Hittin It: A Hitman Romance (Marked for Love Book 2) (4 page)

“The Hermit signifies inner strength...or a loner incapable of interacting with others. There’s a fear of discovery, of secrets and sometimes a failure to face facts.”

She had no idea how close to the truth she was. He had secrets he could never tell a living soul. Ever. Secrets that could get him killed.

“This one here—” She tapped the next card up, “—is your environment. Reversed, the Ten of Cups is about loss, family problems, strife.” She shrugged almost apologetically.

He brushed it off, chalking it up to Tilly and his sex life.

She lovingly stroked another card, second from the top. “This is your hopes and fears. The Page of Wands is reversed, signifying an inability to make decisions.”

Indecisive
wasn’t a word people usually used to describe him. He gave her a superior smile and leaned back so the waitress could slide his broiled chicken in front of him.

Sabrina ignored her and kept talking. “This card at the top is your outcome, but keep in mind, that can change based on your actions.”

“’K.” He shrugged and forked up some broccoli, suddenly ravenous.

“The Chariot reversed implies defeat.”

Before Will could form a reply, his cell phone rang.  He checked the caller ID then answered, “Yes, sir.”

“I need you to check on your sister. She’s down in Austin.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I
took my job as a Tarot card reader very seriously, and hated to be the bearer of bad news. Roy took it better than most. Okay, honestly, he seemed to totally dismiss my reading. It happened. Contrary to popular belief, readings weren't written in stone. They were only a foreshadowing of a possible outcome. Human nature, free will could change things on a dime.

“Everything okay?” I asked, once he’d hung up the phone. He didn't look so good.

“Yeah, but I need to get going.” He motioned to the waitress for the check, even though he’d barely touched his dinner.

“Thanks again. For everything.” The dinner...the van. Saving my ass. I didn’t even want to think about where Roy had gotten the kind of cash needed to buy that van, what I really owed him, or why he’d come back. It had been a long time since someone had done something without expecting anything in return.

“Want a to-go box for that?” the waitress asked, motioning to my half-eaten burger.

“Yeah.” I could share it with Scamp later on. Once she was gone, I turned my attention back to Roy. “Where are you going again?”

“Austin.” He visibly paled. “My sister lives down there.”

“Well, if you get bored, come check out the Fair. It’ll be fun.” I gave him a perky smile even though I doubted I’d ever see him again. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.

“Sure.”

I reached in my purse, slipped out a card, and slid it across the table. “Call me. I’ll buy you a turkey leg.”

It was late, past seven when I climbed into my new ride and headed out of town on I-10, looking for a rest stop to bunk at for the night. Roy had even been kind enough to fill the gas tank. Unable to find a place that appealed to me or gave me good vibes, I kept driving until exhaustion finally forced me to pull off in Ft. Stockton. In honor of the new van, I splurged on a cheap hotel room, crashing to beat the dead after a long
hot
shower.

* * *

T
he next morning I got up early and spent some time organizing the van. I shook out the sheets, shifted the mattress until I was happy with its location by the back doors, and remade the bed. Then I turned my attention to organizing the milk crates. I’d learned early in my travels to minimize. There was no saving of random souvenirs from dates, from boyfriends or life events fondly remembered. Not even the hoarding of books to reread at my leisure. Only the most precious, prized possessions were kept. In this case, a few photos of my mother and myself on the porch of our house in Endicott. The neighboring houses were so close it looked like the opening scene from
All in the Family.

I tucked them back in their envelope and stashed it away for safekeeping. My one crate of books, most dog-eared and water-stained, was stashed behind the driver’s side seat. Roy had neatly stacked the crates containing my miniscule wardrobe against one wall of the van, and I left them there for now. The four crates of journals were next. I quickly located and stowed three behind Scamp’s seat, then turned to get the fourth, except...it was gone.

