by Nora Flite
The fruit was heavy in my palm, the skin waxy. Taking a bite, I wiped the sweet liquid from my chin. “This is amazing, thank you!”
“It's nothing.” He showed me his back, digging in the fridge. It was one of those big-ass models you could splay with two arms. I was a little disappointed when he tugged just the right door open. Why have a giant fridge if you didn't get to show it off?
I had most of the apple eaten when he set a glass of water in front of me. “Kite was right,” I said, taking a drink. “You're a much better host.”
Leaning on the other side of the counter, Jacob seemed pleased. “I like to entertain.”
Now there was a thought: The Contract Killer Fine Dining and Design Show. I'd watch it, I mused. He'd get at least two seasons, just because of his unfairly handsome face. Eyeing him sideways, judging the shape of his torso in the places his dress shirt strained across, I figured his body had to be decent, too. Especially if he takes the stairs as much as Kite wanted to. I had to hide my smile with my water.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, and even though he spoke so softly, his voice stampeded through my brain.
Standing taller, I lifted the apple core. “Wondering where to chuck this,” I said.
Jacob's pretty eyes—I'd never seen such a shade of blue—didn't waver. “Marina, you don't need to lie to me.”
Tiny ripples clawed up my spine. I keep forgetting who I'm dealing with. “Why do you think I'm lying?”
His lips formed an immaculate straight line. “You were smiling too much to be thinking about the trash.”
“You shouldn't stare,” I said, dangling the apple. “Guess you're not so polite.”
“Believe me.” As I felt the itch of warning—that deathly energy—Jacob's face never changed. That made it worse. “I'm being very polite with you. Would you like me to stop?”
There is something so paralyzing about a quiet danger. While Kite had been a million screaming crows and saw-blades, Jacob was a crocodile under the surface of a lake. Even when he'd had a gun aimed at me last night, I'd sensed nothing but his muted patience.
I know I said I didn't give a shit about self-preservation. That revenge was everything. But when Jacob let his tiny threat, so stupidly subtle and unexpected, ooze from his smiling lips... I was stunned. The chewed apple fell from my fingers towards the floor.
Jacob's fist closed around it, catching it in midair. I couldn't blink—I just gaped down at his hand where it hung inches from me, his body partially bent over the counter top. I was... very grateful there was something solid between us. Seeing him move, though, I understood it wouldn't be enough to stop him.
Fuck. A locked door might not be enough.
“You're fast.” The words escaped me in a rush of air.
“I am,” he agreed.
He smelled like aftershave and mint. We were near enough that if he'd had any stubble, I could have counted each hair. Instead, I just noticed the tiny lines and plum color under his eyes. “Did... did you have a rough night?” I stuttered.
Pulling away, he shot me a suspicious stare. Opening the trash with his foot, he dropped the eaten fruit inside. “Nice attention to details. Is that how you tracked Kite down?”
I lifted a hand, flexed it. “His tattoos. I asked around until someone recognized who they belonged to.”
Chuckling, Jacob shook his head. “Of course. He should have worn gloves that day.”
“He shouldn't have gotten distinctive tattoos at all,” I said. Being able to change the topic had let me recover my fortitude. “I mean, it makes people easier to identify.”
Jacob fiddled with the edges of his sleeves, peeling them upwards. “Hindsight. He got them before we became hitmen.” The thickness of his forearms was exposed, the fancy watch and hard grooves of muscle. “Otherwise, I agree with you. A killer is safer if they have no identification burned into their skin.”
And now I'm thinking about his fucking body. Thanks, brain—I mean betrayer. How could I not, though? Even just a little bit? He was showing off and talking in his sinfully rich, salt of the Earth voice about tattoos and skin. Did he have no tattoos, or were they just hidden from the roaming eye?
My roaming eye, specifically.
He rinsed his apple-stained hand in the sink, then wiped it on a towel. Jacob glanced up, met my stare—and dammit, I turned away. Heat flooded my cheeks. “Uh, right. Can I ask what his tattoos mean? The whole 'swim' thing?”
“You can ask, but I shouldn't answer.” He sighed, and I forced myself to look at him again. Luckily, he was studying his nails. “Kite and I may have to work with you, Marina... but some things will always be secret.”
Jacob's face was in profile. I spotted the little indent in his chin, the swoop of his nose that said 'I have never once been broken.' Yes, he had as many secrets as Kite. But they could both keep them.
Secrets wouldn't get me my revenge.
“You said I paid attention to details,” I stated. “Let me ask you this. Do you think I have what it takes, even after some training, to kill the man I want dead?”
He was still as a pond. When he did move, it was just a tiny ripple; his arms extended, fingers curling. “Give me your hands.”
My blood went on a rampage through my eardrums. “Okay.” I said okay but this did not feel okay. Did Jacob have some fucking switch he pressed between 'intriguing charmer' and 'silent murderer?'
When I set my fingers in his, it was a static shock to my heart. I shifted where I stood, rubbing my ankle with one toe. I impressed myself by how cool I kept my tone. “Now what?”
“Just feel,” he whispered.
I was struggling to feel anything over my own pulse. “What am I feeling for?”
His eyebrows crawled up, and so did the corner of his smirk. “Differences. Can you tell why my hands are different than yours?”
I noticed I was staring stupidly into his blue eyes. Just look at his hands, idiot. Right. Just look there. Except getting there meant I took a journey over Jacob-Land. The crevice down the side of his Adam's apple, the spread of his chest that the buttons wanted to snap open across, the strong forearms that had no doubt ended many lives violently.
That was what should have dissuaded me. What should have pushed my fluttering idiocy into the trash with the apple core. Killers should not be attractive. It was an obvious thing, for obviously normal people.
