Never Kiss a Bad Boy (10 page)

They squinted simultaneously. It was eerie. “Then we go to the streets,” Kite said. “Maybe someone on the lower east side remembers him in his prime.”

Oh. Now, I was interested. “We're going to ask around about him?”

“Not you,” Jacob said, setting his coffee down. He started folding his sleeves back down to his wrists, sparking the memory of how close I'd been to him minutes ago. “One person will be less suspicious.”

“You sure you don't want me to do it?” Kite asked. He was twisting the cup in his fingers, back and forth.

Flashing Kite a tiny smile, Jacob took up his drink again. “Thanks for the coffee. It'll wake me up for tonight. Why don't you two go back to your place and eat some real dinner?”

“Alright,” Kite mumbled. Clapping the other man on the shoulder, he nodded at me. “Let me show you how deadly my cooking can be.”

Nodding, I started to move. I got two steps away from the kitchen when a set of steel-strong fingers closed on my elbow. Every hair on my body prickled, then stayed needle-straight when I looked into Jacob's eyes.

“Here,” he said, lifting a key between us. “It's for my place. If you ever need to get in, just use this.”

The metal was warm in my hand. I crushed it, then slid it into my jeans. I wanted to ask what he was implying by giving me access into his house... but I didn't. Sometimes, I can be a coward.

“See you later,” I whispered, clearing my throat. “Thanks for the snack. And the lesson.”

His forehead crinkled, like he was searching for another meaning in my words. I couldn't say there wasn't one. “Goodnight, Marina.”

Kite

––––––––

T
he pasta was way over cooked, the sauce a bit metallic. Oddly enough, Marina sat at my recently cleaned off kitchen table and munched away. She didn't say a single bad word.

I had no clue what that meant.

“So,” I started, poking the food around. “How do you feel after your first day in the hands of the Jackals?”

Her pretty face went blank, a smudge of tomato on the corner of her mouth. I fought the urge to wipe it away for her. “You call yourselves the Jackals?”

“Yeah.”

“But... why?”

I hooked my arm over the back of my chair. “Because it sounds dangerous. Like a pack of wolves.”

“Why not the Wolves, then?”

My eyes rolled as hard as possible. “Every kid names their imaginary team the Killer Wolves or the Blood Wolves, or something. Jackals was different.”

Marina had frozen, fork on her plate. “You came up with the name when you were kids?”

“No,” I scoffed. “Of course not.”

Yes. Back when I was small, and fragile, and far more lonely. Kids are creative, even the fucked up kids with no friends or hopes or real dreams.

Abuse is a hell of happiness destroyer.

Pushing my spaghetti aside, I went back to studying the girl's mannerisms. She ate without caring, rarely dabbing away the splotches of food. Maybe it was bad habits, or lack of social grace. To me, it was a reminder of her empty phone.

Marina had lived alone for far too long.

The details of her morbid story jostled in my head. I especially couldn't get over the idea of her sister, so young and innocent, being forced to endure what she had at the hands of Frank and the unnamed mystery man.

Maybe Jacob and I should have done a little more research. Generally, it was our rule not to learn too much. Get the money. Get in. Get out.

History didn't matter.

“Anyway,” Marina said suddenly, setting down her utensils. “It was an okay day.”

“Only okay?” I teased.

Her eyes flashed, a thundercloud that hung over me. “Well. I would have preferred if someone had started the process of teaching me how to become a killer. Like we agreed.”

Fuck. This woman was serious. I sensed the unlikely composure in her, the emotionless center she had at her disposal. How else could she face me down? If she'd cared about her safety or health, it'd be impossible.

But she was no killer. I knew that much. “Don't get too eager. We need to start with some basics.”

“Then start me with the basics.” Tucking her long hair behind her ears, she didn't break eye contact. “There's no magical 'now I'm ready' moment, Kite. I won't wait for one. Tell me where to begin.”

She was cocky, and it had me curious. “Fine. Stay right here.” Pushing from the table, I wiped my hands on my napkin. The walk to my room was short, but it filled me with the same glow it did every time.

Gathering up my Ruger never got old.

When I returned, her liquid onyx eyes bounced to the weapon. I saw her recognize it.

