by Tara Brown
He ran his finger over my leg once more and then pulled his hand away. “You just blew the whole mission.”
It was hard not to tell him that wasn’t the only thing I almost blew. Fuck.
I was panting and feeling like an idiot when I pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked. I turned to face him. He sat up and scowled. “We need to get there.” His tone was mocking.
I tried to get my breathing and heartbeat under control. I wanted to kill him. He was toying with me.
Rather than useful emotions, burning tears crept into my eyes. A ton of rejection had been brewing inside me. I hadn’t let it out yet or let myself feel the fury and the shame of my husband never actually wanting me. The playful head games of the boy in front of me were what would break me. Not the ten-year marriage. Not the friendship I thought I had with Mel. No, it would be a boy rubbing my underwear.
Refusing for it to be the straw that broke the camel's back, I took a deep breath and pulled the car back onto the road. “I will kill him how the fuck I am told to. I will do whatever the fuck Servario asks me to do. You will keep your hands to yourself. I’m not a teenage sorority girl. I’m not playing your games.” I eyed him severely like his mother would and shouted, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, COOP?”
He licked his lips and nodded. “You’re hot when you're pissed. This is a good look for you. Try to maintain this the whole time, okay?”
My nostrils flared as I focused back at the road. I would have to kill him when I finished with the fat man. That was a given.
I parked in the parking lot and grabbed my small purse. I had brought nothing else.
As I was about to close the door, Coop smiled at me. “The code for evac is Floor 17, Room 723. Dial 911 and tell that to Jack. I’ll meet you out in front of the hotel and we run for it.”
I snarled and slammed the door.
The parking lot was dark. I couldn't help but wonder how alone I really was. I entered the airport and immediately started to scan around. Would they come for me? Would they give me plane tickets? They had frozen my accounts so buying tickets would be hard, unless I used the Visa from the envelope. I had that in my wristlet but if I used it, how would it look? I grumbled, still surveying the area. My paychecks from the government hadn’t exactly kicked in yet. I understood well enough how missions worked. I never paid for anything with my own money or my own credit. We only used untraceable currency, cash. Of course, the problem with not being a real agent anymore was that I didn’t have any cash.
A woman in a beige dress suit walked up to me. She had sandy-colored hair and bright-red lips. She was about my age, if not older. She was tall and thin with stilettos. I wondered if her back hurt in them.
“Evie, it's so wonderful to see you.” She beamed.
I frowned and then smiled back. “Of course it is. How are you?”
She embraced me and slipped something into my pocket. “Say hello to James and the kids for me,” she murmured and strutted off. Her words stung but she smelled nice, expensive French perfume. I tried to focus on that more than anything.
“Okay, I will,” I called after her and slipped over to the ladies’ room, not checking my pocket until I was in a stall with the door closed.
The thing in my pocket was a ticket, some ID, and a piece of paper with a gate number. I crumpled the paper and flushed it.
I gave myself a once-over at the sink, realizing I wasn’t convincing as a hooker. Sadly, I was definitely more mom than prostitute.
Leaving the bathroom, I noticed Coop. He was across the way, watching me from a pay phone stall for a hotel. Ignoring him, I hurried to the security check.
I held my ticket out and passed through security and the domestic gates until I got to the door I was meant to enter.
“Let me get that for you,” a man's voice spoke suddenly.
I turned to see Servario's guard from the hallway in the hotel.
“Thank you,” I muttered and walked down the hall with him.
“You seemed a bit lost,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I was.”
“The plane is just ahead.” He pointed and walked a bit faster than I did. He was meaty, they always were. It was such a cliché. Dark hair, olive skin, beefy bodies. They never just got a skinny, pasty guy named Steve to do their dirty work. It was always the one guy I would pick out of a crowd as a possible mercenary.
“What's your name?” I asked, mostly to see if he really was a mercenary.
He glimpsed back at me, flashing his dark eyes and thick lashes. He even had a scar on his left cheek. “Steve.”
I laughed.
He frowned. “What?”
“Nothing. Where you from, Steve?”
“Wisconsin. Where you from, Evie?”
I laughed again and pulled the ticket and ID out. “Today I’m from Seattle. Are you ex-military?” I asked, certain that had to be it. He reached over and grabbed the fake ticket and ID from my hand.
“No. I worked as an English teacher in Taiwan before I got this job.”
My jaw dropped. “You did not. You're from somewhere like Belarus and you’re named Serge, and you worked as a mercenary. Stop the lying.”
“I don’t know what that means. I met Servario in Macau. I lost a ton of money to him at the poker table. He offered me a job instead of killing me. I was on the wrestling team and shit, so I took the job. Better money than teaching little brats English.” He seemed confused.
I pointed. “What about the scar on your cheek? Bullet graze from saving Servario’s life in Monaco?”
“What?” His jaw dropped. “No, dog attack when I was eight. Thanks for bringing it up.”
It was unbelievable. Steve, the teacher from Wisconsin who was scarred from a childhood horror? Wow.
“Does your mom know what you do?”
“What do I do?” He gave me a confused frown. “I travel and keep Servario safe. He had me trained with VIP Special Forces in France. I haven’t actually had to do anything.”
