Thief: The Scarab Beetle Series: #1 (The Academy) by C. L. Stone

room. The top had been partially covered by a towel.
    Raven had a handgun taken apart and in pieces in front of him on the table. He held a cleaning brush and the barrel in his hand and was scrubbing the inside. From this view with his shoulders exposed to me, I noticed more tattoos along his back and up his neck. It was a picture of some kind, but I couldn’t tell what it was yet. It was too covered by his tank top. I wondered how far down the tattoos went.
    The power he held in his body, evident in his stacked muscles was almost overwhelming, too. His shoulders were as broad as Marc’s, but he definitely had more substance in the torso.
    "Kayli," he called again.
    "I'm right here," I said.
    He twisted in his chair and looked back at me. He nodded toward the bed. “Do me a favor, little thief. Sit right over there.”
    “Why?”
    “Marc just called me. He wants you to stay within eyesight.”
    “I was with Corey.”
    “He wants you within my eyesight.”
    I blew out my frustration in one heavy breath, marching over to the bed and sinking onto it, leaning back on my hands. “I wasn’t doing anything. We were just talking.”
    “I don’t care. I’m just following orders.” He finished cleaning the inside of the barrel, putting the brush aside and wiping down the outside with a cloth.
    There were a couple of other cases stacked nearby on the table, with Berretta and Smith & Wesson logos on the outside of them. The walls were covered with used targets, shots aimed at center mass or the head of a black cutout on a white background. By the wall was a dresser, currently holding two flak jackets and boxes of small arms ammunition stacked together neatly, sorted by size and type.
    I scrunched my eyebrows together. I’d been around a handful of guns in my life, mostly old boyfriends who had been interested in them. This was the South, and half of the kids grew up hunting. “What’s with the artillery? I thought you said this was a simple job.”
    Raven looked up, figuring out what I was looking at. He grunted and went back to cleaning the automatic. “Different job.”
    “How many jobs do you have?”
    “How many jobs will you give me?” he asked. He focused on piecing together the gun again. “These are just for training.”
    “Training?”
    His lips twitched, the lip ring protruding, while he finished assembly and put the gun on the table. He leaned forward, sizing me up. “What? You think I’m training these guys to kill? Is that what you’re worried about?”
    Yes. “No.”
    “Do I look like a killer?”
    I lifted an eyebrow up. He really wanted me to answer that? “Where are you from?”
    “Omsk.”
    I stared at him. “Huh?”
    “Omsk, Russia.”
    I’d thought so before, but thinking and knowing were completely different things. Now I was nervous. No reason why, I supposed. Just too many Bond and Russian gang movies.
    I leaned forward, folding my arms around my stomach. His room was cold, like a meat locker. “When did you move here?”
    He grunted, and planted the gun into one of the cases, opened another, pulled out a .38 and started cleaning. “You ask too many questions.”
    “You’re the one that wanted me in here.”
    “Little thief, if I wanted you in here, I wouldn’t be cleaning guns right now. I’d play, but I’ve got a lot to do before tonight. I don’t really want you in here.”
    “Why?”
    “You’re distracting.”
    “If you don’t want me to talk, give me something to do.”
    He planted the gun on the table with a hard clatter, leaning forward again. His dark eyes focused on my face. “I didn’t mean you talking.”
    “Huh,” I said in a non-answer. I hoped the heat on my cheeks was covered by make-up enough to hide it.
    He cocked his head to one side. “You’re cold.”
    “I’m—”
    “You’ve got duck bumps.”
    I raised my brows. “You mean goose bumps?”
    “Duck, goose.” He waved his hand through the air and then stood up, heading to the closet. He