There were twenty-three journals. One for approximately every six months since I’d turned sixteen. How much journaling I did depended on the type of year I’d had.  Some years had been more...eventful than others and some had left me more time to write.

Ten years. Four crates.

I scrambled around the back of the van again, re-counted them all, searching for the missing crate only to come up empty. Sick with dread, I ran inside my hotel room, searching in there even though all I’d brought in with me the previous night was a duffel bag full of bare necessities. Scamp barked from the van’s open doorways, anxiously wagging his tail.

“Shhhh!” I pressed a finger to my lips, afraid I’d get caught with the dog and have to pay extra for my room. My hands shook, my fingers turned clammy and my stomach almost rejected the meager breakfast I’d fed it from the motel’s vending machine. The fourth crate was nowhere to be seen.

As nauseous as the thought of driving the three hours back to El Paso made me, I grabbed my bag and closed the door. I had to have those journals.

Had to!

But God, the cost of gas to go back. I didn’t even want to think about it. Plus the lost time—six hours round trip!
Not
going back wasn’t an option. I blew out a deep breath of resignation.

Decision made, I threw my bag inside. “Get in your seat, Scamp.”

I closed the doors, making sure they were secure, then climbed in, pointing the van west. The entire drive was a nightmare, the minutes and miles creeping past as I fretted over someone finding my van, finding those journals and reading them, or worse, scattering them all over the highway. Frankly, they were worthless to anyone
but
me, nothing more than entertaining fodder or kindling for a fire, but they were
mine
. The thought of someone burning them, made me press a little harder on the gas, even though I couldn’t afford to get stopped by the police. If I went to jail, Scamp would go to the pound.

* * *

T
he van was right where I’d left it, fading yellow paint blending into the scenery, looking even more pathetic than I remembered. I approached on light feet, the scalding asphalt slightly spongy under the thin soles of my shoes. I glanced back at Scamp. He stood with his paws on the dash, watching me through the front window. The air was hot and dry, and the van’s side door creaked open with a metallic squeal. Inside smelled like baby powder and grease...and old. Just
old
.

It didn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. And it didn’t take long for me to see that the inside of the van was empty. Pathetically deserted.

Shit!

W
ill had driven as far as the Hampton Inn in Ft. Stockton before pulling off for the night. While unloading the SUV he’d discovered a crate of Sabrina’s journals. They would have been perfectly safe in his SUV all night, but curiosity about the pretty tarot card reader had made him grab two of them and carry them upstairs to his room. He tossed them on the dresser where they called to him while he showered and worked.

He’d memorized the job details his father had sent him. Acknowledgement wasn’t necessary. He only needed to respond if he was unwilling to take the job or had questions. He was
rarely
unwilling and only drew a hard line at settling domestic disputes. Those were just messy from the word go, a prison sentence waiting to happen unless you took out both parties, and obviously, that idea didn’t usually go over well with the client.

Once he was done, he stretched out in the cool confines of the queen-sized bed, the television turned to CNN and muted, and learned a lot about Sabrina’s last year on the road. Fascinated, he’d stayed awake reading much longer than he should have.

Now here he was, sitting in a nearly-empty restaurant, sipping coffee and waiting on his eggs and turkey bacon and reading about the life and times of Sabrina Walker—the early days. The pages were musty and filled with doodles of animal faces and tarot card figures, and elaborate girlish handwriting that slanted crisply to the right.

The scalding hot sip of coffee Will had just taken turned sour in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow. This was definitely worse than the one he’d read last night.
That
one had detailed a pleasant spring and summer in Florida and Georgia working fairs with a guy named Wes. Apparently, when she’d turned west, Wes had disappeared with most of her money and things had gotten progressively uglier since then.

“Sir.”

He looked up, blinking to clear the ugly visual of Sabrina sucking the dick of some red-faced man old enough to be her father, to find the waitress standing over him, plate in hand. He moved the journal, making room. Smiling, she set his eggs down and refilled his coffee cup, her eyes lingering on the book before she moved on to her next customer.

