Viper: A Hitman Romance (2 page)

"That's it?"

Michael's lips curve upward slightly in what I think is his twisted version of a smile.  The guy is skinny and sickly-looking, like he's been on the receiving end of months of chemo.  Just looking at him is nauseating.

"No.  But that's all you need to know for now.  Do we have a deal?"

I look at the photo again.  Jessica, despite looking like a woman who I would love to get to know, is setting off all sorts of alarm bells.  Everything about this is setting off alarm bells.  I give the photo back.

"Sorry, no can do."

Drax's beady, all-black eyes narrow.

"Is there a problem?"

I can't help but laugh.  Drax looks a bit confused, but that's probably because people don't tell him 'no' that often. 

"Yes, there's a problem.  I keep getting hired by condescending assholes and dickbags who think they know it all.  When the reality is, they have their heads so far up their asses that it's a miracle they haven't choked to death on their own bullshit."

Drax lets out a small sigh.  "Well, Mr. Blackwood, I'd tell you to switch industries and find something to do where you can work for yourself, but I don't think that would solve the problem you have with working for assholes."

Huh.  Looks like the suit has a bit of backbone.

"You've got some mouth on you, don't ya?"

Drax gives me a toothy grin.  Something's not quite right about that smile.  "Oh, you have no idea."

Then, he hands me back the picture.

"Listen, Mr. Blackwood, I want
you
for this job.  I don't want Mickey Shaughnessy, or any other flunkie with a gun.  This is
important.  Do you understand?
" The way the guy talks makes me grind my teeth.  "I want the Viper.  Ten million dollars says you'll do it.  Normally, I'd let you think about the offer, but unfortunately, I need an answer right now.  So, tell me: will you take the job, or would you prefer they find your body face-down in a drainage ditch?"

There's a lot I'll do for ten million.  That's retirement money and a trust fund besides.  That's shut-the-fuck-up and swallow-your-pride money.

That's do-the-fucking-job money.

I take the picture.

And I feel sorry for Jessica Roan, whoever the hell she is.  She's about to find herself in a whole world of shit that her blue eyes, brown hair, and big tits definitely do not deserve. 

Because whatever Michael Drax has planned for her is not good.

Still, ten million is ten million.

"Fine.  But don't fuck with me, Drax, or I swear to god you won't even be able to imagine the type of hell I'll bring down on you.  Now, where can I find Jessica?"

CHAPTER TWO

JESSICA

It's Friday, late, and here I am, alone at the bar.  Well, not
alone
alone.  There are other people here, sure, but with the way I'm feeling and the vibe I'm giving out, I don't blame anyone for not sitting next to me.

It's just me and my cocktail.  Just like it's been for the past few hours.

Besides, being a curvy girl in a bar full of L.A. nines and tens, it means whatever men are here probably don't even see me.

Not that I'd care to even talk to them right now.

Right now, life sucks.

Tonight, it's just me and Mr. Tito and his delicious handmade vodka.

I'm in
The Egyptian Queen. 
It's an old-school bar that looks like it's straight out of some Humphrey Bogart movie.  They even have a guy in the corner playing piano and I wouldn't be shocked if his name was 'Sam'.  There's a crooner due to come on later and, with how much they charge for drinks in this place, I know he'll be good.

Although to be honest, I really shouldn't be spending any money right now.

But I thought it'd help cheer me up. 

Though, instead of making me feel better, it's just helping make me feel broke, drunk, and miserable.

I'm like four cocktails in and I don't see things stopping anytime soon.

Not after the week I've had.  Hell, not after the life I've had.

"You mind if I sit here?"  A deep baritone that sounds like honeyed thunder asks.  It's slightly hesitant.  He must be feeling the vibe I'm putting out. 

I blink.  I turn around.  I look up.

Then up some more. 

Jesus
. 
Tall, much?

This guy looks like there isn't anything in the world that should make him anxious.  Especially not a five-foot-nada lab worker like me. 

He towers over me.  Literally.  He's Six foot four, at least.  And he's got a build like a football coach's wet dream.  There's a tattoo of a snake wrapped around his wrist, peeking out at me from the sleeve of his
Armani
suit jacket.

He smiles at me.  It's a nice smile.  Masculine, but friendly.  With dimples in his cheeks that highlight his chiseled features.  And I feel warm and dizzy just looking at him and taking him all in.

I blink again.

