to you?”
“Nope. You’re just standing way too close, soldier boy. Why don’t you back up a little?”
Rebel laughs. “Afraid you might hit me?”
“Perhaps. I mean, I doubt you could take any more injuries at the moment. A gunshot wound to the leg would likely finish you off.” I make a show of aim the gun at his right leg, but the bastard doesn’t seem concerned. He paces toward me instead of moving out of the way, until he’s standing right in front of me. For some reason, following him with the gun seems like a smart thing to do. The muzzle ends up pressing into his chest, and he’s not blinking, breathing, moving. He’s staring at me and it feels like the whole world has stopped.
“If you’re planning on shooting me, you should probably do it now, Sophia.”
“Why now?” My hand shakes. It feels as though I have a jackhammer pushing blood around my body and not a fragile human heart.
“Because today…today has been one of the worst days of my life. If you wanted to put me out of my misery right now, I wouldn’t stop you. On the other hand, tomorrow I might wake up full of piss and vinegar and want to go hunt down Hector Ramirez. I might decide to go round two waterboarding the woman we’re hiding under the barn. And I might just feel like asking you to marry me. A good night’s sleep can really change a man.”
“You waterboarded Maria Rosa?”
Rebel lets out a bark of laughter. He looks away, scanning the horizon. A dimly burning sliver of copper, rapidly disappearing below the rocky ridgeline in the distance, is all that remains of the sunset. He squints at it, frowning. “I just implied that I’ve been considering asking you to marry me, and you object to the fact that I dumped a bucket of water over a woman who threatened to kill you not only seven hours ago.”
“Yes, but you were joking about the proposal part. I know you were, *.” He has to be joking. Has to be. There’s just no way he’s being serious.
He steps forward just a little so that the gun digs deeper into his chest. There’s a weighty look in his eyes. I don’t know what to make of it, of his body language, of anything that’s happening right now, but I know I’m beginning to feel a little freaked out. He’s so close, I can smell him—entirely natural, and yet addicting at the same time. I can’t get enough. “Why am I not being serious?” he asks. There’s no doubt that he’s looking and acting very serious, but my brain just won’t comprehend the prospect that he’s not f*cking around.
“Because! You know. You’re a smart guy. There’s no way you’d ask a girl to marry you if you’d met under the circumstances we did. Especially only a month after that meeting, too.”
“Why not?”
Oh my god. I’m beginning to think he’s lost the plot. “Because you’re meant to date for a couple of years, see if you like someone before you marry them, Rebel.”
He pulls a dismissive face, rolling his eyes. “It takes you years to know if you like someone? Sounds like horse shit to me.”
“Of course not. That’s not what I—” I pause, take a deep breath, then start over. “There are steps you’re meant to follow. You’re meant to live together first.”
“You’re already living with me.”
“You’re meant to meet each others’ parents.”
“You’ve met my dad. He’s a total ass-swipe but you’ve met him. And anytime you want, I’d be happy to meet your folks. You know, I scrub up well in a good suit.” He winks at me.
I ignore him, because this is all far, far too absurd. “You’re out of your damn mind. You’re being a jerk, pushing this because you know I’ll say no and you just want a reaction out of me.”