Page 6 of Rogue

Before I can ram my fist into his perfectly shaped nose and ruin his perfect, symmetrically shaped but far too smug face, I’m flanked in by the two other riffraff.

“Sneaky bitch,” the man with the busted nose growls. “Move out of the way, Jaxson. I’m going to teach her a lesson.”

“Move aside, Jaxson,” I mock, growling right back at him. “This sneaky bitch is going to give Broken-Nose a taste of what Ball-Busted got.”

“Broken-Nose—”

“—Ball-Busted? You’re dead, bitch.”

God, it’s like a scene right out of a Laurel and Hardy rerun on the Looney Tune Network. Except for the threat of bodily harm. And death. The two men charge forward.

Jaxson steps up from behind me. I feel his hands on my shoulder, his body against my back. Protecting me? Or doing what my T-shirt boasts?

“A bit of advice. When dealing with Hayden, control your temper,” he informs me. “Remember it well, Kylie.”

Oh, shit. They know my name?

A sharp pain mars my head just above my right eyebrow.

My world spins, and then it’s lights out.

Dangerous.

No other word comes to mind when describing the intense stranger sitting across from me. A large oak desk separates us. Not that it’d do much to stop him if his intention is to harm me. Given the circumstances of how I arrived here, I’d say the probability of escaping him isn’t in my favor.

Hayden—this is the man my lazy-smiled assailant warned me about.

“Sit,” he’d said in the way of a greeting, pointing the eraser end of a pencil at the leather chair before his desk.

I blinked, once.

His eyes narrowed.

I quickly relocated from the leather couch I’d abruptly woken on and now sit before him. With as much discretion as I can muster considering my throbbing headache, I survey the room.

It’s richly appointed, like something out ofDallas Digest, with two floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining two of the four walls. My unexpected sleeping quarters takes up a third wall. The fourth, a door—the one that’d been slammed and that had likely snapped me out of an unexpected slumber. I’ll have to thank my sly, pony-shirted assailant the next time I see him. For a second, I regret how it’s not him here with me instead.

Hayden taps his pencil on the thick manila file in front of him, impatient and intense and, as my attention turns to him, boldly taking me in.

“You’ve been spying on the compound outside of Shelby,” he states. It’s not a question. Like my Tuesday morning Prick Patrol is common knowledge.

“Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I smoothly reply. He’s dressed in a suit, which adds to my nervousness. After all, the Pricks I’ve been spying on favored suits. What could a man like him want from me?

Leaning back in my chair, I do my damnedest to act like I’m unfazed by him and what’s happening to me.

I try to focus on the obvious; the stranger is sexy as hell, in a scary, domineering way. His crisp, white collared shirt is unbuttoned, allowing for enough exposed skin to give a sense of the firm muscles hidden beneath. A clean-shaven, strong jaw softened by a slight sexy clef to his chin. His green eyes are so pale they’re almost translucent. Windows to a soulful man, or just the opposite? His nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken before. But it’s his hair that throws me off and, in a strange way, calms my nerves. It’s a rich chestnut color and long, though it’s difficult to say how long as he’s twisted it neatly up into a bun. Yep, he’s sporting a man bun, which I’d find hilarious if he didn’t make me so bleeding nervous.

I find myself comparing his dark good looks to the other man—that player, Jaxson. With his tight polo shirts and seductive smile. He had this raw kind of sexuality that instantly—or should I say intuitively?—catapults him to the top of my Hot Male Bucket List. A list consisting of . . . one. Yeah, call it what you will.

I bet that player’s bed is never empty.

“You find something amusing?”

I jump. Hayden’s voice is quiet yet still menacing. Jesus, that bump on the head knocked the sense straight out of me.

With a fierce scowl, he taps his pencil on the stack of papers.Thump. Thump. Thump.Until my fingers itch to snatch it from his hand and ruin the steady drumbeat while he waits for me to respond.

I wait for a chance to remind him this isn’t the Dark Ages, that you can’t just forcibly kidnap someone, knock them unconscious, and then treat them like some wide-eyed intern on her first job interview.