Page 30 of Ballistic

I snorted and peered out the passenger window again. “What did you think I was, Dax?”

“Innocent, for one.”

“Does the ability to defend myself make me one of the guilty?”

“It makes your motives questionable. And that was more than just defense. Had to call someone to clean it up. That shit’s not cheap, sweetheart.”

“I already told you my motives. He was going to shoot you, if I hadn’t done it. I’ve been throwing knives since I was twelve.” I shrugged, not really understanding what the big deal was. “It’s a hobby.”

“And I’ve been playing guitar since I was sixteen, but I’m no Van fucking Halen. Now, had I been trained by him, I might be that good.”

“Does it make me less of an anomaly to know someone showed me? Fine. Someone showed me how to throw a knife.”

“Your father.”

Sensing his weighted stare, I gave a nod, and he turned back to the road.

“This girl you told me about … in the video. Who was she?”

Gaze still glued on the window beside me, I dragged my finger down the frosted glass, gathering the wet dew on my skin. “She was someone from my old life,” I answered mindlessly, my thoughts fixed on trying to figure out where the hell he was taking me, because I couldn’t allow myself to drown in thoughts of that girl. I wouldn’t. I’d trained my brain to shut off those feelings, and to forget what I’d seen in her final moments. “Her name was Eden. Eden O’Malley. My only friend,” I said with the enthusiasm of a robot. Glancing around, I made sure the cars that’d followed behind us hadn’t kept to our trail, but could only make out the obnoxious glare of headlights a few car lengths back. “Where are we going?”

“Tonight? A hotel. I’ll figure out the rest from there.” When I frowned, he shook his head. “Separate beds. I told you I’m not going to lay a hand on you.”

“I’d have killed you back there if I didn’t believe you.” In spite of the smile on my face, it was true. Had I not sensed his intentions, seen the goodness in his eyes, I’d have let him bleed out onto the floor, as well.

“So someone trained you to kill.”

“No. Dmitry taught me how to defend myself. I hate killing.”

“You’ve done it more than once?”

“Don’t you think you should buy me dinner before asking me personal questions like that?”

Cheeks dimpled with a lopsided grin, he glanced over, and the smile he was clearly trying to bite back softened his eyes. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Then, why didn’t you eat when I tried to feed you before?”

“I didn’t like your salty ass broth.”

A lazy chuckle rumbled from his chest, the kind that brought a smile to my face, since I guessed he probably didn’t laugh much. “Touché.”

“To answer your question, I’ve only killed once before.” I tried not to let those words slither beneath my skin, because if I did, the memories of them would crush me. I couldn’t afford to be crushed. Not yet. Not when there was still so much work to do. “What about you? How many you killed?”

“More than one.”

“You’re a player, then?”

“That’s none of your business.” His gaze slid to mine then back to the road, and his cheek dimpled a second time.

“I like your car.” I took in the interior a second time, black leather that smelled delicious—a perfect complement to his mouthwatering cologne.

“She’s a seventy-one ‘Cuda. Worked on her with a buddy of mine a couple summers back.”

“She.” Fighting to hide my smile, I peered out the window as the car slowed before a driveway.

“Yeah. She. Car is beautiful and purrs when I rev her up, but she’s as stubborn every woman I’ve ever known. Particularly when it’s cold.” He pulled the car into a quiet, shady looking motel, whose flicking sign read Capri, without the lit up p. “Stay in the car. I don’t need them getting any ideas about this.”