by Rien Gray
“It’s fine.”
“Is this some sort of weird vengeance thing? Fortin tries to screw you out of a payment, so you screw his wife?”
I’ve never been angry with Sofia before, but suddenly I’m furious. Justine wasn’t a conquest. I wanted her from a glance, but I wouldn’t have pursued her if I hadn’t seen the same hunger in her eyes. I sure as hell wouldn’t have touched Justine if she didn’t know I was a killer.
By long practice, I dial the rage back down. It’s not a productive emotion, and lashing out at Sofia won’t change the circumstances. “So that’s confirmed? The money he paid me with doesn’t belong to him.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t try to divert the subject again. “It was an account he had access to. Belongs to a Michael Schafer. But no, it’s definitely not his. He must have found the numbers somewhere.”
Then I have no reason to feel conflicted about ending Richard Fortin’s life. Not that I felt particularly conflicted in the first place. “Refund the cash, hide the evidence. Then tell me about the other contract.”
Sofia sighs. When she speaks again, a professional veneer spreads over every word. She’s irritated but won’t push me. “Political. Immunity and the like. You know the deal.”
“I don’t destabilize governments on anyone’s dime.” Not since I left the military anyway. “So what’s this about?”
“It’s a personal hit. The immunity is on the client’s end, not the target’s.”
Oh. Someone has made a mess. “You sure? It’s easy for classified operations to drum up a victim when they need it.”
“I learned how to spot an undercover before I needed a training bra, Campbell.” Sofia huffs, and I smile; we’re back to casual again. “I also have pictures, and they’re awful. You’re welcome.”
There are days when I wonder if I’m in the right line of work. This isn’t one of them. Being able to strike people like that out of the world is a certain kind of privilege. “All right. But I have business to finish here first.”
“I get that.” Silence stretches across the line, tight as piano wire. “You know this isn’t a jealousy thing, right? I’m trying to keep you safe.”
She’s serious, so I hold back the instinct to tease. “Sofia. You don’t date, and I don’t think you’re interested in sex.”
Sofia snorts, short and dismissive. “Not in the slightest.”
“So I know this isn’t about jealousy. I just need you to trust that I have things handled.”
Justine doesn’t know enough about me to be dangerous; I’ll make sure it stays that way, no matter what else happens between us.
“I do trust you, Campbell.” That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say such a thing out loud. Hard to know if it’s entirely true; a nice thought, regardless. “But there’s a lot going on in your proximity right now. It’d be easy for something to slip through.”
I must have given away more during that call in the car than I thought. What a rookie mistake—Sofia needs me as solid as I need her sharp. “In two weeks, I’ll be gone. New client, new car, new plan. Do you really think anyone’s going to remember me?”
She hums in consideration. “That depends. How long before you’re back in Chicago?”
“I don’t have a mistress, Sofia. She’s a convenient intersection of circumstances.” That’s too harsh. I really do like Justine, but taking it back now is just going to provoke more questions.
“Is that the plural there? Clever.” I can feel the eyeroll, even if I can’t see it. “I’ll let you get back to work. Let me know when you’re done.”
I always do. “Good night.”
She hangs up, and I’m left with a screen full of plans again. Silence pervades the room, but if I focus enough, I can hear Justine, moaning and clutching at my hair while my mouth explored every inch of her pussy. She was so wet, deliciously sensitive. Each time Justine orgasmed, I felt it like it was my own, a pure rush of satisfaction.
Shame that things were cut short, but I had to. Her question sliced too deep, even if Justine didn’t have the first clue why. I hated feeling guilty, but it was inescapable. I wasn’t going to explain either. Chasing her pleasure was a lot more enjoyable than facing my own demons. I already crossed a line taking Justine to bed; telling her about my past would be like putting a gun to my own heart and pulling the trigger.
Besides, it would kill my mystique.
