Deadly Deception: A Dark Romance

by J.C. Valentine

Glenn shuffled his way up to the door and went right in.

  And he didn’t emerge until a quarter to ten. He had that telltale pep in his step again, as if whatever he’d been up to for the last hour plus had rejuvenated him.

  He makes me sick.

  My hands squeeze the steering wheel and my foot itches to slam down on the gas pedal and mow that asshole down.

  But as fun as a hit-and-run sounds, it’s messy and calls too much attention. There would be police and investigations and no doubt, some errant witness that would have to be taken care of. Too many strings to snip to even bother.

  When Glenn pulls out of the neighborhood, I follow. He heads straight to work this time, chatting up one of the same young women I spotted him with the last time. He must really think he’s something special.

  I wonder what Brenda ever saw in him.

  Getting Glenn’s schedule was surprisingly easy. Wednesday morning, after I emptied the drop box of my payment, I just walked into the shopping store and, after locating the employee lounge adjacent to the offices, I slipped in and pulled his information up on the computer. It’s scary how easily one can get information if they want it bad enough.

  My mark is working in the back today, pulling products off the trucks that ship goods in from all over the country. Parking a fair distance away, but in line with the open bay doors, I watch Glenn and his coworkers move around the warehouse, unloading pallets.

  Glenn operates a small forklift, raising and lowering tightly wrapped pallets from the truck and driving them to their final resting places where others work to cut free what’s inside and get it into the store to be organized and eventually purchased.

  It’s an interesting process that keeps me engaged for all of an hour before I decide that I’d rather be having drinks with John than sit here another five hours watching Glenn go back and forth, back and forth, beep, beep, beeping all the livelong day.

  How does anyone stand to do the same shit all day, every day? I’d lose my mind. As risky as being a hitman is, I thrive on it. Every day is a new place, a new story, a new thing. Well, not every day. Every week is more accurate, but I get to stretch my mind and flex my creative fingers, and the gig pays well. Who could ask for more?

  To help pass the time, I check my messages and find several more thinly-veiled requests for a job, a hit, and I shake my head. There is no shortage of people who want to kill other people. They just don’t want to get their hands dirty doing it.

  I delete all of them. I’ve promised myself I’d retire after this, and I’m determined to stick to it. No more risky business. Just a nice, relaxing, dull existence awaits me, and I’m looking forward to every second of it.

  Am I just kidding myself? The longing of even thinking about never snuffing out another life already burns like acid in my stomach, and I know I’m going to miss it like crazy. So far, it’s what’s kept me coming back for more.

  I guess if I get bored or the need grows too much to ignore, I can just pick someone off here and there to sate it. I don’t have to make a business out of this. Retirement is happening, come hell or high water.

  Redirecting my attention on the chubby man ahead, something in my head clicks into place. The strike of inspiration. I’d know it anywhere.

  Man and machine. Accidents are bound to happen, no matter how skilled one may be. It’s the natural order of things. People get lazy, comfortable, and then the unthinkable happens.

  I am the unthinkable.

  My entire being perks up as visions of a plan begin to take shape. A rare grin spreads across my face. I crank the engine and pull away. I’ve seen all I need to see for today.

  Back at the apartment building, I head straight for the locker room and then the gym, pounding out all of this newfound energy racing through my veins. I’m excited. The thrill of the chase, the anticipation of the kill energize me, and I have to let off steam, or I’ll erupt.

  John enters the gym and climbs onto the treadmill beside mine, heightening those chances.

  Does he have a death wish?

  Maybe not consciously, but he does seem to be pushing his luck attaching himself to me. Another example of people lacking that basic survival instinct. I am the predator, and he is the prey, and he doesn’t even know it.

  It’s pathetic really.

  Even if I don’t get caught, I consider how terrible it would be for me to put an end to him, for mercy’s sake. I’d be doing him a kindness. Saving him from the cruel world before it eats him alive.

