Hitman's Hookup: A Bad Boy Romance (17 page)

I looked around and realized with stomach-dropping terror that I was suspended above the night sky. The world was upside down; if I let go of what was holding me to Earth I would fall into black, unrelenting eternity. I screamed.

Cruz put his hand over my mouth. He didn’t seem concerned at all about the inversion of gravity. His palms were rough and calloused on my mouth, not soft like I remembered.

Cruz laughed, his hot breath now harsh and vile in my ear. “Nice try, sweetheart,” he hissed.

I opened my eyes, screaming.

I wasn’t with Cruz.

I was in an airplane. A nice one. A really, really nice one. I tugged my arms to pull my hair out of my face; my braids were loose and hanging over my eyes. But my wrists were tied behind me with rope. I blinked and inhaled as slowly as I possibly could to slow down my heartrate. If I didn’t, I was going to end up vomiting on myself with no way to clean it up.

The plane was narrow; only two rows of seats. The walls were covered in some kind of woven cream-colored fabric; the cushy seats were adorned in matching leather. The lower half of the walls beneath the oval windows were covered in shiny, burled wood.

I inhaled the sickening scent of jet fuel mixed with what smelled like expensive perfume. Classical music was tinkling out of the cabin speakers, and there was a low murmur of dialogue coming from somewhere in front of me. The leather seat facing me was empty but for a large suit jacket hanging over the arm rest. I looked at my clothes and my feet. I was still wearing what I’d put on this morning.

Or whenever that was.

I struggled against my wrist restraints to peek over the headrests. Two aisles up, the expertly highlighted head of sleek, dark, brunette hair was bobbing lightly. It was the head of a woman with enough money for both hair product and an excellent stylist. She was talking into a cell phone, gold bangles dangling from her tanned, thin wrists. I guessed she was in her early forties and extremely well preserved. I eased back into my seat when I heard heavy footsteps coming up the aisle behind me.

“Ah, you’re awake,” said a deep, masculine voice. “Good, maybe now you’ll stop screaming.” He turned around and said something to another person. “I hate when they react that way to the sedative. Means this one’s a fighter.” He winked at me, his tan, leathery skin crinkling around his beady blue eyes. I looked at the man’s hands and wondered if his calloused fingers were the ones covering my mouth in my nightmare.

I suppressed the urge to shudder and gag, but only barely. “Who the fuck are you?” I spat. I might be bound in place, but I wasn’t going to project vulnerability if I could help it. Poppy had always said I could scare the shit out of the most powerful man on earth with a single gaze.

The man took a half step back when he saw the look on my face. He recovered with a forced laugh. “That’s not for me to say,” he replied. “Boss!”

The sound of the woman talking died away at once. The man gulped as the woman stood up and turned around. She strode down the length of the plane in tottering high heels. “You talk to me like that again and I throw you out the exit door of this plane,” she said with a gleaming white smile. There was poison in her eyes.

“My sincerest apologies, ma’am,” the man grunted awkwardly, walking away and taking a seat behind me.

The woman turned to face me, her phone still in her hand. Her brown eyes never left mine as she raised the device back up to her ear. “I’m going to have to call you back later.” She ended the call and turned the rest of her focus toward me. “Pleasure to finally meet the woman who killed my husband.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CRUZ

It was morning already. I’d slept in the rental car at a truck stop at a complete loss as for what to do. I hung outside of a dingy dive bar until ten in the morning when they opened up.

I needed alcohol.

Because I had no idea what to do next. Lily was gone. I had no one to call. Flea had been compromised and was working for Corina. Corina wanted me dead at the urging of our mutual employer. Matthew wasn’t an option. It wasn’t like I could ask a college kid to track down the head of a drug empire.

The greasy bartender finally unlocked the door and held open the fingerprint-laden glass door for me.

“Thanks,” I grunted.

“You look like shit already. Sure you’re ready to start drinking?”

“Glass of whiskey. Make it a full one to save yourself the trips,” I replied.