I’m not clueless. The fact that I’m dangerous is half of why she wants me, which I’m content to take in stride. It got her off, and I got most of what I was looking for. The closer I am to a fantasy, the less likely Justine is to get attached. I’ll be the monster that climbed out from under the bed and fucked her senseless.
My laptop screen dims from disuse. I slowly roll my neck, twisting the tension back out of it, then get out of the chair.
With the messy sheets in the corner of my eye, focusing isn’t going to happen. I’ll do some fieldwork, let the hotel service clean things up while I’m gone. A shower is the sensible thing to do anyway.
So I wash up, change, and put my laptop in the safe in case anyone sweeping around gets too curious. The lock on my weapons will take care of itself. After checking the outside temperature on my phone, I throw on a jacket and head out.
By now, I have the route to campus memorized. This late, it’s mostly TAs and burgeoning barflies looking for a place to pre-game. No one takes a second glance at me as I head toward Richard’s office, idly sweeping the path for security. A guard walks by on the hour, swapping to every thirty minutes after ten p.m., but his loop doesn’t seem to cover this particular window. I make a note, just in case.
According to the schedule, Richard should be inside, and I can’t guarantee my luck from last time. So I head to the bottom of the knoll to where the window to his office is set just above ground level. It’s small and dust-choked, but there’s movement behind it—and a lot more than I expected.
He’s not alone. The girl from the coffee shop—Alice—is in his lap, skirt hiked up around her hips. They’re making out like teenagers, except Richard is pushing on forty, and she’s half his age at best. Anyone who knows about this window could walk by and see them, but in his own domain, Richard must be convinced he’s immortal.
Well, I have two answers to that. The first is I’ll have to rearrange my timeline to ensure he’s actually alone so I can sever the threads of life holding him together; second, I’m going to rattle his gilded little cage.
My leather gloves sit heavy in my coat pockets, so I pull them on and scout the grass for a suitable rock. I find one almost the size of a ping pong ball and test its weight with a light toss against my palm. Heavy enough to clatter, possibly enough to break the glass. What matters is it can’t actually kill anyone; I don’t need that right now.
Time to find out how promptly the distant security guard responds.
I chuck the stone low and hard toward the window. It hits with a snap, cracking halfway through a spiderweb of glass before getting stuck. Alice jerks away from Richard, letting out a startled scream, and I step back from the window before either of them can catch a glimpse of my shoes. Surprise tends to splash memory every which way, but some lucky souls end up with a picture-perfect image of that exact moment, and I prefer not to play the odds unless I have to.
A nice interplay of shadow around the corner of the next building offers a place to relax while I listen to the chaos playing out in Richard’s office. He sounds angry, even if I can’t quite make out the words, and one door slamming leads to another opening, just a few feet over. It’s fine; they won’t come back this way.
“Someone could have seen us, Professor!” Alice’s panicked whisper peaks high in her throat.
“There’s no chance of that. You can’t even look into my office from that window unless you’re stomach-down in the dirt.” Despite the confident words, he’s breathless. “And I told you to call me Rick.”
Rick. Really? Even his wife doesn’t call him
that. I bet it makes him feel seventeen all over again.
She draws in a breath, and it’s a little choked, like she’s on the edge of tears. I didn’t mean to scare her that much, but if it means Alice will stay out of Richard’s office for the foreseeable future, so much the better. He’s already crossed enough lines with her. “Rick, I just…”
“Did you see anyone?” Richard asks, but it’s light and rhetorical. “Come on, Alice. It’s fine. You’re getting worked up over nothing.”
“Maybe, but it’s already kind of late. I should get back to my dorm.”
He grunts, annoyed and not bothering to hide it. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
Alice says goodbye, and as she walks away, Richard snarls under his breath, “I’m going to kill whatever freshman asshole thought that trick was cute.”
Oh, Richard. Good luck with that one.
