DEADLY DECEPTION
A Dark Romance Novel
By J.C. Valentine
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DEADLY DECEPTION: A Dark Romance Novel
by J.C. Valentine
Copyright © 2019 by J.C. Valentine
Cover design by J.C. Valentine
Edited by Mitzi Carroll
DEADLY DECEPTION is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in this eBook either are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or location is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offence to the content, as it is FICTION.
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademark status in this work of fiction. The publications and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Books by
J.C. VALENTINE
Night Calls
Stranded
That First Kiss
Surrender to Love
Trust
Wayward Fighters
Knockout
Tapout
unDefeated
Blue Collar
Sweetest Temptations
Noel: A Blue Collar Christmas
Forbidden
Dance for Me
Lie to You
Fall for Him
Forbidden Valentine
Spartan Riders
Grit
Mettle
Vigor
Brash
Cocky
For more titles, visit your favorite online retailer!
ABOUT THIS BOOK
A dissatisfied housewife. A gun for hire. He’s not looking to fall for his client…then again, he never had much choice.
Wife. Daughter. Murderer?
Faith
He was supposed to be my knight in shining armor. He was supposed to be my deliverance. But now he’s just in my way. I need him gone, but despite my best efforts, he’s still here and I’m out of ideas. It’s time to call in a professional. I just wasn’t expecting it to be him.
Declan
I’ve been in the business of killing for as long as I can remember. And business is booming. But I’m ready to leave this life behind, get a fresh start. After one last job. It should be easy, quick, in and out. But nothing is ever that simple, and I wasn’t banking on her. How am I supposed to pull this off when it means breaking my number one rule: never fall in love?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
You know me, I like to change things up a bit (and often!), just like my reading tastes. That’s how we’ve reached dark romance. Fair warning: This book is unlike others I’ve written, so go in with the only expectation being great writing and a journey that is thrilling and will keep you on your toes. Trust me when I say, this story isn’t ending the way you’re expecting, so I’ll be waiting to hear your screams—whether they are of astonishment, outrage, or a mixture of both remains to be seen ;) I will say that this book was a pleasure to write. I loved getting into the head of a killer and finding out what makes him tick, while exploring the forbidden (because what kind of romance would this be if there wasn’t a touch of that?) If you’re still reading, you must be ready to jump in and take another risk with me, and for that, I thank you from the bottom of my dark little heart.
(This next part I won’t change, because it still very much applies.)
I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my family and friends. Mom, Mitzi, Mia, Holly, Cheryl: you have been the anchors in my life. You’ve kept me strong, even through (numerous) moments of self-doubt. You’ve kept me focused and cheered me on every step of the way. Thank you for never losing faith in me even when I did. There aren’t enough words in the world to describe how much I love and appreciate you.
Finally, I have to thank my kids, because they’re my driving force in this world. Everything I do, I do for you!
Prologue
~Faith~
Yet another plan has failed. Why won’t he die?
“Can I bring you anything else?” I ask as I hand a fresh roll of toilet paper through the crack in the door.
Glenn has been in there for over an hour, pooping his guts out. Although that’s not entirely accurate. I only wish he was. Instead, the quadruple dose of laxatives I baked into tonight’s enchiladas didn’t have their desired effect.
Did the heat damage them, or does he just have cast iron stomach? Maybe I didn’t use enough, but I swear, I gave him enough to take down a small horse. Yet, the worse it seems he’ll get is a bad case of hemorrhoids.
“Water,” he croaks, his voice dry.
“Okay, hon. I’ll be right back.” I’m trying to sound sympathetic, but I’m really apathetic. I want my husband dead, but no matter what I do, he just keeps on ticking.
As I head to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of water, I run through the mental checklist of my most fervent attempts to rid myself of the lying toad of a man currently blowing up the guest bathroom.
I started out slow, the idea of murder making me shake in my boots, the fear of jail time giving me the worst anxiety. But with each failed attempt on Glenn’s life, the desperation to rid him from my life grew, until it is what it is now: a monster that demands to be sated.
I’ll be honest and say that I never felt as deeply for my husband as a woman should before I agreed to marry him, but he was an end to a means. The tipping point came two years ago when my worst realizations that Glenn was lying and sneaking around behind my back were confirmed. After months of suspicion, I’d followed him to her house, and lo and behold, there he was, greeting her at the door with a hug and kiss before going inside. He didn’t arrive back home for another four hours. Being a housewife by his design and having no resources to make my break beyond a minute amount of spending money culled from a menial part-time call center job, I endured his abominable ways for months, watching him come and go each day and night, knowing what he was doing and growing angrier by the minute. The thought to kill him sprung to life, born from a simple smirk. The smirk that broke the camel’s back, if you will, inspired by a simple question from me: “You’re going to see her again, aren’t you?”