He was chatty for a gorilla. I kind of liked him.
“Do you knit too?” I mocked.
He gave me a sideways glance. “Just ‘cause I haven’t had to do shit, doesn’t mean I won't. Are you going to be trouble, Evie?”
“Oh yeah, Steve. Tons.”
“You do sort of remind me of my eighth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sanderson. All sweet and kind. You probably have fresh-baked cookies at home.” He grinned.
“I do but please don't call me old, Steve. I'm having a rough week with that one. I’ve counted at least twenty ma’ams in one week.”
“I'd say you're just having a rough couple of months. But don’t worry, it was a compliment, ‘cause Mrs. Sanderson was hot and she was young.”
“God bless you.” I laughed as he opened and held the door for me at the end of the long corridor. I passed by him and took in the jet in front of us. “Wow.” It was beautiful. Long and white and sleek.
A lady in uniform stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at me as a normal attendant would. She probably wasn’t normal.
I walked to her, offering the same pleasant expression she gave me.
“Welcome aboard.” She was pretty—fake but pretty.
“Thanks,” I said and climbed the stairs. The jet made it real. Steve climbed aboard after me and pointed to the back. “Go get comfy.”
I looked around, wanting to whistle. The jet had its own pods in a row at the back and a few rows of regular seats. It was the opposite of a normal plane. I went to a pod and sat. I fastened my seat belt and folded the bed back.
There was a laptop desk in the front of the pod and a flat screen. It was all pretty fancy.
I curled into the duvet that was there and laid my head on the pillow, giving in to the fact I was beat, but unsure if I would be able to sleep. Flying on a private plane wouldn't be relaxing.
As I closed my eyes the sounds around me made me nervous so I opened them to see Servario sitting across from me, grinning.
>
I jumped and sat up quickly. “Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”
“It's my plane.”
“Right. I just don’t get why you’d give me the piece of paper and the room key if you were going to be on the plane.”
“Seemed like more fun that way.” He winked. “I needed you to get acquainted with the idea. You've never killed anyone before.”
“You do seem to know a lot about me.” I lay back on the bed. “Did you custom build this rig? Why are the good seats at the back?”
He didn’t look up from his laptop. “Best chances of survival are in the back of the plane. The rich in first class always die when it crashes.”
I hated talking about crashing, right before flying.
“Where are your kids, Evie?” he spoke, keeping his eyes trained on his screen.
“Couldn't tell you if I wanted to. I don’t know. I told my mom to drive and not come back until I tell her it’s safe.”
He sighed. “That was smart. How will you reach them since her cell phone is still at the house and the kids don’t have anything plugged in to the internet?”
I hated that he had checked that. I hated that he was aware my kids existed at all. “I gave her a pay-as-you-go cell phone. I’m the only one with the number. I'll call when it's safe.” The lies came fast.
“Interesting.”
“What is?”
He glanced at me with a grin on his lips. “That you think it will be safe one day.”
“I don’t know that. I just won't have them live a half life here with me.” My stomach was residing in my bowels.
He nodded. “You're a very good mother.”
I hated that he was nice to me. He nodded at the flight attendant. She came right over and smiled at me. “I'm Roxy. Can I get you a drink?” Of course she was a Roxy—foxy Roxy.
“Red wine?” I asked.
She batted her long lashes and listed the wines, “Cab, merlot, pinot, blends, countries—we have it all. You have a favorite?”
I opened my mouth but Servario spoke before I could, “She likes something called Apothic but only the original blend from the first year. You'll find some back there. I'll have a glass of the same.”
My cheeks flushed. “You drink Apothic?” I ignored the fact he knew what I drank.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I drink whatever. I'm not picky when it comes to red wine. I like most. Vodka and tequila though, very picky.”
I sat my bed back up into a seat and snuggled into it as Roxy delivered our glasses of wine and smiled when she told us about dinner, “We are starting with French onion soup, followed by a side of Lyonnaise, and for the main we are having steak béarnaise with sweet potato straws, and finishing with chocolate mousse for dessert.”
He nodded as if she had just told us which sandwiches were available from the vending machine. “Sounds good.”
“Soup before takeoff?” she asked.
He gave her a thumbs up without taking his eyes off his computer or thanking her for the wine.
I smiled at her. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled before she sauntered away.
My mouth watered when the scent of the soup wafted through the jet.
“Have you eaten much lately?” he asked, still staring at his computer.
“No. Mostly alcohol and coffee. I had something yesterday. I don’t recall what it was.”
He lifted his gaze. “You're skinny and need to build back your muscles. You were in much better shape when I saw you working last.”
“What?” I scowled and sipped the wine. “You watched me then? When I was CI?”
He didn’t meet my stare, but his lip lifted into a half grin. He ignored my question, “It's an easier life as a housewife. I suppose that was why you quit.”
My jaw dropped, but I saw the grin grow across his face. “That's not even funny.”
He laughed honestly, flashing his dimples. “Being a mother seems to be wretched work. You should have kept your real job. You were good at it. We worried about you and your abilities the entire time you worked. Everyone assumed that one day you’d be a great spy like your father. For what I was paying your husband, you could have easily afforded a nanny and a maid.”