Chapter Eleven
JUSTINE
It’s been too long since I had a blank canvas staring me in the face, its emptiness a mocking temptation. I don’t miss that feeling, but I have missed painting enough to buy a clean slate and break out the rest of my supplies. They’re covered with dust and some of the paints too dry to use, but I have enough to get somewhere, if only I can decide on a path.
Spinning a pencil between my fingertips, I sigh. Sketching can be one of the hardest parts, chasing fleeting inspiration into some sort of outline. I have inspiration in spades, but that’s half the problem.
I want to paint Campbell.
Of course, I shouldn’t. Immortalizing Campbell in paint draws a connection between the two of us that wouldn’t be hard to translate, especially when the police come knocking. Which should be fairly soon if Campbell’s timeline is right.
A week has passed since I was in Campbell’s hotel room with my legs over their shoulders, focused on nothing but the most pleasure I’ve had in years. Even with how it ended, I haven’t been able to think about anything else. They’re on my mind when I wake up, and thinking of them touching me puts me right into a peaceful sleep night after night.
Richard is still alive, so Campbell must be working. The first few days, I was so dizzy with anticipation Dalia asked if I was coming down with something. Now it’s settled into a subtle buzzing beneath my skin, energy desperate to work its way out.
So I bought a canvas, and now I don’t know what to do with it.
There’s no real harm in a sketch, I suppose. I can erase it all, or paint anything over the pale gray lines when I’m done. The moment I think it, my hand starts to move, drawing out the frame of a face. At this stage, there’s no definition, just lines and circles that could mean anything, especially from a distance.
I detail their jaw, a little. It’s distinct, but before I can get carried away, my pencil moves to the structure of neck and shoulders, building a frame. A few swift curves mark out Campbell’s arms, the bridge of lines that will eventually become hands. My canvas stops at their hips, high enough to see the line of a suit jacket, perhaps the buckle of a belt, but no lower.
Exchanging pencil for eraser, I develop Campbell’s posture. One hand descends into my hasty draft of their jacket, the other at the ready. Their eyes avert, looking off to the left—toward a target. My pulse quickens, and it makes my next few lines messier than they should be.
The background I leave blank for now. I prefer to fill that in with paint alone, adding in whatever seems most fitting once the figure is in place. Turning to my paints, I sort through the grays. I only have a few, but if the color of Campbell’s eyes isn’t hiding in this selection, I can mix something together until it comes out right.
Three different swatches and I’m not quite satisfied. Halfway through adding a splash of blue, my phone buzzes with a text. Distracted, I swipe the screen open, only to freeze when I catch the message out of the corner of my eye.
It’s a phone number, one I’m unfamiliar with, and the sender is simply listed as Unknown.
Campbell. Who else could it be? I’m not sure what they want, but if it’s important enough to message me in the middle of the day, I should probably call. I press the number on the screen and put the phone to my ear as the line connects.
“Hello?”
“Are you alone?” Their voice carries smooth and clean through the speaker, and I can’t help a shiver.
“Of course.” For some reason, the question flusters me even more. “I wouldn’t have called you if I wasn’t.”
“You learn fast.” Campbell pauses, just a beat. “It’s happening tomorrow.”
Their words sink in slowly. The last two weeks blur together in a blossom of chaos—finding Campbell, meeting them at dinner, the money, the sex. Their hands around my throat, their mouth between my thighs, that single, fragile moment I was utterly convinced Campbell wanted me as much as I wanted them.
And now, they’re going to kill Richard.
“Good.” The word leaves me in a rush, heart hammering in my chest. “Thank you.”
They hum, amused. “You’re welcome. I’m being well compensated.”
Of course they are, but something is different about this call. “Is there a reason you wanted to warn me?”
“Because you’re going to work that day, and you’re going to stay late. You won’t come home until he’s hours cold, and then you’ll call Richard’s phone to ask where he is. You’ll be so, so worried, won’t you?”