The bartender didn’t seem bothered by the request. He returned with a full tumbler. The front door chimed and he raised a hand to whoever walked in. Then the bartender got to work filling up three shot glasses with identical levels of amber liquid, placing them on the countertop two seats over from me.

I stared at the glass that was in front of me. I could already feel the burning of the alcohol down my throat. I knew how it would make me feel. It would take away my control.

But I already didn’t have any control anyway. What the hell was there to lose?

I moved my arm slightly to get it into a more comfortable position. I could feel the infection coming back; it was tightening my arm to the point it was almost impossible to move it. I knew if I looked under my jacket I would see red streaks running away from the wound, carrying infection through my bloodstream. I tried not to think about that. It was just one more steaming pile on the mountain of shit I was facing.

The man slammed back three shots of whiskey in quick succession. I couldn’t help but watch him. He didn’t even flinch, his wrinkled, sun-spot-covered white skin glowing blue in the light of the neon beer sign behind the bar. He saw me staring at him. “I’ve gotta get ahead of you. Those are the rules.” Then he laughed a wheezy chuckle.

I gave a noncommittal grunt in reply.

The man titled his head toward me. “Burning daylight, son. Better get to it before I steal that glass from you myself.” His laughter at his own joke set off a barrage of wet coughing. He pounded his chest.

I lifted a finger for the bartender. “Water,” I said. A tall glass was produced at once. I slid it with one hand toward the old man.

He smiled at me. “I haven’t tasted water in decades,” he said amusedly. “Only one way to wet my whistle.” The cough continued.

I pushed my glass of whiskey toward him.

He had the raspy voice and yellow-stained fingertips of a lifelong smoker. “You come here often?” The man asked, sipping from the whiskey.

“Traveling through,” I replied simply. I took the water glass back and sipped from it.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive, son,” the man retorted.

I raised my eyebrows toward him. “And you?”

He waved his hand. “Oh no, I always take a taxi when I come here. I might be an alcoholic but I’m not selfish. I’m only here to kill myself, not innocent people.”

My chest tightened at the distinction. “Always a good plan,” I replied.

The man looked at me with piercing blue eyes. “You lose something? Most people who come here lost something. Think they’ll find it in a bottle.”

“Have you? Lost something and found it here?”

The man laughed. “You could say that. I’ve only got three months left. Liver’s all but pickled; lungs filled with cancer.” He shrugged. “Just trying to speed up the processes of nature so I can leave more money behind for my kids.”

I was taken aback by his bluntness. “Your family must be sad to lose you.”

“I don’t know about that. I wasn’t the best father, but that’s probably not coming as a surprise to you. I mean, I’m an old, dying man sitting in a bar before noon. I’m a bit of a trope, honestly.”

I actually laughed at that. “Worse ways to spend a morning.” I finished off the glass of water.

“You drinking?” the man asked after he finished the whiskey offering I’d given him.

I tapped my fingers on the empty glass. “That was the plan. But now I’m thinking better of that.”

The man got a good laugh out of my reply. “Proud to be a cautionary beacon for the younger generation.” He pushed the empty glass away. “Whatever you’re looking for, I suggest looking in the last place you had it. That’s always a good bet.”

I pulled out my wallet and threw money on the counter. The old man held up a hand but I cut him off. “Consider it more money for your kids. And good luck.”

“You too,” he yelled at my back. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.” I stepped out into the blazing sunshine, ready to take his advice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LILY

“Patrick Romano,” I whispered, trying not to be sick on myself.

She smiled. “I’m Victoria Romano. Pleasure to
finally
meet you.” She held out her hand, which was perfectly moisturized and manicured with a coat of shiny red polish that matched her dress. Her hand was dripping with diamonds.

I gave her a dry look. My hands were still tied and I couldn’t return the gesture. But she knew that already.

She laughed haughtily. “Oh, right. You’re a little tied up at the moment, aren’t you?” She snapped her fingers and a young man appeared. He had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a surprisingly kind face. He was easily five or six years younger than I was.