"Please." I scoffed and forced myself not to think about my dad or how great I might have been. “It wasn't that much money.”
He cocked an eyebrow and focused back on the computer. He typed for a moment and then turned the screen to me. “This is your husband’s payroll bank account with me.”
When I saw the seventh number in the balance column, I shut my eyes tight for a moment. When I opened them again, I focused harder on the number. “What the fuck is that?” I whispered. My voice wouldn’t work.
“Watch your language,” he said and turned the screen back to himself. “That is the account I paid your husband with. You understand what payroll is, right?”
I was sick—sick with rage and betrayal. I was always scrimping and saving like a madwoman to stay at home with my kids while keeping them in all their activities and sports.
“You can get angry about it later. Right now, the soup is here and Roxy makes the very best food.” He reached over and flipped down my tray for me.
I was frozen, staring at the computer and begging my brain to comprehend it all.
“Please eat, Evie.” She smiled as she placed the bowl in front of me.
I twitched. “How could he lie like that?” Tears threatened.
“I promise to talk after we eat.” Servario lifted my spoon for me.
My body reacted to the smell and sight and went on autopilot. I nestled into the chair to better focus my energy around the soup and not the vibrating anger threatening me. The soup smelled divine. The crouton top was covered in crusty cheese.
I dug my spoon in, noting the onions were cooked to perfection. They instantly broke up, instead of staying long and stringy. The first sip was unbelievable. “She's an amazing chef,” I muttered softly, bitterly while wondering when the James surprises would stop coming.
He chuckled. “She is that. It's why I keep her around.”
I rolled my eyes and took another bite. “Yeah, has nothing to do with her tight ass, perfect face, or fabulous body.”
He glanced at me sideways. “I told you to watch your mouth. I understand you’re angry, but you can’t direct it at me. Roxy didn’t do anything.”
He was right. Being rude about Roxy was petty.
But no matter how hard I pushed it all away, I couldn’t get past the money. “You know he tried to guilt me for not going back to work. He said we’d struggle until I did find a regular wife job, like bank teller. He made it seem as if every week was another hard sacrifice for him. Like my housekeeping, cooking, baking, and parenting were just a hobby. Sometimes, I drove them to twelve different sports and activities in a week, between both of them. I was a chauffeur and slave to all three of them. He forced me to quit my yearly membership to hot yoga. I had to buy the punch cards and not go as often.”
"Evie."
"No." I dropped the spoon and covered my eyes. “I’m an idiot. I fell for it all. I swore they were just friends. You know, at our wedding they were dancing and she was crying. I thought she was so happy for us. Then later, when I couldn’t find them—either of them—James said his brother was drunk off his ass and he’d had to help him to bed. He said Mel left because she was the designated driver for people. He gave me a hard time for not saying goodbye to her.” I was fighting the tears and losing the battle.
Servario was clearly horrified.
I picked up my spoon and started eating again. “Well, I'm done being sorry he fake died. I'm done being the widow of the great fucking James Evans. I hate my name.” I laughed like a madwoman. “I hate my name. I was Evie Anderson before I got married. Evie Evans sounds stupid. My name is Evangeline Erica Evans. Three E's. I liked being an Anderson. I liked being in the military and CI. I was happy with my life, just the way
it was. I didn’t want to have a baby with an asshole. He wasn’t the only one who got something he didn’t plan for. But you know the difference? The difference is that when it happened, I was all in. I didn’t just show up, I was there for it all. My son will never find out he wasn’t planned and wanted by both of us. Even if James is alive.”
Frustrated and destroyed inside, I closed my eyes again and took deep breaths. I had spent half an hour on my makeup and James wasn’t ruining that too.
With a sigh I opened my glassy eyes and pointed my spoon at the poor, helpless arms dealer in front of me. “I am going to kill that fat man and I am going to finish this shit. Then you are going to give that money to me and I am going on the vacation we haven't been able to afford the last ten years because I wasn’t working.” I gave a crazed-sounding cackle and took a spoonful of my soup again.
I mumbled madly about the sacrifices he made to keep us living in the custom we were used to. The sports and the activities that cut so deeply into our funding. Now I was on a jet with a bad man, eating the most delicious soup I had ever eaten and lying to clean up his mess. His mess that got him fake killed so I could be a single parent.
Again, I pointed my crazy spoon. “You freeze that account, Servario. You make it so he can’t get a dime. That’s going to my kids.”
I would be a rich single parent who’d never have to worry about money again or stress that she didn’t have enough to pay all the bills. A single parent with no husband to cheat and shame her to everyone in the world. A single mother who got to have all the say. No more arguing because of differing parenting styles.
Suddenly satisfied and a little over the top, I sipped my wine and processed it. “This is actually quite good. We will kill the fat man and I’ll move on.”
“You're a rather scary little thing,” he whispered as Roxy came back and took our soup bowls.
“We will be taxiing shortly,” she spoke softly and filled our glasses.
“Thank you,” I said again. She gave me a quizzical look. I glanced at him. “You never thank her. That’s really rude. And I'm not scary. I'm a regular woman.”
