That was a lie. Hoping was about as useful as dreaming. But hey, every once in a while, a girl got lucky. About as lucky as Allie felt when she traded her virginity for a sparkly necklace she never got the chance to wear outside the house.
It was okay, though. I’d hocked it for my first Ruger. Upgraded that to a Berretta and finally settled on my SIG.Thanks, Alls.
I patted my holster and spun around, catching my reflection in the mirror before pushing my way outside the bathroom. I looked like ass. My weird sleep schedule made it impossible to wake up as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as Gabby appeared in the mornings.
I stomped down the narrow hallway and the fish scattered again when I walked past. Though I wasn’t sure why. The bass shaking their tank was worse than anything I could do to 'em.
I made it three steps out the side door of the nightclub when I spotted my target smoking a cigarette by one of the dumpsters. I grinned, drew my weapon, and popped the fucker between the eyes. The silencer muffling a gunshot no one could hear anyway because of the goddamn music. His head jerked back, bounced off the metal, and slowly slid to the ground with the rest of him. Leaving a streak of red against the rusty green paint. A few hours and that red would turn a brown color, the blood would continue to pool on the concrete, and the rats and insects would do the rest of the work until the cops arrived.
I quickly rushed up to the body and dug around in the guy’s pockets till I found his wallet. Confirmation for the girl he’d knocked around in that motel six years ago. It wasn’t the girl who’d hired us. She didn’t know her own name anymore. It was the mother, who was stuck changing adult diapers for the rest of her life. Guy had turned the girl’s insides into mush when he’d shoved a lamp inside her without even bothering to unplug it.
Now his brains weremush.
My opinion? He deserved a lot worse. But real revenge—real justice—was messy. And messy crime scenes were the quickest way to get yourself caught.
But this? This was clean. And either way, the guy and his pencil dick were worm food. Cockroach food? I saw one of them scurry under the dumpster. Probably waiting for me to leave before scurrying back out again.
“Not bad. But your aim was about two centimeters too far to the left,” a voice said from behind me.
I spun around, my barrel bouncing from one corner to another and finally settling on a dark silhouette walking towards me.
“If the guy woulda turned his head, you woulda missed him completely.”
First, I saw his 90s slasher movie mask, glowing like a jack-o’-lantern. Then his shoulders. Then the rest of him. “Trick is to shoot before they turn their heads,” I grunted as I leveled my gun with his forehead. He knocked my arm to the side, causing me to shoot out one of the streetlamps instead. The glass shattered and rained down on the concrete before the lights next to it flickered off. “Fuck.”
Then he was gone and so was the music.
“Double fuck.”
I shoved the dead guy’s wallet into my front jacket pocket. Tucked my weapon back into its holster, and slowly strolled my way down the sidewalk. I’d go back for my bike once the scene cleared. Speeding away on a motorcycle or running down a busy street was the equivalent of painting a red sign on your forehead with the wordsI did itwritten across.
I could hear the sirens blaring in front of me. And now I felt like one of those fish as a barrage of cop cars flashed by. The hookers and johns and drug dealers scattered, and I scattered with them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CASPER
Moving how I did was about more than having the right kinda gear, wearing the right materials—fabrics that absorb sound instead of reflecting it. It was about how you bent your knees, distributing your weight and not dragging your feet. It was about breathing through your nose, focusing on everything around you while keeping your eyes on the target at the same time. Taking in the sights, sounds, scents. Recognizing the different flashes of color and putting a label on them before most people even knew what was happening.
It was second nature for me. I’d always been a nosey motherfucker. My senses on constant overload. Paying attention to everyone and everything until one thing in particular caught my eye. This girl was that thing.
I was gonna kill her. Or she was gonna kill me. But not before we played the game a little longer.
I followed her all the way back to Sullivan’s, upstairs to my apartment, where she walked around and picked up the occasionalbezdelushkafrom the shelves. Snooping or waiting for me. Didn’t matter which. I didn’t keep nothing importanthere. No photos. No souvenirs. No insights into my psyche. Just a handful of candy bars and shit I clipped off the idiots downstairs. Cash, IDs, small weapons, and keychains.
She could steal 'em if she wanted. I’d just steal 'em back.
I watched her for a few more seconds, my breath fogging up the glass, before I finally decided to tap on the panel. She gasped and jumped before she could keep herself from doing it. Then she stomped forward, yanked the window open, and shoved at my chest. Sending me flying backwards off the fire escape. I twisted midair, grabbed onto the ladder, and flipped myself back up again before pushing my way inside the room.
“Seven,” she grunted.
I quirked a questioning brow. “Seven?”
“That’s how many more times I have to kill you before you stay dead.”
I grinned and stepped forward. Baby girl stepped back but not until my toes were touching hers. Boot to sneaker. “And how many more times do I have to fuck you before you realize you prefer me alive?”
“Pretty sure I was the one doing the fucking.”