  Even as I think it, I know I’m justifying it because of my own proclivities for violence. That’s why I have rules in place. They’re as much for my safety as the rest of the general populace. The question has often been asked, what separates us from the animals? Well, my rules are what separate me from psychopathic serial killers.

  You’re welcome.

  I’m vaguely aware that John’s mouth is moving. He’s jogging, trying to match my pace, but he’s way out of his league. I keep at my brutal speed, arms and breath and legs pumping, while he yacks away as if I’m listening to a word he says.

  I’m not. In fact, the wireless earbuds in my ears prevent it entirely.

  I cast a sidelong glance at him, which turns out to be a major mistake. John smiles and continues talking more animatedly, making me wonder if I’ve somehow spurred him on.

  The man is insufferable.

  I’d intended to work out a whole hour tonight, but John has ruined my plans. I’m now eager to retreat to my apartment where I can kick back in my recliner, drink a finger or two of scotch, and stare out the windows, watching the city undulate in the evening rush.

  Stepping off the treadmill, I punch buttons to turn it off and follow with my earbuds, cutting off Mozart’s “Jupiter” and subsequently my patience. An unlikely pairing, a hitman and classical music, I’m sure, but I once read that classical music heightens brain activity and thus expands creativity, so I use it any time I need to connect with my muse.

  John is, much to my aggravation, on my heels.

  “Hey, man, you wanna grab that drink? The dining room is still serving. I’ll buy us cocktails! Or beer,” he quickly amends, his confidence waning a touch. “Do you like beer?”

  “I like silence.”

  I don’t mean to be harsh, but some people can’t take a hint, and you have to be blunt. John is never going to catch a hint.

  Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to faze him.

  “I know what you mean, man. Long day at the office?” He socks my shoulder lightly. “Let me buy you that drink. We can sit and brood over a couple of beers. Bonding time, man. Whaddaya say?”

  What is with this guy?

  I start to tell him, as politely as I can, to fuck off, but when I look at him straight in the eyes, I hesitate.

  He’s so eager, so earnest. So desperate for attention. I find myself wondering what happened to this poor, pathetic soul that he has resorted to hounding a murderer like myself to keep him company. Maybe he’s pushing his luck on purpose. Maybe he secretly knows who and what I am and wants to die.

  Or maybe he’s just as damaged as my clients and is longing for connection wherever he can get it.

  I’m a hard man. Yet I still find myself nodding ever so slightly, and then we’re headed toward the dining room for drinks.

  Ten

  ~Faith~

  My curiosity got the best of me. In a moment of weakness, I’d climbed into my car and driven to Glenn’s work. I’d hoped to see Cal there, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  For hours, while he watched Glenn, I watched him.

  At first, I thought for sure he’d spot me. He never did. Like him, I hung back, nestling my car among several rows of employees’ cars and truck trailers. And then I’d waited.

  Was this what Cal did all day, watched and waited? Calculating his next move?

  It was at once boring and exciting, knowing he was actively concocting a plan to carry out our agreement. Soon, he would act on it, and then I would be f
ree to do as I pleased.

  How could I not be happy? How could I not be on top of the world?

  But I wasn’t.

  For some inexplicable reason, I was slowly going insane thinking about this man I didn’t even know, the picture of him creeping into my thoughts unbidden, at random and increasing times throughout the day and night.

  I was becoming obsessed.

  It wasn’t healthy or even wise to be so preoccupied with thoughts of this man who could snap my neck without batting an eyelash, but I couldn’t help myself.

  So here I was, against all better judgment, stalking the stalker.

  Which was why I was now in some posh apartment building that I imagine costs more per month in HOA fees than my monthly mortgage, creeping around corners, shadowing Cal’s every move, hoping to catch him alone and not knowing what I was going to do once I did.

