That’s it. I’m done. I’m going to kill them. There’s no other option.
Throwing my pillow off my head, I scurry across my bed and lean over, tearing open my bedside drawer and curling my fingers around the gun I keep there for those just-in-case moments. Then, just as I grab the silencer and start twisting it on, my phone comes alive from somewhere within the sheets, instantly pulling me out of the rage-filled irritation clouding my mind.
Gently placing the gun back in the drawer with the silencer still on—you know, just in case—I scramble through my sheets, searching for my phone. There is only one person who would have the absolute indecency to call a woman at this hour.
My best friend—and agency rep—Milan. I mean, that’s not really her name. Just the name she gave herself when we first spoke, and that had everything to do with the fact I was in Milan at that time.
In my world, legal names are not disclosed. Milan only knows me as Crimson Blade. If someone uttered the name Kiara St. James in herear, she wouldn’t have a clue who that was, just as I wouldn’t have a clue who she truly is. But we don’t need that. Despite not knowing the basic fundamentals of who we truly are, we know enough to have formed a lasting friendship, and for the past few years, that’s all I’ve ever really had. Apart from Spikezilla, of course—the one true companion in my life.
Finding my phone, I scoop it up and immediately accept the call. “You haven’t called,” Milan says, her accusatory tone coming through loud and clear. “Have you not completed the job?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, crashing onto my pillow and pulling my blankets back into place, knowing just how much she lives for the recaps of my missions. “I was meaning to once I got home, but the jet lag really kicked my ass. I crashed the second I hit my couch.”
“Shit. That bad?”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Very true,” she says. “So, how’d the job go? Get it done?”
“Is that doubt I hear in your tone? Have I ever not gotten it done?”
Milan laughs, and her fingers click across a keyboard as she marks the contract complete, making sure I get paid. “I mean, there was that one time in Spain—”
“Shit. I thought we agreed that we’d never mention Spain ever again.”
Her laughs turn into uncontrollable howling. “I know, but I can’t help it,” she says. “I would have paid to see the look on your face when that bull almost turned you into a human piñata, via a thoroughsphincter jabbing.”
“Nooooooo,” I groan, remembering it all too clearly. That bull almost turned the phrasetear you another assholeinto a chilling reality. And to be honest, I’ve steered clear of accepting contracts in Spain ever since. The PTSD is strong for this one. “Don’t remind me. I’ve had nightmares ever since.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll let you off the hook, but only if you have a good story for me. You know I live to hear all about your gory conquests—wait,” she mutters, her words falling away and making me worry that something isn’t right, that maybe she’s in danger. “What the fuck is that sound? Is that . . . Bitch! Are you watching porn?”
I groan and roll my eyes. “No, I—”
“Girl, if you’re busy flicking the bean, the decent thing to do is to at least mute the video before accepting my call. I know you have needs and all that, but shit.”
“No!” I groan, throwing myself out of my bed. “I wish it were porn because at least then I’d be able to turn it off. Hell, even getting something out of it, but it’s my new neighbor. I swear, the asshole only moved in this afternoon and is already driving me insane. He’s been fucking this woman for over an hour right up against my bedroom wall. My picture frame has already fallen off the wall. And shit, Milan. They’re so goddamn loud. All I’ve heard for the past hour is,Fuck me, Daddy. Yes! Deeper! Spank me,” I say before switching to a man’s tone. “Yeah, just like that, my sweet little whore. Who’s been a bad girl?”
She howls with laughter. “Oh shit. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Not even a little bit,” I mutter before taking the AirPod out of my ear and pressing it against the wall. “Can you hear that? It’s insane.”
As if on cue, my new neighbor groans. “Ahhhh fuck,” and Milan bursts into uncontrollable waves of laughter.
“Holy shit, girl. You’re living next to the human equivalent of a Dolby Surround Sound System: The after-dark edition. That right there is a full-volume mating call. What the actual fuck. And it’s been going on for an hour?”
I groan and glance at my phone. “An hour and ten now.”
Milan just laughs again. “Shit. You’re jealous.”
“I am absolutely not jealous,” I tell her. “I am no prude when it comes to loud, performative sex. Nobody has better sex than me. I’m just—”
“Jealous.”
“No!”
I groan, and as my neighbor continues going to town on his girl, I throw my blanket off, frustration burning through my veins like never before. “That’s it. I’m going over there.”
Milan gasps. “You can’t do that.”
