Jazz hadn't eaten. He'd chugged coffee. He'd tossed and turned all night, but he smelled amazing. I could eliminate one possibility, then. His anger had begun yesterday. It obviously had something to do with the phone call.
Jazz must've finished changing because I heard his angry steps plod down the stairs, turning the corner to go down into the gym. I grabbed a protein bar and a banana. If I planned on us actually exercising, I'd insist he eat more beforehand, but today, I wanted answers more than sweat.
"Good luck," Faust called out after my backside.
Diesel mumbled quietly, "He's gonna need it."
***
I found Jazz in the gym, sitting on a mat and stretching his top half over his legs. He'd pulled his curls back off his face and scowled when I entered. His brow lifted at the food, but he quickly shuttered the expression to one of disinterest.
Hungry. There was one need I could meet.
I sat down on the mat, leaving a few feet between us. I set the protein bar and banana down nearer to him, hoping that was all the encouragement he would need to start eating. He grabbed the banana and angrily peeled it open while I set a water bottle in its place in front of him. He reached for the bottle.
Hydrated. Another need met.
I couldn't do anything about his poor sleep. Not at this moment.
While he ate, I retrieved my pouch. I waited for him to swallow the last of his protein bar before rolling the pouch out, revealing my set of throwing knives. They gleamed under the bright fluorescent lighting, and though Jazz hadn't made a sound when he saw them, his spine stiffened, and he leaned away.
"No treadmill first this time?" Jazz asked warily.
"Walk with me instead." I got to my feet, lowering a hand to Jazz. He ignored it, hauling himself up on his own. My chest rumbled, my alpha unhappy with his refusal to accept my help. A few laps around the gym would be good for us both, but I didn't want Jazz pushing himself too hard so soon after eating.
We took to the walls of the room, keeping to a relaxed pace, walking the circumference of the space twice before I broke the silence. "Do you want to call Hollister again today?"
Jazz shook his head. "He told me what he knows."
Inwardly, I scowled. But now I knew him missing Hollister wasn't a reason for his anger. Figuring out the reason for his mood would take forever if I only attempted to eliminate options.
I wasn't one to beat around the bush because when you were done, the result was the same, but now you had a fucked-up bush. Spare the bush, spoil the brat? Was that how it went? "Why are you mad at me?"
I watched his face and the way his lips pursed, the sad crinkle as his eyes slanted. Seeing him like this without knowing the cause was torture, and my alpha snarled. If he'd been honest, we could've figured this out in the kitchen. He wasn't being dishonest; he just didn't want to talk to me.
"I'm not mad."
Now he was lying. I let out a low, rumbling warning growl.
"Can we just train? This is important, Knox. It could mean my life or death." On the surface, he sounded reasonable. If I hadn't caught up with him when he'd been attacked the first time, he would've been killed. Him learning how to keep his head in a dangerous situation was important. I didn't doubt that.
It was the currents running beneath his words, the lines of tension and worry. Did he think danger was coming soon? That he would recently be in a place where he needed to defend himself? Alone?
We'd lapped around the gym for long enough. Jazz had relaxed since first seeing the knives. He didn't stand quite so stiffly, and his eyes didn't dart to the pouch every other second as if afraid it would move closer when he wasn't looking.
I broke from the wall, swerving back and lifting the knives from the floor to the workout bench. Jazz followed me, a silent, wary sentry.
The collection of throwing knives I kept in the gym was my practice set. When the six of us had decided to support our pack together, we'd trained, naturally taking to different weapon styles. Faust knew Dog wouldn't stay behind, so he'd worked on preparing him for the field. The twins had their swords, and Diesel had his explosive.
After my first throw, I'd been hooked. Countless hours of training later, and the knives felt like an extension of my body. I slid one of the blades from its sheath, letting it balance on the pad of my finger. "What is this?"
Jazz frowned. "I'm not doing some wax-on, wax-off bullshit."
The snarl that rumbled out of me was all alpha. "Answer the question, Jazz."
"It's a knife!" he shouted. "A sharp, pointy thing that can kill you when inserted."
Leading him to the opposite wall of the gym, we stood about ten feet from a circular target. Normally, I trained from farther back, but today wasn't about improving my skill. I sent the knife soaring, and Jazz jumped. My alpha was just glad he jumped toward me and not away. I was still a source of safety for him, and that knowledge let me breathe just a little easier.
The knife hit the center of the target with a thud. "You described what a knife can do, not what it is. It's a tool, Jazz. Just like a fork or a hairbrush or a screwdriver. On its own, a knife is just a tool."
"Like you," he whispered.
His quiet disrespect was the straw that broke my alpha's back. With firm but gentle hands, I grabbed his wrists, bringing him against my chest, against my heart.
Jazz went rigid before he sighed softly, his cheek nestling against my beating heart, but then it was like he remembered he was angry and pushed away. Or made an attempt to. His pushes weren't very hard, and his fingers curled into my shirt, grabbing me even as he urged me back.
"You can be mad at me, Jazz. But I still deserve your respect. The same respect I give you."
Jazz pushed again, and that time, I let him go. "Fine. I'm sorry. That was rude." He didn't sound like he meant a word of that, but I needed to choose my battles.
I continued. "A knife is a tool. It can be a weapon. It can cut flesh, or it can cut an apple. It's the intent behind the use that you should be concerned with."
"What do I do with that advice?" Jazz slid a hand up his side to cling to his hip. "Should I say, excuse me, sir, do you plan on killing me with that knife or providing a snack?"
My lips twitched, and I fought the smile. Smartass. "No, but becoming more familiar with the tool will help you keep your head when you spot the next. I want you to pick up a knife and throw it. And then another and another, and when you finish, we'll gather them up and you'll throw again."
"Until when?"
"Until I say so."
Jazz huffed at that. "I won't be able to reach the target," he whined.
"That's fine."
He scowled but turned toward the knives. His hand shook as he reached for the first handle.
"To start off, you'll want to hold it with a hammer grip. That will be the easiest grip while you're learning." I demonstrated what I meant, and Jazz adjusted his hold, with his four fingers bent toward his palm and his thumb clenched at the top.
"Good. Now inhale. Aim. Slow exhale. Throw."
Jazz sucked in a sharp breath, closed his eyes, and flung the knife forward. It reached the wall, about three feet from the target. The handle hit the plaster and then landed with a muffled clatter against the mat.