  Watching Cal get in his workout regimen was an unexpected but welcome treat. I enjoyed watching him work up a sweat. When a man joined him a while later, I had trouble figuring out if they were friends or acquaintances, Cal’s reaction less than welcoming. Then they went for a drink in the dining room, which in itself speaks to the cost of the place. Taking a seat beside a potted palm, I ordered a small, overpriced salad to munch on while I watched them interact at the bar over a couple of drinks.

  We spent nearly an hour in that room, and again, I was surprised I had yet to get caught. For a man who made his living off lurking in the shadows, he sure wasn’t aware of his own surroundings.

  For as long as I’ve been watching, though, I feel as if I haven’t learned much. Even unwittingly, Cal keeps his cards close to the vest.

  I intend to learn more. I want to know everything.

  Curiosity killed the cat. The thought has run through my head numerous times, and it returns, louder, as Cal and his friend leave the bar and part ways, and I follow.

  How will he react when I reveal myself? I didn’t come this far not to. I always knew it was the end game. I have plans, wants, needs, and they all started the moment we met under that bridge. I won’t romanticize our connection, but I know I can’t just walk away from this without a bit of exploration first.

  Will he be open to exploring it with me?

  Something in me says no. Cal is a secretive man, and he won’t appreciate the intrusion, but here I am, watching the doors to the elevator close and waiting for the numbers to stop climbing.

  When they finally do, I jump onto the next available elevator and punch his floor. My foot taps impatiently as I wait, feeling every precious second pass and the narrow window to finding his room closing.

  If Cal reaches it before I can get there, I may never know which apartment he’s in.

  My fears are realized when I get off on an empty floor. The hall splits off in opposite directions, the red runner with a gold diamond pattern and yellow overhead lighting continuing that hotel feel. I slowly and cautiously move down the hall to my right, my ears perked up, listening for any hint of Cal’s presence.

  While this might feel like a hotel, the apartment doors are spaced widely apart, suggesting that the space behind each one is ample. I count five doors before reaching the end of the hall and turning back the other way.

  Cal must already be inside his apartment, which is disappointing but also a relief. Had he not been when I reached the floor, he would have surely spotted me.

  As it is, I consider where I’ll hide if he decides to leave again. There are no alcoves to duck into and no plants to hide behind. I am exposed, which means if we run into each other, my only option is to confess.

  I breathe deeply, reminding myself this was my goal all along. No backing out now.

  I pass a door and hear the muffled sound of music playing. Pausing to listen, I wonder if it’s the kind of music Cal might choose. Bette Midler? No. Cal is not a “Wind Beneath My Wings” kind of guy.

  I move on.

  I don’t know how much time passes, with me pacing the floor, waiting for something to happen, but eventually, it does.

  A door opens. Leaning against a wall, I freeze, my entire focus on that sound. Waiting. Not breathing. And then…

  Cal emerges.

  As if my entire body suddenly comes back to life, my hearts slams in my chest, I gasp to catch my breath, and heat rushes to my head.

  He’s as gorgeous as I remember.

  His head is down as he walks, so he doesn’t see me right away, but when he does…

  Our gazes meet, and his steps slow to a stop. I can’t read his expression. It’s stony, impassible. It could just as easily be shock and elation as it could be anger and murderous intent. I’m afraid of which side of the line he falls on, but that same fear is the spark that gets me moving.

  I take one slow step after another toward Cal, determination growing in me the closer I get. When I’m within a few feet of him, I can see the fire burning in his dark eyes, and the muscles in his jaw are flexing.

  He’s not happy to see me.

  My excitement deflates at this realization. I’ve made a mistake, a massive error in judgment, and now I’ll face the consequences.

  Eleven

  ~Declan~

  My first reaction when I see her is that she’s stunningly beautiful in the light. More so than I thought her to be in the darkened interior of her car that night we converged under the bridge to seal the deal.