Yes, you witnessed me using this
. There was only one other person who'd seen me fire this gun. Well, one other
living
person.

Giving me her full attention, Marina's face lit up. “Are you going to let me shoot that?”

Helplessly, I laughed. “Of course not.” Her slumped shoulders screamed her disappointment. Holding the gun high, I turned it sideways. “You should know how to take it apart and put it back together before you fire it. It'll give you respect for the weapon.”

Her chair screeched across the floor. “Show me, please?”

I'm not sure what I expected. It's hard to imagine anything but fear when, every time you've showed someone your gun, it's ended with them wide-eyed and bloody.

Marina had jumped up and nearly danced.

Hefting the Ruger, I gestured at the living room table. “Alright. I'll show you how it's done.”

Spreading my knees, my weight settled onto the couch. Marina sat across from me, balanced on the edge of the ottoman. Without glancing, I could tell our feet were inches from touching.

I was always intensely observant. That was just how my mind worked. It helped prevent mistakes, which would land you in prison.

Or in a grave.

“Can I hold it?” she asked, chin on her hands.

Pushing the release, I jettisoned the full clip into my palm. “Not yet. Watch me, first.”

The tools were pulled from my pockets. Under Marina's watchful eyes, I dismantled the gun bit by bit. I went fast.

There was an eagerness in me to show her my talent. To impress her, and to guarantee she'd have trouble reassembling my gun.

Looking up, I saw her plush lips; slightly open, a silent sign of her awe.

Fuck. I liked that.

Putting the barrel down, I wiped my palms on my knees. “Any questions?”

“Just one.” Marina smiled, eyes crinkling. “Can I please touch it
now?
”

I motioned lazily at the pile. “Help yourself.” I wanted to act indifferent. I was a pretty good actor. Inside, I held my breath and bent closer the second she touched the first piece of my gun.

Marina held the bolt up, studying it in the light. She sniffed it, then lifted an eyebrow. “Smells like quarters.”

“Quarters?”

“That smell you get when you handle spare change.” Shrugging, she started the process of fitting things back together. It was tedious, but she amazed me with her memory.

In front of me, she was patiently figuring out how to return the fragments into a usable weapon.

Reaching for the bottle of oil, she wrinkled her forehead at me, silently asking for permission. In response, I handed her the rag.

The concept of someone else cleaning my gun was... almost erotic.

This dark-haired woman, my blackmailer, she curled around the deadly instrument and lovingly oiled the surface. My foot touched hers, and she didn't even blink. That was how focused she was.

As for me? Watching her lube the barrel, gliding her fist all over the shaft... come on.

The visual was pornographic.

I could see the crevice between her breasts with the way she leaned, her lower lip tucked in her teeth.

My jeans became my worst enemy. I shifted, trying to fit my erection somewhere less in the realm of pointy, metallic zipper teeth. My throat was dry and I wanted a drink.

That, or to let Marina's arrogant mouth quench me.

“You need to click that in,” I said, reaching out to show her.

I touched the gun, grazed her fingers. As if I'd pricked her, Marina sat up stiffly. Those round eyes, their slightly angled edges, were stuck on me.

Do you understand the fucking struggle I was dealing with? She was so close I could smell the spaghetti on her breath. If I stared hard enough, I could see my face in her shiny depths.

I was a picture of furious, bone deep ache. Marina was... distracting. Intoxicating?

Fuck. I don't know.

The woman was driving me mad. She smelled like sin, and she had a way of smiling that made me want to crush my lips onto hers so I could steal her joy.

I wasn't sure what to do. If I shoved her to the ground—or the nearest wall—like I longed to, it'd fill me with guilt.

The goal was to get the location of the damn letter from her. Getting wrapped up in a warm body that I knew would soon turn cold? Possibly by my own hand?

This was torture.

Letting her go, I dug my nails into my thighs. “You did that very well.”

Her expression was sly; knowing. Did Marina understand how much I wanted to press her beautiful cheek into the couch and lick her from throat to cunt? No. Surely she'd be blushing more, if she did.

“Thanks,” she said. Balancing the Ruger, she stared down the sight. “It was my first time.”

“You're kidding.” Laughing uneasily, I rubbed my neck. “Maybe you're a natural.”