Oh, yeah, I'm supposed to answer his question
. 
Not gawk at this handsome man-mountain next to me.

"No, go ahead." I say, after I take another drink of my vodka tonic.  I need that burning bitterness to take me back to reality.  I even manage casual wave. 

"Thanks." He says.

He sits next to me, his rock-solid shoulders touching mine.

I scoot closer to him, just a bit, brushing him a little bit more. 

The bartender comes closer, drawn in by just a look from this new guy.

"Laphroaig.  Double.  Neat." He says to the bartender.

He's quiet for a minute after that, which I am totally OK with.  For one, I feel tongue-tied around him.  For another, I'm really here just to drink and try and forget what a terrible week it's been. 

"Rough week?" He says.

I want to laugh, because it's obvious to everyone at the whole dang bar that I'm not in a good mood. 

"What gave it away?" I ask.

"Everything.  I have this suspicion that, whenever I'm feeling miserable, I tend to run into people who feel the same way.  And you look like you fit the bill.  Though you're way better looking than the usual miserable people I meet."  He takes a sip of his scotch.  "I'm Ry, by the way, and tonight I'm trying to drink away the work assignment from hell.  And you?"

So not wanting to talk about this
.

"Jessica.  And it's personal.  Thanks."

He nods.  "I get it.  Well, I'll share mine at least.  Unless you mind?"

I shrug.  "Not at all."

"Good.  It usually helps.  And so does talking to an attractive woman.  So, I think with your help, I can get two birds with one stone."

"I'm all ears," I say. 

"I got a new client today.  I freelance, and I won't bore you with the details of what I actually do, but this client is the kind of bad news I can't say no to.  If I do, it'll ruin my reputation.  But if I work with him, I know it's going to be trouble.  So, I feel stuck.  Trapped.  And that's why I'm here."

I don't say anything.  I'm not a psychologist.  It's just me and Tito right now.

"And that's just how life seems to be, lately.  I'm stuck.  You ever feel like that?"

All my life
.  But that's not what I say.  "Sometimes."

"Well, let me tell you, it's hell.  Especially when you can see your goals just on the distance, taunting you, but staying just out of reach."

This guy must really love his job if a shitty work assignment is what's got him worked up
, I think.

I don't say anything for a while.  Seriously, it's me, Tito, and silence.

"You like to travel?" he asks.

Really, guy?
 
Who doesn't like travel.
  If you go onto any dating profile on earth, you will, one hundred and ten percent of the time see 'Travel' under 'Interests'.

"Yeah.  Not that I get to do it much.  Work and family and all."

He nods. 

"You have any favorite places?"

I shrug.

"I went to Mexico once.  Playa del Carmen.  Spring break, Sophomore year.  It was ok."

"Beaches, sun, and never-ending drinks is just 'ok'?"  There's a twinkle in his eye like he doesn't believe me.

"Yeah.  It was just ok.  I went cause a friend got me a ticket and I couldn't really say no.  But I couldn't really afford to do much down there.  So, yeah, it was just ok."

I leave out the part about feeling guilty spending any money at all.  Or the part where mom and dad died a few years before that, and my little brother just had me to depend on.

"What about you?" I ask, eager to change the subject away from me.

"Key Largo."

"Florida?"

He nods.

"Fantastic beaches.  Lots of great little cafes and bakeries, great pie, and the weather is good all year long."

We chat for a bit.  Well, I just listen, mostly, and he talks about some of the places he's been for work.  Burma, Thailand, Brazil, and, somehow, for some reason, Kazakhstan. 

What kind of freelance work takes you to Kazakhstan?  Is this guy an international yak herder or something?

"No, I'm not a yak herder," he says.

And I realize I've been talking out loud.

"Sorry.  Again, it's been a really hard week," I say, apologizing.

The conversation trails off, because I'm feeling too caught up in my head and my thoughts to give this guy much back-and-forth.

He's quiet again and I can feel him side-eying me while he sips his scotch. 

It's unnerving. 

Like he's weighing me and sizing me up and I don't like it.

I order another drink to compensate, and wind up going through two more Titos and tonics.  And when I get drunk and nervous, I tend to talk.  It's one of the reason's I'm still stuck as an analyst, instead of moving higher up the chain at the FBI.  There was an incident at an office holiday party back in Virginia.  Don't ask.

"My brother just got diagnosed with cancer."  I blurt out of nowhere.

