Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
HAWK
“Angry people are not always wise.”
~ Jane Austen
The steel throwing knife thunked loudly against the wooden target before falling to the cement floor with a clatter that made me jump.
“They should consider providing ear coverings or something,” I murmured.
Crys shot me a sympathetic sideways glance. “Or you could try hitting the target occasionally, boo. It’s less noisy that way.”
I sighed. “I’m not sure this is the hobby for me,” I admitted cautiously. “There was a pickup truck outside with an ‘I-heart-weapons’ bumper sticker. I’m more of an ‘Introverted but willing to discuss Pemberley’ kind of guy.”
Jack wasn’t wrong about me despising violence and weapons… even if he was an ass for pointing it out.
“Don’t think of it like handling weapons. Think of it like darts,” Crys said for the seventieth time in an hour.
“Yeah, I’m not sure how I led you to believe I was good at darts either.”
Crys snickered, then let loose a knife that thunked into the dead center of her target. “Keep practicing,” she advised.
I blinked. “You’re shockingly good at this. I thought this was your first lesson, too.”
“Nah. I got really good with knives when I was… you know, younger, but I haven’t practiced in years.” She flicked her wrist, and another knife landed so close to the first that both of them vibrated. “Turns out it’s like riding a bike.”
Sure. Like a very large, incredibly sharp bike.
“How’d you learn? Did your dad teach you?”
“Not exactly. But my granddad was an outdoorsman. Super into knives and shit. You should have seen the scars on his hands.”
I carefully set down my last knife on the table next to me and shuddered. “That’s… not as reassuring as you might think.”
She picked up her final knife, flipped it in her hand, and launched it at the target. Muscles I hadn’t noticed before bulged in her shoulder and biceps. “Fuck yeah! Bullseye again. Give me that other one if you’re not going to throw it.”
I picked my knife up again and weighed it in my grip. “I’m going to throw it! Just… give me a minute to remember the stance.”
The large muscular throwing instructor—Vinnie? Vicky?—walked over and grabbed me by the hips, manhandling me into throwing position without waiting for permission.
Was it a little weird that I’d practically gotten to second base with this guy and I couldn’t remember his name?
“Angle your hips like this. Chin up, eyes on the target.” His voice sounded like it had been sanded down over time by every nicotine product on the market. “Spread ’em wider.” He kicked one of my feet out to the side a few inches.
My face ignited. This guy’s scent—tobacco and Old Spice—was like a knockoff version of Jack’s delicious, spicy cologne, and I couldn’t help but get a little hot under the collar.
“Better,” Vlad—Van? Valentine?—approved. “You needa be able ta rock your center of gravity over your front foot.” He moved his hands up to my shoulders and squared me to the target.
I tried not to imagine Jack’s hands touching me that way… or how much I’d like it. I couldn’t imagine a knife-throwing boner was a great idea.
As soon as he moved off to help someone in another lane, Crys elbowed me. “Bro, you should see your face. Jack would say it was eight serrano peppers on the Scoville scale.”
The mention of Jack sent my blood pressure into the danger zone. “Can we not talk about him, please?”
I threw the knife with all my frustration, imagining it winging its way powerfully into the center of the wooden target at the end of the lane… and watched as it fell with a defeated clink about two feet in front of me.
Crys bit back a laugh. “Try again, Throwdini.”
Instead of giving up and having no “broadened horizons” to show for my day, I asked the instructor very nicely for a new batch of knives so I could try again.
And again. And again. I finally got a knife close enough to the target to wave a cheery hello before it, too, landed with a clang on the floor beside the other missed knives I’d thrown. I was striking out on all fronts today.
“That’s it for me,” I told Crys.
I wasn’t sure I’d worked off my aggression exactly, except by making myself too tired to be angry. But if I wasn’t already strong from carrying full serving trays at Panini Jack’s, my arm would have been screaming in agony, and I knew more throwing would make tomorrow’s workday painful.
Crys nodded absently and kept launching the sharp blades down the lane until it was time for us to gather them back up again and reset.
“I think Elizabeth Bennet would have enjoyed knife throwing,” I decided. “It’s kind of feisty.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m surprised more Pride and Prejudice variations don’t have her trying archery like the Gwyneth Paltrow version of Emma had in it. I could see her doing that, too, and it was popular back then.”
Crys effortlessly sank into throwing position and sent another knife toward the target. “I’ve used a crossbow before. It was epic.”