My first attempt was simple: a little ant poison in his morning coffee. With all the sugar he added, he didn’t even notice, until later when his stomach took a turn for the worse. The sickness passed quickly, however, and he chalked it up to a case of food poisoning.
The second attempt was actually full-blown food poisoning. When approximately seven million people around the world die from it each year, I’d hoped he’d be one. No such luck. A small case of indigestion was my only reward.
Glenn’s peanut allergy was my third attempt. A classic case of “accident on purpose.” He’s always been careful to avoid anything with peanuts in it, but this time, I made sure to add a little to a batch of healthy cookies to help him lose weight—likely for his new obsession that occupied all of his free time. My joy when his throat closed up, and he struggled to breathe
was short-lived, however, when he demanded that I get the new EpiPen he’d purchased without my knowledge. Since I hadn’t accounted for his cell phone and his immediate 9-1-1 call for help, I had no choice but to save his rotten life. Since then, I try to locate and eliminate all EpiPen sources when they enter the house, in case an impromptu moment arises in which an allergy strikes.
That brings us to attempt number four. Sleeping pills. Glenn has always had a problem with insomnia, resulting in a number of trial drugs to help him cope with it. Crushing several and dissolving them in his dinner had been an act of pure genius, in my opinion. And when he grew tired and I suggested a nice bath to help him relax before bed and hopefully aid in a good night’s sleep, he’d taken it. Only I’d accidentally given him too much, and instead of drifting into a deep sleep and slipping under the water to his death, he spent an hour vomiting.
No more pills after that. It was too hard to get the dosage right, and of course, I didn’t want to get caught. I needed to keep suspicion away from myself. Then Glenn told me he wasn’t happy with the way things were going between us, and there needed to be some changes. More specifically, I needed to make some changes—or we might end up looking at a divorce somewhere down the line…and that’s when the clock that had been ticking in my mind suddenly broke, and I knew I had to disappear him from my life yesterday; otherwise, that life insurance policy would end up a total waste.
The laxatives were my last resort to an “accident on purpose” attempt. As I held the glass under the faucet and watched the cool water climb to the top, I knew what I had to do.
I needed a hitman.
Two
~Declan~
I’d heard about the Craigslist Killer in the news. It was a big deal. It shocked the nation. But anyone with half a brain would have been wary of strangers coming to their door for free shit. Fortunately for me, a lot of people function on a lot less than that, and my business is booming.
My name is Declan, and I’m a hitman.
It wasn’t something that happened on a whim. I’ve worked around and in conjunction with mafia my whole life, but I’ve always been, and always will be, an independent contractor. With a background in the military and a family with criminal ties, it was an easy profession to fall into after I left the service. And the gig pays well. Like, really well. I don’t want for a damn thing, and I can choose my own hours, be my own boss. Best of all, it’s not something you can claim on your taxes, so Uncle Sam can’t even touch me. I’m the ultimate freelancer. You can’t beat it. Of course, being a hitman comes with risks…if you don’t know what you’re doing. And I do. I know my job, and I do it well, which is why I have repeat clients…and for a small business owner like me, word of mouth is killer—no pun intended.
I specialize in make shit look like an accident, but when the situation calls for it, I can make it look like a series of unfortunate events or just pure cosmic destiny. I’m twenty for twenty this year alone, and there are still six months left on the calendar. It’s been a good year for killing.
What kind of person would choose to be a hitman, you might ask? A psychopath. But unlike a psychopath, I don’t simply enjoy killing. It’s a job, and like any job, at the end of the day, I hang up my weapons and become a regular Joe who drinks a beer while watching football and yelling at the TV. Okay, maybe not that average. I don’t waste time on sports or TV. I have much better things to do with my time.
I read through the request that came in an hour ago. It’s from a woman; I can tell by the way it’s written. Although the information isn’t nearly that specific, the message is designed in such a way that it’s transparent to me what she’s asking for, while any layman would have looked right past it.
Hi Assassins89, Do you do plumbing? I have a leak that needs taken care of right away. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience to discuss.
The request is designed as it should be. Word of mouth is the foundation of any sole proprietorship, even one like mine. Scary how many people out there find a need for someone like me, isn’t it? I don’t ask how or who or why. I just do my damn job.
Below is a number that I plug into my phone. As expected, the woman picks up on the first ring, clearly eager to get started.
“Hi,” I say in my usual friendly tone. “I’m responding to your message on my ad. I do plumbing.”