Well. I'm not normal.
Thinking about what Jacob was capable of had my stomach tingling. He was eyeing me curiously, both patient and eager. If I sliced open his forehead and saw his thoughts, what would they be? Shit, what would mine be?
He wants me to spot the differences, I reminded myself. Clenching my hands, I traced the indents over his palms. I noted how silky his skin was. I imagined him performing any act of brutality in thick gloves that kept him callus free. I trailed the life-line a psychic would comment on, explored the thickness of his thumbs.
His hands could be agile, deft, or deadly. So what was I feeling for? Why couldn't I figure out what the difference was between Jacob's hands and... “There is no difference,” I blurted, stunned. His smile was a real pleasure. “That's what you're trying to show me, right?”
“Correct,” he whispered. He dragged his nails over my wrists and left warmth blooming in my lower belly. “There is no difference between our hands.”
“So what does that mean?” I asked, arms still floating in the air.
Jacob tilted his head, and I wondered, as he bent close to me, if he'd taste as minty as he smelled. “It means anyone can become a killer, Marina. That's the beauty of going undetected. If anyone can murder, anyone can get away with it. That means you, too.”
And though I thought to myself, I don't care if I get away with it, I didn't utter a word. Jacob said some things would always be secret. He was right.
He was also a towering being of carved strength and hypnotizing eyes.
My hands still hovered, like they were lost without him holdi
ng them. My foggy head was full of ridiculous thoughts. Bizarre thoughts. I've seen Kite's bedroom, what does Jacob's look like?
A languid grin passed over him. There was tension in how he looked from my eyes, to my lips, and unless I was no where near as observant as he'd claimed, my breasts. Why was I so excited? If it was because he was dangerous, then throw me in a cell when this was all said and done. I was insane.
But so what.
Was it that bad to want to grab hold of a man who had held me at gunpoint, if he made my thighs squeeze and my heart swell? It is, said my brain. Shut the fuck up, said my did-you-know-I-was-still-here-pussy.
Jacob parted his lips. I saw the hint of his teeth. “Marina,” he said, my name a question on his tongue.
What could I answer with?
I leaned forward over the counter. My nostrils flared with his scent. If endorphins were needles, they threaded through my body and sewed away my logic. I wanted to kiss a killer.
The knock on the door popped the bubble.
Jacob wrenched away, but he did it with such grace I had to question what I'd seen. Was he scowling? God, I was dizzy. “Coming,” he called loudly.
Before he got there, Kite pushed his way inside. He had a tray in his hands, three paper cups. “Hey,” he said, glancing over us both.
All my blood vessels were screaming. I faked a smile, then ducked my head and gulped my water. “Hey! Uh, how was the trip?” I mumbled.
Carrying the tray over, he offered it to Jacob, who took a cup. “It was fine. Mom over here gave me a list and I completed it.”
Jacob rolled his eyes, sipping from the container. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Not a problem,” Kite chuckled. Approaching me, he set the tray down and pointed at it. “Here, help yourself.”
I was already waving it away. “No no, I don't drink—”
“Coffee. I know.” He turned the cup, showing my name scribbled on the side by some random barista. “It's hot chocolate.”
Taking the hot drink, I sniffed the opening. He remembered? But I only mentioned it once, this morning. I scrutinized Kite, noting his pleased as punch smile. He probably thought he was being cute, but it was a reminder for me.
This man noticed everything I did.
Blowing on the opening, I took a small sip. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He scooped up the other coffee, facing Jacob as he did. “So, boss. What's the plan?”
Brushing past the other hitman, Jacob tossed the cardboard tray into his garbage. From my angle, I glimpsed my apple core. “Well,” he sighed. “I thought I'd do a little research. See what the internet spits back at me about Frank Montego and his past.”
Kite went to speak, but I cut him off. “Don't bother. I tried that already.” Both of their sets of eyes—one light pair, the other pure shadows—fixed on me. I didn't bend under their intensity. “A reminder, I was searching for information about Frank from the day I learned his name. Online, there's nothing about him. Nothing useful, anyway.”
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. I clenched my fists. “I'll do a cursory check. 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.
Is he worried about Jacob? I wondered. It was clear they were best friends, I'd figured that out. You didn't get to own a bar together or become fellow contract killers by just being acquaintances.
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.”
That's an awful joke, I sighed to myself.
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, Why did you really give me this? Or even, What makes you think I'd want to come back here again? But I said neither, because 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.”
- Chapter Ten -
Kite
I'd lied.
I was not a deadly cook. Well, unless deadly meant 'mediocre' and 'questionable textures.' The 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. “Oh, right. I forgot you mentioned that you called yourselves that. Why Jackals?”
I hooked my arm over the back of my chair. “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. “Wait. You came up with the name when you were a kid?”
“No,” I scoffed. “Of course not.” Yes. I'd actually created the name for the secret FBI group I pretended to belong to. 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 was 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 the life of a bachelor for so 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. And I thought killing Frank was anticlimactic. 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 na
pkin. 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 the recognition blossom. Yes, you witnessed me using this, I thought in secret delight. There was only one other person who'd seen me fire this gun and still walked among us.
If all went well, that would become true again.
Giving me her full attention, Marina's face lit up. “Are you going to let me shoot that?”
Okay. I admit, I laughed. “Of course not.” Her slumped shoulders screamed her distress. 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 in them wide-eyed and bloody. Marina was begging to follow my rules. I'd laid it out for her, and she hadn't argued; she'd 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. There were so many tiny things I factored in, that was just how my mind worked. It helped prevent mistakes. Mistakes landed 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. I don't know why but, 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.
