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“Sorry. I really am. It’s just that...I need to get naked with you, Evelyn. Tonight... And there are things I can do—”
With a jolt of disgust I pull away—“Don’t come near me again, you sleazy shit”—leaving him to down the remainder of his bubbly and stumble on to his next poor victim.
By this time, Valdez is on the move. This way, in fact...
I took a deep breath, slip the cap off the needle, and try to compose myself on the move, aiming my walk so that it crosses his path with nonchalant timing, just close enough to...
Son of a—
The obnoxious Brit cuts in front of me, feels me up on the way past. Before I can react, he’s all over Valdez, shaking his hand, patting him on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear, which elicits the biggest roar of laughter of the evening from the man I’m here to kill.
I hang back, cool off. This isn’t going to work. Maybe it never will. I’m no assassin—I’m plain old Athena Katsaros, and I don’t even eat meat. But right now the hate I feel for Valdez is only marginally stronger than the hate I feel for that insufferable British tuff that’s ruined everything. Maybe I should just stick him instead, see how much he slurs then.
No, there’s still time. I can still do this. Perhaps when the guests start to thin and the evening’s winding down, I can make my move. So for now, I’ll slip the cap back onto the needle and hang fast.
“That’s either the craftiest hard-to-get routine I’ve ever seen, or you’ve no idea who you’ve just turned down.” A leggy, middle-aged redhead in a sleeveless number slinks beside me, her lascivious gaze fixed on the Brit tragedy who’s been busy regaling Valdez for the past ten minutes, non-stop. Everyone seems to think he’s a cut-up. And the women are practically clawing each other to get next to him.
“I don’t want to know who he is,” I lie. The idea that he’d fend off all these dazzling women and single me out, hit on
me is...distracting.
“Of course not... That’s why you can’t keep your eyes off him.”
“What? No, I—”
“’S okay, honey’. He comes on strong. If I’d only just met him, I’d be intimidated too. But trust me, there’s only one Barrett Carlisle. You won’t want to turn him down a second time. It's just a friendly piece of advice.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not that desperate.”
“Awww, poor sweet thing...”
“Uh-huh. Well, he’s all yours, babe.” I blow a bit of venom into that last word, hoping she gets the message.
She snorts a gentle mocking laugh, holds up her glass to me, and then slinks away. Her pale, bony shoulders are so sharp they could literally cut their way through a crowd. Adios, bitch.
It isn’t long before I’m dying to pee. The nearest restroom, I’m told, is across the balcony outside, so I make it there and back as quick as my high heels will carry me. When I return, Carlisle has chosen his victim, sorry, date for the evening, a Latino waif who can’t be more than nineteen. He says goodbye to his host in typical grandiose fashion—a playful headlock is involved—then gives the girl a running piggyback on his way out.
With him out of the picture, my chance to strike is near, I can sense it.
Less than fifteen minutes later, that chance arrives. Valdez excuses himself from the group he’s with—including his
bodyguard—and heads toward the balcony. Perhaps toilet breaks, or to get some air? He is looking a bit pale. Maybe too much champagne... The loyal bodyguard follows anyway, keeping his distance.
I start for the open screen door at a slow pace so that Valdez and I will reach it at the same time. But he lengthens his stride, quickens his step, to make sure he gets there first. Christ. Is he about to throw up? Or is his bladder about to explode? With my short legs I’d have to run to keep up, but I can’t do that. No use drawing attention to myself.
Once outside, Valdez clutches his stomach and props himself up on one of the stone pillars. Coughs, stumbles in a not-so-straight line across the balcony. The gibbous moon sinks behind a silver raft of cloud, and it goes dark. It's very dark. Seizing the opportunity, I dash out after him, my heels cli-cli-clicking on the bare stone. “Mr. Valdez, is everything alright?”
He groans, almost doubles up in mid-stride.
“Mr. Valdez?” I deftly uncap the needle on my ring and go to help him—help from which he will not recover.
“I’m—I’m all right,” he manages. “It’s just a little—”
Fssp...
A tiny dart from the shadow taps his jugular before I can reach him. It's tiny and orange. Valdez smacks the back of his neck as though he’s swatting a mosquito, but it only rams the dart further in. He brushes it off, looks up at me with eyes that spit recognition; like quelled oil fires, they empty suddenly.
He flops to the ground. Like dead? Like really dead?
