Page 73 of Breathe
Real told him that having his hair draped over them like a silky cloud during sex was one of his favorite things. Azrael had silently vowed never to cut it.
“Azrael?” Dave asked.
Guiltily, Azrael snapped his eyes to Dave, where he stood just on the outside of the training building.
The former Secretary of Defense had arrived yesterday to assess YA and the possibilities of expanding on the ranch property. Dave had also apologized for keeping his financial support a secret.
“It’s not your fault,” Azrael had assured the man. “I told you I wanted to do it by myself. I guess I took on too much, didn’t I?”
Dave shook his head. “No, you have ambitions and that’s admirable.”
Azrael had flushed beneath the praise.
“You seem distracted,” Dave murmured, opening the training facility door.
“Sorry,” Azrael sighed and caught his long hair to tie it at his nape as he stepped inside.
“What’s got you so lost in thought?”
“This isn’t my normal?” Azrael joked.
Dave grunted, but Azrael saw the smile on the man’s mouth.
The hum of the air conditioners filled the structure, but the cold blast felt good on his face when he stepped inside. Dave followed, and the heavy door swung shut.
The room was filled with men. One side held weapons training within a soundproof room. Targets lined the far wall and several operatives were in stalls, firing guns at those targets.
One section was cordoned off as a sparring ring, center mass, and from there several other areas branched out. All with mats, weights, and other gear needed for training.
Rock music thumped in the background with a song Azrael had heard Stone playing once.
Carry on My Wayward Son,written by Kansas, filled the air. The song had been written back before Azrael was even a blip. The classic rock music seemed to catapult the men as if subconsciously, and they picked up the pace.
“How is this space working out for you?” Dave asked as they reached the far wall where a section was cordoned off. Hand-held weights and resistance training equipment sat against the side, with a training mat used for sparring in the middle.
“It’s perfect. We don’t need bigger than this, yet,” Azrael said, running his eyes over the area Dave and Will had given them for YA.
On the mat were Boston and Freedom helping each other with stretches. Beck and Rebel were bouncing around with Beck holding strike pads and Rebel with dark red boxing gloves.
“Hey, guys,” Azrael lifted his voice. “Dinner is ready.”
“Hell yeah!” Rebel held out his hands to Beck, who unstrapped the gloves from Rebel’s hands.
Freedom and Boston jumped up. Both boys wore black workout clothes that doubled for working clothes. A few days ago, Freedom had said he wanted to get a feel for the clothes YA wore.
Will had spared no expense to get YA geared. Genesis had invested in several of the thinnest bulletproof vests ever made that resembled a black long-sleeved t-shirt. All members of YA were ordered to wear them, and in the face of Will’s directive, nobody argued.
Besides, there was a cool blood red emblem with the letters YA on the front. The red was really dark, so it was easily missed, but they couldn’t have something flashy in their line of business.
The young men of YA walked with him, and Azrael noticed Freedom checking his phone.
“Have you heard anything?” Azrael asked, dropping into step beside Freedom.
“No…Fierce is probably sulking,” Freedom scowled.
Azrael didn’t think that was possible, but he didn’t know Fierce. The assassin had left the very next day after the ass chewing from the SecDef. Plus, the altercation between Boston and Freedom hadn’t helped.
Not that the fight between Boston and Freedom had been anything major. Freedom wanted the bunk Boston had already snagged. Both boys were hot-headed, and it had been Boston pushing Freedom first.
