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We were being trained by special operations soldiers, the ones who loved killing so much that when they pulled out of service, they started to do their own dirty shit.
It was the most painful thing I had ever done in my life.
The training was intense, and it took a good year before I was allowed my first kill.
I fucked it up, but Pops—that’s what the man who gave me the phone liked to be called—fixed it.
I never fucked up a kill after that.
A year later, Pops asked about my brothers. He was creating his own army and I was his special soldier.
He figured because he could mold me, my brothers would be great assets as well.
And he was right.
They were.
The three of us became his secret weapons. He stopped training other people after that. The men he had trained before my brothers and me, and even those after, he let go, or possibly killed, I don’t know and don’t care to ask.
Pops was lethal, but I had become even more lethal with time.
And in turn, my brothers did as well.
We were deadly.
Destructive.
Evil.
To this day, we still work for Pops. But he isn’t the only place we get jobs now.
Killing is what we are good at.
Killing is our business.
Why would we limit ourselves to one person who gives us work when we have the whole fucking world at our fingertips?
FOUR
Alaska
Talk about intimidating.
All those men are daunting.
But that one that looks like he walked straight in from an all-black party, with eyes as green as the forest and lips curved into the perfect heart shape, is the most haunting of them all.
A little too intense for me.
“They’re asking for you,” Louise says as I attempt to deliver drinks to my original tables. She goes to take them from me, but I shake my head.
“I need the tips, Louise. Why the fuck do you think I work here? Those men haven’t tipped me anything. My table…” I nod to where my customers are seated, “tip every time I bring them drinks.”
She bites her lip. “Okay, sorry. I’ll tell them you’re busy.” She turns away, and a small part of me feels bad, but I shake it off and march straight past the area with the intense, powerful men, and I don’t spare them a glance as I head to my tables.
My customers grin at me, and one even slaps my ass—fucking bastard. I can’t help the cringe and want to break his hand, but instead, I smile like a good girl because I know he will tip me well. I turn, handing him his drink, and he tips me a hundred-dollar bill and leans up so his smelly breath is next to my ear as he speaks.
“Come on, darlin’, come home with me. I can show you how to ride a cowboy. We can even leave those boots on.”