Did I mention that when I nervous-talk, I lose all tact?  And sometimes I just drop bombs right into conversation?

Still, the look on Ry's face makes me smile.  He gets it under control pretty quick, but there still was a second there where his eyes went 'oh shit' wide.

"I'm sorry, Jessica" he says.  And it sounds like he means it.  "Can I get you another round?"

And then "do you want to talk about it?"

Yes.  And no, not really.

But I nod 'yes' to both of those, because I've already shot my mouth off, like usual, and you can't gracefully recover from dropping the cancer bomb on a random stranger.

I've got a skill for taking conversations from zero to nuclear in zero point zero seconds.

The drinks arrive, I swallow some more Tito and Tonic and try to think of the best way to give Ry a glimpse of the little slice of misery that I call my life.

"So, I have a younger brother.  Connor.  And he's the only family I have since my parents passed away a few years ago.  It was natural causes, and they were older when they had me and Connor, so I'm over it.  It sucks, but it's life, and you move on."

Mostly.  But I still think about it a lot.  Especially in times like these where I feel so alone
. 
And like I'm the only one standing between my brother and death and it scares me and makes me feel like the whole world's closing in tight around me.

"Anyways," I continue.  Then pause to clear my throat and have some more Tito. 

And as I take a sip, I see that Ry is staring at me intently.  Like I am the center of his world right now.  Like he actually cares, beyond the level of stranger-sympathy you normally get at a bar.  It's kind of comforting, and, like many other things about this guy, kind of unnerving.  He's making me feel all sorts of things that I am not in the right mind to process right now. 

"Anyways, he's on break from Stanford.  About a month ago, he started getting sick and it wouldn't go away, so I took him in to the doctors to get some tests done.  We got the results in a couple days go and I've had to take the next week off from work because my brother has Stage III colon cancer."

At some point, Ry places his hand on my back.  He's rubbing me through my dress and, wherever he touches me, there's just this
intense
heat.  My body is practically smoldering at this man's touch.

"That must be devastating," he says.  "Your brother is lucky to have someone as strong as you in his life."

The way he says it, it's so sincere and immediate that I feel my heart, start to get a little bit light.  I breathe a little easier.

Ry could give the dicks in HR some lessons in authentic sympathy.  All they'd said is
I'm sorry to hear that,
like I'd just told them I got a paper cut.

"Thank you," I murmur.  I lean back a bit, pressing myself into his hand.  His touch feels so insanely
good
. 

I drink some more Tito and Tonic to hide the fact that I can feel tears at the edges of my eyes.  It's happened a lot these last few days.  Most times I fail and the tears come out.  But with Ry around, things feel kind of 'ok'.  Well, more like okay-ish.  But that's a huge improvement.

"It's just a lot to deal with, you know?" I say.  "And even if I can figure out how to pay for his treatment, he's got only a forty percent chance at making it, at best."

Ry keeps his hand still on my back and I don't mind.  Human, caring contact feels good.

"I'm so sorry, Jessica," he says again.  His voice is a shade deeper now, and, even though I'm feeling gutted inside, he just sounds so ridiculously real. 

My breath comes in a shudder.  I could use a bit of distraction right now. 

He gives my shoulder a little squeeze.  "I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now.  Is there anything I can do for you?"

I nod, then finish my Tito and Tonic.  "You can buy me another round."

At the back of the bar, the crooner comes up to join the piano player and starts in on a cover of
Volare
, the old Dean Martin standard.

Ry comes back with the drinks and there's a smile on his face, with a pair of dimples that just sets everything off.  His bright green eyes are focused on me.  Only me.  And that smile looks like it's just for me, too.

He gives me my drink, then says: "A few years ago, I went through something like what you're going through.  I didn't have it together nearly as well as you do right now.  I was a wreck.  You're brother's lucky to have someone as strong as you to help him.  I know you'll make it through this."

I nod and mumble something because I don't really know what to say.

A twinkle lights in Ry's eyes.  They're like emeralds shining out at me, and his mischievous grin stands out against his strong jawline.  He's got the kind of features that would be at home in a black and white Hollywood picture.

"You need a little cheering up.  A little embarrassing."

I arch an eyebrow.  "Excuse me?"

"You heard me.  You can't just sit here, drowning yourself in cocktail after cocktail, and think that's going to make your life any better or that it'll help you forget."