I hear her sigh of relief. “Oh, good. This is a big problem, and as I mentioned, I need it taken care of right away. Are you up for the job?”
She’s good. Not good enough, but she knows how to follow the rules and talk in code so she won’t get caught easily. You never know who could be listening.
“Possibly. I’ll need to come see the plumbing in person first, so I can gauge the extent of the problem and what I’ll need to do to fix it.”
“Sure thing. When is your earliest availability?”
I check my calendar and tell her tomorrow morning. She gives me her location, and I hang up with the promise to be by first thing. Of course, she won’t see me, but I’ll be there. Like any good criminal, I prefer to case the joint first, make sure it’s not a setup before I dive in. And, also like any good criminal, I like to develop a plan of action. That’s just good business. It keeps things flowing smoothly, and so far, it’s kept me out of prison.
It’s important to be cautious. The first time you step out of line, deviate from the plan, is when you get caught, and I have no intention of getting caught.
Logging off my account, I head down to the in-house gym afforded by my HOA fees, and I hit the treadmill and turn it all the way up. Working out the body is as important as working out the mind. I want to be fit and healthy for a number of reasons, only one of which includes running after a mark if the need arises. It’s happened before, and the subsequent hour of chugging air was what made me kick my pack-a-day habit. But habits are habit for a reason, and I still succumb to vices like most people who are trying to quiet the voices that creep up on them in the middle of the night.
Chocolate. No, it’s not just for PMSing women. It’s a known stimulator of endorphins in the brain, giving that feel-good rush that I need after a hard day. The treadmill counteracts the effects of that habit, as well as acting as a mood stabilizer.
Like I said, there are many reasons I do this, and none of them are for the right one.
I’m well aware that this job is slowly killing me. Whether it’ll be my mind or my body in the end, I can’t predict. That’s why I’m going to get out. After a close call with a police investigator a few years ago, I told myself I’d only do one more. But like an addict, I’ve fulfilled several contracts since. I can’t seem to stay away. But I promised myself this next job will be my last.
I came across a picture in a magazine last week of a coastal village in Guatemala that looks like a slice of heaven, and I’ve decided that’s where I’ll go when I retire. It’s a good motivator to finally follow through on my promise.
Checking that I’ve reached my target heart rate, I slow to a walk and finally stop the machine. I don’t have the luxury of time today. With a job waiting, my mind is racing over a list of all the things I need to do before I can even consider making this thing happen.
“Hey, Dec, done already?”
“Busy day,” I respond briskly as I breeze past John. He’s a nice guy, but he’s white-collar, and he talks too much. I’m not antisocial, per se, but people aren’t really my thing. In my chosen profession, I have to be careful. Say too much, you get caught. I’ve learned to keep my circle small. Some may consider me a dick because I’m always short and to the point, but that’s their problem, not mine. I choose who enters my circle, and right now, that’s no one.
I like my privacy.
A shower is calling my name. Unfortunately, there’s no time to go home, so I hit the public one and keep my eyes down. There are just some things a person doesn’t need to subject themselves to.
As soon as I’m out of the gym, I jump into my XC90 and hit the highway. Ye
ah, I know I should be driving a beater around to keep a low profile, but with people’s materialistic attitudes being out of control today, I can be both eco-conscious and enjoy a touch of luxury and style while still being inconspicuous. It’s all about balance.
Spotting my exit, I hit the off-ramp and cruise down the main streets until it breaks into residential. A few turns and streetlights later, I arrive at my destination.
My client lives in a nice neighborhood, and by nice, I mean it’s clean, tidy. A place you could raise a family. Nothing fancy. Which is good, because when a spouse suddenly up and kicks the bucket, you don’t want a huge insurance policy waiting in the wings—tends to make people ask questions. The old Toyota and Kia in the driveway tell me these two probably don’t have the money for anything extravagant. Good. Makes my job easier.
I settle in and wait, keeping an eye on the property and any comings and goings. It’s quiet so far. An hour in, and I start regretting not stopping for coffee. I’ve been on jobs like this before, and they get boring fast.
Across the street from my client, an old man opens his front door to check the mailbox. His eyes stray to my vehicle. They don’t linger for long, but it’s a reminder that I can’t sit here forever. A strange man taking up space—even if it’s a public space—tends to warrant notice in a game that requires remaining entirely in the shadows.
Thankfully, my windows are tinted to the maximum legal limit, but that doesn’t mean he can’t identify my car later should the need arise. I start the engine and pull away from the curb, coasting down the street at a natural pace to avoid any more suspicion. I’d hate to have to put an old man down before his time. He didn’t live this long just to be offed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
See? I’m a nice guy.
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