The Six: Genesis | A Reverse Harem Novel

Fourteen

"Eyes on me, Hawthorne."

I lay beneath him on the sparring mat, panting as his arms come down on either side of my head. He's sweaty, and his blue eyes are dark and stormy. Triumph shines in them, bright and clear as a cloudless sunrise.

The desire to wipe it off his face washes over me, but I don't move—I can't. Exhaustion pulls at my entire frame, leaving me in an abyss of embarrassment. This should've been easy peasy lemon squeezy.

"Smug isn't a good look, Gatlin."

He smirks. "Only because you lost."

"Dickhead! You tricked me."

"I thought you were some super, augmented soldier? What happened to all of your big talk?" He teases, continuing to lay over me like a shadow from a late afternoon sun. "All talk and nothing to back it up? I'm actually disappointed. You're covered in sweat and I'm not even breathing hard."

Crossing my arms, I relax on the floor. Apparently possessing an entire library of martial arts at my disposal isn't as grand as a history of using them. Despite my strengths, he outdid me— easily. Embarrassingly easy.

"Tough talk coming from a cheater." I stick my tongue out at him, sucking in a surprised breath with his head dips toward mine and his teeth nearly sink into it.

"Don't stick out your tongue unless you plan to use it. Got it, Hawthorne?"

Wide-eyed, I nod. I didn't want to think what he could possibly mean by his words. Now wasn't the time to imagine myself tied in a pretzel with him buried inside of me.

"Noted."

Though, things weren't a complete loss. I'd learned more about him in our brief afternoon while I ate a delectable lunch of fish and chips than I had during his entire stay with me and my family. He'd been open, telling me almost everything I wanted to know. Though, his face became blanker and blanker as time progressed and he washed peeled away layers of mystery.

Gatlin was adopted when he was just four years old. His mother, only 15 when she gave birth, left him on the steps of a church in a rainstorm. She'd left behind a small card from a local hospital with his name, weight and birthdate on it. The hospital wasn't able to identify her—she'd been nothing but a Jane Doe to them.

The church had taken him into their orphanage and raised him for a year before a couple came along and adopted him. Henry and Margaret Gatlin were still alive and happily married, living their best lives somewhere on a beach sipping drinks with little colorful umbrellas.

Gatlin owed them his life. If they hadn't come for him, he wasn't sure what would have happened to him. To this day, he sent money to help fund the orphanage where he grew up, hoping to keep the kids there out of the streets and in school until they decided how they wanted their lives to go.

Favorite color? Didn't have one, but he was leaning towards one he wouldn't admit to. Favorite food? He blushed and admitted the best dish he'd ever had was one I cooked for the group a few days ago. Favorite movie? Die Hard (honestly, I was expecting something more profound, but he'd nearly had a coronary when I mentioned this aloud).

So, for future reference, Die Hard is a masterpiece of cinema and deserved to win numerous awards and deserves to be on movie and television screens for the rest of humanity's existence. Or some shit like that... After he went off on his tirade, I confess, I tuned him out for a bit.

There were things he refused to tell. He wouldn't tell me what exactly he used to do for a living. He refused to tell me about his passions and convictions beyond the orphanage. And when I'd made a silly joke about him having a stick up his ass and needing to get laid, he gave me a bitterly cynical smile and told me to stop asking unless I was planning on spreading my legs and opening my mouth for him right there.