Page 70 of Unmade

Shira shot me an incredulous look. “Youasked for Hudson, Bo. Coach and I obliged. The words you’re actually looking for arethank you.”

I clenched my jaw, and Hudson gave me an over-the-shoulder wave without turning around. He was busy tracking something on the screens. If I were to venture a guess, the footage was coming from Hyatt’s army of drones.

I glanced back at Shira and debated whether to pitch a fit, but judging by the look on her face, now wasn’t the time.

Goddammit.

“You’re a fucking sadist, woman,” I told her and walked out again.

Of-fucking-course she laughed. So did Hyatt and Hudson. Assholes.

* * *

I didn’t get off the treadmill until I was tasting blood and my vision was filled with black spots.

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

My legs were jelly as I collapsed on the floor, and my chest heaved too rapidly. My arms were too sore as well, from an hour of lifting weights before my run.

Panting and wheezing, I just lay there on the thin mat and waited for my heart rate to come down. T-shirt drenched, shorts sticking to my skin, water bottle out of reach. Christ, I’d pushed it too hard. But it was either this or opening the fifth of bourbon I kept hidden in my room.

I threw an arm over my face and swallowed dryly. All I could hear was a rushing sound in my ears—and the air conditioning. My playlist had run its course twenty minutes ago, so I removed my earbuds and left them next to me.

Actually, I could hear something else too. Someone was down here.

The basement had been empty all afternoon, with the exception of a couple on-call operators heading into the shooting range. And one, by the sound of it, kicking a vending machine.

Been there, done that. Particularly the machine with chips. Those little bags got stuck all the time.

After a while, I managed to sit up, and I wiped sweat off my face and checked my watch.

I might be the sad fucker today who got an early-bird dinner. It was only 16:00, but I was getting hungry.

Once I got to my feet, I hauled my tee over my head and draped it over my shoulder. Then I picked up my water bottle, drained half of it, and walked out on Bambi legs.

The sounds were coming from the martial arts studio down the hall, so I decided to see who it was. As far as I knew, only two recruits were in the building—Leighton and Aaron.

I walked past a floor-to-ceiling mirror and smacked my stomach lightly. Not too shabby. I’d been working out more lately, and it was paying off. Maybe being frustrated because a young guy’s ass suddenly turned me on was a good motivator to work up a sweat.

Not to mention his fucking abs.

I took another swig of my water and continued toward the martial arts studio, and fuck me sideways if it wasn’t Leighton in there. Because of course it was. I was clearly not suffering enough already.

I stayed in the doorway and leaned against the doorframe, and I hoped he didn’t turn around anytime soon. He had his laptop on the mat, and if I squinted, I could see a few illustrations of Krav Maga stances. He was trying to mirror them, and he carried out strikes in slow motion.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed by his tenacity. He had incredible control over his body, excellent self-discipline, and all the potential to become a great gray man. He was quiet and observant. Resilient. The only things I wanted him to work harder on were openness and being more of a go-getter for himself. The conversation we’d had about him settling for less still bothered me.

He needed to be more creative too, but we’d get there. So early into the training, he was already exceeding our expectations.

I watched him pull back and execute a perfect and impressively slow high-kick to an invisible enemy’s head. A move Shay had warned them about. High-kicks left you vulnerable, but they were still good training.

Soon after, he heaved a couple breaths and moved on to the next illustration.

Good width between his feet, one foot positioned farther back for leverage. He raised his fist as if to punch someone in the face, and he checked to make sure his hand was at the right angle.

I folded my arms over my chest. “Lift your elbow a bit?—”

“Jesus!” He spun around, eyes wide with shock, though that quickly morphed into a glare.

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