The damage was done, though. Will's appetite was ruined and all he could do was pick at his breakfast.

Back in the Tahoe, he tossed the journal with the rest. How the hell was he going to get them back to Sabrina? The phone number on the card she’d given him was disconnected and the P.O. Box listed probably didn’t belong to her anymore.

He could have just thrown them out, and maybe he should have. But something stopped him. Probably the same unexplainable something that had made him buy her a van.

* * *

B
y dinnertime Will was sitting in suffocating traffic just outside of San Antonio. He stopped for a newspaper and dinner at a burger joint, searching for any information about the Ren-Faire. He finally resorted to asking the waitress who was happy to give him directions. Once he was done, he left a generous tip and took I-35 to the 1604 Loop West until he spotted the setup for the fair ground in the distance. It was hard to miss. There were cars as far as the eye could see and beyond that, what looked like a medieval village, complete with flying banners, had sprung up in the middle of nowhere.

“Shit,” he muttered as he took the exit for the farm-to-market road. He hadn’t thought finding Sabrina would be quite so difficult. He’d thought this would be a get in-get out deal.

He’d thought wrong.

After being on the road for so long, he wasn’t in the best of moods. His ass hurt from sitting for so long and he had the beginnings of a headache.

Will parked, then took the long trek to the entrance, paid his fee and stepped inside. Big-bosomed ladies in corsets and long skirts that dragged in the dirt crossed paths with families in jeans and T-shirts, munching on turkey legs and sausage on a stick, sharing funnel cakes covered in powdered sugar and fruit. Will’s mouth watered at the sight, then he thought about how unsanitary and unhealthy eating one would probably be.

More people in medieval getups wandered past, the sound of lutes and harps mixed with the cacophony of screaming, excited, sweaty, sticky children. There were people
everywhere
. Sighing, Will headed for the information booth then bought a map.

He glanced down at the elaborate piece of paper and knew it was useless. “How do I find a fortune teller?” He felt stupid even asking.

The girl behind the counter sighed and rolled her eyes, her gum popping ninety-to-nothing. She swiped at her damp forehead and jabbed a finger at the map on the wall behind her. “The smaller spots for fortune tellers are here, here, here and here. And then some are located in tents.” The look she gave him said, “That’s all you get.”

“Thanks.”
For nothing.

Outside, Will stopped long enough to grab a bottle of water. The array of smoked meats and sweets called him, tempting him, but he didn’t have time. He had to find Sabrina, give her the journals and get out of here before his head exploded. Kids gave him hives.

As he walked, Will passed more women, some attractive, a few questionable, and men with swords. A dozen belly dancers went swirling past.

At one point, he had to step out of the way to let the “Royal Court” pass, and ended up inside the tent of an incense seller. The combination of smoke and a variety of scents left him sneezing by the time he stepped back outside into the fresh air. He blinked to clear his stinging eyes and continued on, passing jewelry booths, booths selling crystals and rocks, fake swords, low-tech games of chance, and lots and lots and
lots
of kids.

Kids scared Will more than women did.

Finally, after nearly ninety minutes of walking the grounds, Will located Sabrina. She sat in a little tent, her lush lips curved into a smile, her damned dog curled up near her feet. A woman sat across from her and they were talking excitedly. The table between them was covered with a purple cloth and even from here, Will could see the Tarot cards spread out on the table.

Sabrina had covered the top of her head with a multi-colored scarf and the rest fell across her shoulders, the fringe mixing with a messy mass of curls distracted him. She was so different from Tilly, who’d never had a hair out of place. Sabrina laughed again, and a flash of dimples made him smile. Will mentally shook himself and sipped his water. If not for those damn journals, he wouldn’t be here. He resigning himself to waiting...until the dog started barking. He leapt to his feet and stood at attention, his little tail waving back and forth like a flag.
Shit.