Marina lowered the tip of the gun. “You think so?”

“Sure. How else could you be so good?”

“Then take me out and let me shoot it.”

Sliding my foot back to me, and away from her, I blinked. “What, right now?”

Color danced in her eyes and energy flowed from her grin. The idea of firing my gun had Marina bouncing, barely containing herself. Holy shit, she was infectious. “It's not that late. Somewhere has to be open.”

I was burnt out from not sleeping, on edge from being so close to a woman whose existence screamed 'fuck me until I scream.' I wanted nothing more than to kiss her, or to kill something.

It's not great, having two extreme feelings warring inside of you. I didn't want to know what my heart rate was.

Snatching the Ruger, I loaded the clip, clicked the safety on, and grabbed my keys from the counter so fast they dug into my palm.

“Come on,” I said, already moving. “Where we're going is a bit of a drive.”

****

N
ew York is pretty spacious, once you get out of the city.

The night air was clean and crisp, tickling my hair with the windows down. In the trunk was a bag full of items—including my gun.

And next to me was the rest of the package needed for the evening.

Marina had dressed in a black jacket, stark beside my grey one. Her wild hair was knotted back, the tail fluttering in the strong currents.

The chill weather had put apples in her cheeks, but what we were about to do had turned her whole body into a furnace of excitement.

Honestly, I was excited too.

It had been eight months since I'd last shot my gun.

Upstate was mostly forest. I knew the area, I'd grown up here. Jacob and I both had. If you went down the right—or the wrong—roads, it was quiet and empty. People left you alone.

No one gave a shit what happened up here.

This was often a problem when I was a kid... but now, it was to my advantage.

Pulling my car down a dirt path, I parked it beside a large cement building. It was run down, thorny bushes trying to eat the walls.

Stepping out of the car, gravel crunched under my heel, and so did busted beer bottles.

“Where are we?” Marina asked, staring at me over the top of the car.

Popping the trunk, I snatched out my bag. “It's where I practice with Jacob.”

“Practice?” Her nose tucked upwards. “You mean you guys trained your hitmen skills... here?”

Grinning, I turned on my flashlight. “I know, it's not exactly a secret lair.” Sliding my gun free, I held it at my hip. Climbing the steps, I leaned on the door and peered inside. It was possible homeless people or gangs had set up here. A cursory shining of my light revealed no one.

I felt her hovering behind me. Leading the way into the building, I hooked my gun in my belt and reached inside my bag.

“What's that?” Marina asked, her face doused in sharp shadows from my flashlight.

Carrying the heavy, box-shaped item to the far wall, I fiddled with the wires there. “A battery.” Seconds later, the white bulbs flickered to life on the ceiling.

The illuminated room was a wreck; chunks of glass and condom wrappers glinting with their tell-tale metallic packaging.

It was a single long room, graffiti decorating it haphazardly. On the far wall, the holes from old bullets made a destructive pattern. “You guys really practiced in here?” Marina blinked, eyeing me doubtfully.

“Sure.” Kicking aside some rubble, I brought the duffel bag to the center of the room. There was a switch on the floor; my heel nudged it, a clothesline that weaved through the ceiling rumbling my way. On it, there were two metal clasps. “For target practice, this does the job.”

“It just seems a little... useless,” she mumbled.

“What?” I asked, pausing as I strung up a paper target.

She shrugged into her ears, gazing over the room suspiciously. “You're practicing to hit a target that isn't even moving. Isn't that optimistic?”

Ah. Now I understood. “The idea,” I said, placing a box of ammo at my feet, “Is that your target shouldn't think they have a
reason
to run.” Flipping my gun in my hand, I offered it to her with the safety on. “If you get to the point that you have to chase someone down and try to shoot them, you've already fucked up.”

Her eyes were fixed on the Ruger, no longer caring about what I said. “You're letting me shoot first?”

“I want to see what you can do.” Stepping to the side, I pushed the switch and sent the paper drawing of a man's head and torso gliding back down the ropes. It stopped around three yards away. “Step up, I'll walk you through the process.”

Though I could see her breath puffing in the February night air, Marina slid her jacket off. Beneath, she was wearing the same deep-cut, blue shirt from earlier.