The cadence of Campbell’s voice is hypnotic. I can picture the future perfectly, composing an excuse to Dalia about why I really do need to catch up on our backlog. “Of course I will.”
“Good,” they echo. “That’s all I need.”
Is it? Does it have to be? More than anything, I want to know what Campbell really needs. “So it’s tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Even over the line, they’re sizing me up. “Why?”
Maybe I’m about to make a fool out of myself, but after everything I’ve risked already, it’s hard to care. “What are you doing for the rest of the night, then?”
The silence is longer this time. Ten seconds, maybe twenty.
“You want me, don’t you?” Campbell asks, and a bolt of heat twists all the way down between my thighs.
They know the answer; I might as well confess. “Yes.”
My attention drifts to the canvas, Campbell’s specter right beside me in pencil. The color of their eyes is drying on my sample sheet, but it’s a shadow of the real thing. There’s no life there, no desire trying to break through fraying threads of restraint.
“You have an hour to get here. Take public transit, not your car. You come to my door, and you don’t talk to anyone on the way.”
With every command, I burn brighter. It’s a challenge, making me more huntress than prey. If I can get there in time, I’ll have exactly what I want. Campbell keeps giving that to me, time and again.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, and hang up.
It takes more time than I’d like to conceal the canvas and put away my supplies, but I don’t want Richard to have the first clue that it exists. I change, touch up my lipstick, and leave with half an hour to spare, making a beeline to the train station.
I don’t usually take the train, but something is funny about being so anonymous as the doors close, and I take the first empty seat I see. An assassin is waiting for me, yet no one has the first clue. I’m just some woman in a blue dress, checking the clock on my phone with every passing stop.
With three minutes to spare, I reach the door of their hotel. For a second, I’m not sure whether to knock or text, but it doesn’t matter when the hinges swing open. A hand darts out of the dark and pulls me across the threshold before I can think to resist.
The door closes with a dull thud behind me, the lock flipped with a deft twist of fingers. That click of metal on metal seals my fate, and Campbell’s mouth is on mine, hard and demanding.
Even with the lights off, I know it’s them. The hands on my shoulders were the ones on my hips a wee
k ago, the kiss just as searing. I feel out the line of Campbell’s clothes: a dress shirt open at the collar; the subtle buckle of their belt; pressed trousers—and a firm bulge between Campbell’s legs.
Oh.
Their grip tightens on me. “In the mood to be a tease, Justine?”
Of course that’s the first thing Campbell says. Not hello or how are you, but a frame for who I want to be. They’re the fire and flood sweeping through my life, ready to take it down to the foundation so I can start over again. So I tell them exactly what I want.
“I’m going to take care of this.” I squeeze around the full shape of them, trapped behind a zipper. “Any objections?”
“No.” Campbell is close enough for me to sense their smile. “I thought you might be interested.”
Two can play at being cocky. I push at their hips to give myself more room, then drop to my knees. My fingers make quick work of Campbell’s belt, easing their fly open and seeking out the prize trapped underneath. The faint grunt when I guide their length out into open air already makes this worth it.
“How long were you going to hide this from me?” I ask, wrapping my fingers around the base of Campbell’s shaft.
“That sounds so sinister.” Campbell hums in amusement. “Maybe I didn’t think you’d earned it yet.”
Tease. I tighten my grip just a touch—god, they’re thick—and lean forward to take Campbell into my mouth. It’s been so long since I did this, much less enjoyed it, but the moment their hips tilt my way, seeking more, I can’t focus on anything else. How can I care if it’s flesh or silicone between my lips when Campbell’s fingers slip into my hair, betraying another facet of need?
Their breath catches as I work my way down, mouth warm and full of Campbell’s length until I surpass my fingers. The wood creaks from above, and my eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to see one clenched fist against the door, Campbell’s attention locked on me like I’m the only person in the world. I breathe in through my nose, tongue sweeping up the underside of their shaft, leaving every inch I can take slick.