  Then my brain kicks in and tells me that my response to her is strictly biological. It can’t be helped. A natural reaction between a man and a woman, the recognition of a potential suitable mate for the purposes of procreation. But I don’t intend to procreate in this lifetime, and I sure as hell don’t plan on doing it with someone I’ve struck a deal to murder another person with.

  “Hi.” Her demure greeting and the way she flutters those long lashes immediately incites my anger.

  I grit my teeth to the point they might crack, but I don’t give a flying fuck. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I spit the question, but the most imperative one is why the hell am I not wrapping my hands around her spindly little neck and squeezing the life out of her? She’s crossed a major line. Followed me home. Watched me for who knows how long. Showed up on my doorstep looking as sweet as the chocolate I crave to devour.

  She. Should. Pay.

  With death.

  But I don’t act on what I know I should do. Rather, I stand here, awaiting an answer that I know will be unacceptable, no matter what it is, and knowing I won’t do a damn thing about it.

  I don’t like where this line of thinking is headed. I loathe that I’ve discovered a weak spot in my armor. I especially hate that she is the one who put it there—a woman, a client, a stranger who has no business in my life.

  Like John, she is a problem hinting at my potential downfall. The catalyst.

  But worse.

  I can’t tolerate this infraction, this blatant disregard for the rules.

  Brenda is unsure of herself, though she fakes confidence with pulled back shoulders and a soft smile.

  “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I had to see you.”

  There’s something in her voice that tells me this isn’t about her husband. Or maybe in some twisted way it is.

  Rage pours through me so acute, I wouldn’t be surprised if steam shot out of my nose and ears. Shaking inside, I grab ahold of her upper arm and, ignoring her squeak of surprise and probably pain, I tow her back to my room.

  My key goes in the lock, it clicks, and I slam the door open so hard it hits the wall and ricochets back as we walk through, hitting my shoulder. Ignoring the sting of the injury that will leave a bruise, I swing her behind me as I turn and close the door with equal force, flipping the row of five locks I installed for added security.

  Never know when someone will want to kill the killer.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Brenda is stuttering, her nervousness finally surfacing. She should be nervous. I’m not one to be screwed with.

  I turn to fa
ce her, and her eyes widen. I can just imagine the monster she must see in me. Too bad she didn’t see him before she decided to come here.

  “I told you no contact. Period.”

  “I know.” Her hands rise in front of her as if to placate the monster in me. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I know you’ve…seen me.” She lowers her voice as if imparting a secret.

  “You mean when you strip in front of the window.” I don’t bother to hide my irritation. She knew what she was doing, and her admission is just further confirmation of what I’d already suspected to be true.

  She’s been playing with me.

  A vibrant, rosy pink colors her pale cheeks, and she looks down at her feet. “You watched me. You liked what you saw?”

  I can’t deny it. But I won’t admit it. I stand mute, letting her reach her own conclusion.

  She reaches the right one, the hint of a smile playing at her lips and in her eyes, giving her just the boost of confidence she needs to risk a step toward me.

  My head tilts a fraction, my expression dangerous. She’d better not test me. My patience runs thin.

  “Cal—”

  “You should have never come here.”

  She hears the warning, the threat in my words. Good. The only problem is that I can see it isn’t enough to sway her. Brenda is a woman on a mission, and women like her are dangerous.

  “I know, but like I said, I had to see you. I didn’t know how else to reach you, so I followed you.”

  “Bad move, lady.” My fists ball at my sides, and I take a step closer toward her, not knowing what I’ll do once that gap is closed.

  She takes another step forward too. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” Her voice is getting deeper, heavy with lust. Her bottom lip, a natural light pink unmarred by lipstick, stains, or gloss, is pulled between her teeth briefly before being released.

  Instantly, I harden.

  “I felt a connection that night, under the bridge.” She takes another step, leaving only a foot of space between us, and looks up at me with those wide doe eyes. Vulnerable, yet hopeful. “Tell me you didn’t feel it. Tell me you haven’t thought about touching me too.”