“I just find it funny that these aristocratic people would be dressed in gowns and topcoats at a garden party and pick up a bow and arrow between bites of finger sandwiches on the lawn, you know?”
While she began throwing again, this time small handheld axes, I continued talking about Regency-era lawn games, even telling her about my earlier conversation with Jack about baseball and rounders. She was so focused on the axe-throwing she barely grunted in response.
“Sorry. I’m probably boring you,” I finally said. My disappointment was hard to hide. I loved Crys, but… she was no Jack Wyatt.
“Nah. I just don’t share your passion about Jane Austen. It’s kind of like when my friend Sanjay shows me pictures of his cats. There are only so many times a person can ooh and ah over the same fat orange feline sleeping by the window, you know?”
I stared at her. “How could you not want to see pictures of a cat loafing in the sunshine? Especially a ginger cat?”
Before she could respond, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. My heart leaped a little, hoping Jack had come to his senses and wanted to apologize for being an asshat earlier, but no.
Simon
Hey, Hawk! I wanted to tell you I read that article on the endangered bat populations you sent. Super fascinating. Maybe we could discuss it sometime?
I sighed. Simon and I had been texting back and forth a bit all week, and he’d been… nice. Really nice. I’d spammed him with articles, beginning the day after the town meeting, and he’d read them all and promised he’d “pass them up the chain” at Evola.
I wasn’t naive. I knew this was probably corporate-speak for “I deleted it after I read it,” but at least I felt like he was trying to understand my position… which was more than I could say for some people.
You’re welcome. Did you have a chance to get me those Point Meduc and Morgan Falls environmental studies you promised?
Simon
I asked again. I need authorization to make them public, and my boss is on leave. But I haven’t forgotten. They should get it to me this week and I’ll pass it on. Sorry for the delay!
I was pretty sure this was corporate-speak, too, where “delayed until this week” meant “not gonna happen until hell freezes over,” but at least he hadn’t outright denied my request or fed me bullshit excuses.
Which, again, was better than certain people had done.
“What did your phone do that’s got you scowling at it, boo?” Crys came up and peered over my shoulder. “Ohhhh. Looks like Simon wants to make sure your environment is compliant.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Are you gonna survey his land?”
I felt my cheeks go hot. “I don’t even know what that means,” I said primly, turning the screen off. “Besides, it’s not like that. Simon’s just being friendly because of the project. I told you, I only pretended he was interested in me at the town meeting because it seemed to annoy Jack.”
“Because Jack’s jealous.”
I shook my head. “He’s really not. Jealous is how you feel when someone has something you can’t have.
Jack could have me. I’ve made that abundantly clear.
I practically gift wrapped myself earlier today and stuck a bow on my ass, and Jack was like, ‘Oooh, wow, no thank yew.’ And then he went on to tell me I couldn’t possibly use a hookup app without floundering my way into a date with the only person in Little Pippin Hollow on an FBI watchlist.”
“Hey.” Crys pointed one manicured finger at me. “Don’t joke. You’d be surprised at how many people in the Hollow are on a watchlist. Small town like this is a breeding ground.”
I rolled my eyes. “All we breed around here are prize-winning Holsteins and heirloom apples. You might need to lay off the American Crime Story.”
“Nope. Mark my words, there’s something weird going on with Ronna at the gas station—like, taboo sex dungeon in her stockroom weird. And Chris, that guy I work with at the Bugle? He’s either a werewolf or a mafia hitman on the run.”
“Chris? The twinky kid who wears the homemade sweaters?” I boggled at her. “Are you sure you’re not just annoyed that when Ernie yells, ‘Hey, Chris,’ you both turn around?”
“I’ve got finely honed instincts, boo,” Crys countered, lifting her nose in the air.
“Mild-mannered Chris has a wild side. Jack has alllll kinds of dirty fantasies about you, even if he wishes he didn’t.
And Mr. Environmental Compliance wants in your pants.
Nobody with wholesome intentions uses that many emojis.
Have you noticed that the leaf emoji looks exactly like the water-spurt emoji? ”
Sure enough, a second later, another text came through.
Simon
Maybe you and I could have dinner this week and I could give you the report in person?
Crys read the message upside down and crowed. “See? Instincts. And now you owe me a coffee,” she proclaimed, finally abandoning the sharp objects so we could make our way to Pippin Hot for iced lattes and blueberry scones.