He gave me a strange look as he untied my wrists. I wasn’t sure what to make of his expression as he took the rope in his hands and walked away wordlessly.

Victoria perched on the seat across from me as I rubbed my wrists. They were raw and aching. “Sorry about having to tie you up, but honestly we were afraid you were going to hurt yourself. Some people have negative reactions to sedatives. You sure are a screamer.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m guessing that’s why Cruz took such a liking to you.”

My stomach dropped at hearing Cruz’s name. I tried to push him from my mind. “But I never met you,” I spluttered. “You were never there, at the hospital. Your husband…he had…no one.” I’d always found this slightly odd at the time. He’d been a great patient. Attractive, charming, compliant. But nobody ever came to visit him. He was all alone. That was probably why I’d taken such a liking to him. Knowing that he was responsible for the deaths of innocent people was hard to stomach.

Victoria laughed. “Well, we like to keep a low profile as a family, you see.” She tapped her long finger on the soft leather armrest.

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it. “I’m so, so sorry about your husband. I – it was a mistake. And I feel badly about it every single day.”

Victoria gave me an inscrutable look. It was bordering on fascination; shock, even. “Interesting that you won’t sell out the man who undoubtedly lied to you. The man who nearly cost you your entire career.” She stared at me contemplatively. “I mean, I always figured a guy who looked like Cruz would fuck like a wild animal. I just didn’t realize that his cock could be good enough to buy your protection.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Cruz has already got people after him. And your husband was my patient, in the end. He was my responsibility. I’m not letting Cruz take all the blame.”

“How
noble
,” she retorted sarcastically. “It’s strange to be around people with ethics. Refreshing, you could say.” She looked down at her perfect manicure. “You have no idea why you’re here, do you?”

I bit my lip. I hated acknowledging the lack of control and power I had right now. But it wasn’t like I had much of a choice. “I assume you’re going to kill me,” I replied evenly. For the first time, I felt fear. Saying it out loud and acknowledging my terror finally made the truth real.

I was in danger.

Victoria’s response wasn’t exactly encouraging. “Oh, Lily. You just really have no idea. Do you?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CRUZ

The diner was packed with the crush of the lunch rush. I parked the car and sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring through the long, 1950s-style glass windows at the patrons. The booth where Lily and I had sat together was now occupied by a pair of college students laughing with each other, textbooks open around them on the table.

I could tell that the guy wanted to kiss the girl. At one point he even pushed her hair out of her eyes for her. The girl had blushed pleasantly at his touch. It wasn’t often that I wondered what my life could look like if I weren’t in the business of killing people, but this was one of those moments.

I wanted desperately to wind back the clock. To tell Lily after we pulled up to the hospital what I was.
Who
I was. What I’d done. I was afraid that even if I found her, she wouldn’t ever take me back.

Someone pounded on the window of my car and I jumped about a foot in the air. It was a young guy with a baseball cap. He held up his hands in the air to show he wasn’t a threat. He reminded me a bit of Matthew. Same blue eyes and sandy-blonde hair poking out from underneath the Royals cap. I rolled the window down a few inches.

“Hey, sorry to startle you. You have a lighter?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” he replied, walking away.

I’d sat here long enough. I got out of the car and walked over to the spot Lily had been taken from. I felt ridiculous. What was I expecting? For there to be a hand-written note with her location on it? I stood with my hands in my pockets, cars whizzing by just as they had the afternoon before. There was nothing here but corn stalks and dirt.

So much for the wise-old-man-in-the-bar strategy.

I kicked the ground in pure frustration. My shoe hit something hard. I dropped down to my knees and pushed my hands through the dry soil until my palm skirted something shiny, metallic, and smooth. I fish it out.

It was a square, old-fashioned lighter. There was an engraving. I could feel part of it with my fingertips. My heart stopped beating.

But it couldn’t be. There was no way.

I spit onto it to clean off the dirt, rubbing the metal on my jeans to burnish it.

Impossible.

But it wasn’t. I knew this lighter. I knew what the letters would say when it was clean.