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“You want to aim for his cheek.” He puts my slap-ready hand up to his cheek. “Slaps are good because they can stun someone, knock ’em out, even paralyze them.”
“Paralyze them?”
“If you catch a person in the right spot and hit hard enough, yeah.”
He’s definitely overestimating my abilities.
His hand falls from mine. “Okay, try it.”
“You want me to slap you?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“You asked for it.” I swing my arm out wide, winding up for it, but when I bring it back at a much, much faster pace, I abruptly stop a quarter inch from Khaos’s cheek, and admit, “I would never.”
He practically snorts. “You’ve done it before.”
“Hardly.”
We both know none of my attempts to hit Khaos could qualify as slaps. I don’t know what they qualify as. Hence why we’re doing this.
“Do I need to piss you off?”
“Don’t.” Dropping my hand, I step back.
“You have to slap me so I can correct your technique.”
“I’ll do it to one of your new punching bags.” The gym was already stocked with basically anything an elite athlete could dream of…except a punching bag. That was rectified while I was away, and now we have several, I’m assuming at Khaos’s request because I can’t see Graham or my mom using one.
“It’s not the same.”
I turn for the bags. “I’m not slapping you.”
“If I can take a haymaker from a two-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound, roided-out goon, I can take a slap from a ninety-two-pound cheerleader.”
One finger gets held up. “I’m one hundred one, thank you.”
“Slap me.”
Ignoring the heavy footsteps gaining on me, I keep walking.
“No.”
“Slap me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Slap me.”
Khaos grips my shoulder, then I’m spun around so fast the gym is a blur.
Using the momentum, I whip my arm out and up, connecting my palm with his cheek.
Only half of his face winces—the half that was slapped. Or whatever I just did to it.
Ow. That hurt.
After a moment, he asks, “Are you trying to turn me on?”
