“Holy fuck!” I growl as pain flares through my right hand before I can hurl whatever the fuck it is across the room. Once it lands with a soft thud, I can see it’s a cat, green eyes nearly glowing in the middle of a black face, a V-shaped white mark scrunching up as it hisses at me.
My wrist throbs, and I look to see that the cat scratched me pretty badly. “You’re lucky, kitty. My reflexes are usually deadlier than that, but I wouldn’t hurt you.”
The cat meows back at me, like it’s telling me that I’m the lucky one, and I back out carefully, leaving out the same door I came in through before heading to my truck.
I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about this mess because I’ve made up my mind and I know it. There’s zero chance that I can go through with this contract.
Bella doesn’t deserve the ending that’s been chosen for her.
And that’d be that, except for Blackwell.
He’s already losing patience with my timeline. While I’m known as patient and methodical, we’re stretching into the ridiculous levels here.
For an unprotected civilian with no idea of the blind justice they’re in store for, a reasonable timeline would’ve been a week at most. I’m running on three between research, first contact, to today.
I’ve killed men like Blackwell, protected by security, aware of threats, and risk averse in less time than I’ve taken on Isabella Turner.
And Blackwell’s not a man known for loyalty or patience. If I delay too long, he’ll circumvent me, probably adding an addendum to include me with whomever he hires for the new contract.
But as I drive, I keep thinking of that painting.
That’s why she’s sacrificing so much . . . why she’s killing herself to keep that broken-down house.
And if it means that much to her, I want to help her keep it too. And more importantly, keep her safe and alive.
Chapter 10
Blackwell
I sip my tequila, mentally bemoaning the fact that people are so predictable. It’s a plus for me, really, allowing me to see the chessboard of life and plan accordingly. But sometimes, a bit of a twist would be nice.
I smirk to myself, reaching over to the bar in the back of my limo to grab a lime wedge. I squeeze it into the clear alcohol and shake it around, mixing the sour into the expensive alcohol. “A twist indeed,” I say to the empty backseat.
The divider between the driver and me lowers. “Excuse me, sir. We seem to have picked up a tail. Would you like for me to lose them or continue on to your meeting?”
I glance over my shoulder, only seeing the bright round lights of the cars around us on the streets of Roseboro.
Streets that I own, control, and paved. When I came to Roseboro, it was a nothing town, in a depression from lack of employment and in the midst of a mass-exodus of families. Through my skill and nurturing, I’ve returned life to this city.
I’m the reason housing prices in this town have risen every year for twenty years and why the town’s high school has grown from a podunk afterthought to one of the biggest and best schools in the entire state.
The reason this town exists is me.
And the city is forgetting that. They mock me, with terms like ‘Black to Yellow’ to describe the workers who leave me to go work for Golden Boy.
Even worse are those who leave to become successful on their own, using the things they learned from me to compete against my company. As if they don’t owe me some loyalty for the changes I’ve brought to Roseboro and to their piddly lives.
I purse my lips as the tequila burns my tongue and gums, holding it in my mouth until it becomes a light numbness before swallowing the sip, having drawn out every molecule of flavoring from the potion. The burn and subtle vanilla and oak flavors help me delay my anger. To focus.
And I have much to focus on.
I finally answer the driver, “Drive around for a bit. I’ll be a little late for my meeting, but it’s an acceptable delay.”
He nods silently, the divider quietly returning to its place a moment later.
I know you’re following me, Gabriel Jackson. The question is why?
I’d hired him because he’s the best in the business, able to adapt and deliver under a variety of circumstances. Silent or bold, messy or clean, the appearance of an accident or message-sending publicity . . . whatever your needs, he can meet them, and according to reputation, has done so with unequivocal success. I’d known his methods are precise, something I can appreciate, but it seems he’s getting cold feet.
It can only be because of her.
This delay has become untenable, his questions as to my motivation less amusing and more disrespectful, and I’m reaching the end of my patience. Especially as he seems to be more interested in my behaviors than those of his contracted prey.
That’s why I have already hired a private investigator to follow Mr. Jackson. Not a competing hitman, at least not yet. But rather a man skilled at being invisible. I like the idea of keeping my pawns compartmentalized, only holding a portion of the bigger picture I readily see.
His reports show that Gabriel’s contact with Isabella is perhaps more intimate than I’d predicted, though he did say that Gabriel investigated her home today, so maybe he’s not entirely been led astray by her feminine wiles.
Considering that she used tears and a false story to implicate my previous associate, I’m not willing to put anything past the seemingly innocuous Isabella Turner.
“You should hurry, Mr. Jackson,” I whisper to the dark night, taking another sip of tequila. “My patience is running thin.”
Chapter 11
Isabella
Nine o’clock comes and goes, and though I try to delay my dinner break, I finally sit down in Martha’s office to slam a sandwich and fries.
Usually, I sit on the floor or stand at the counter, but with Gabe not being here like he said, I don’t want to look pathetic. And I know I’d be watching the door like a hawk, because that’s what I did from eight thirty to nine fifteen.
I remind myself that he said he’d ‘try’ to be here at nine and then hang out until I got off, and that’s not exactly the same thing as a sure date. Any number of things could’ve come up between this morning and tonight.
With a final swallow, I set my dishes in the back sink, straighten my apron, and wash my hands. I slick a quick layer of tinted lip balm on and pinch my cheeks, trying to perk myself up from the disappointment of another dinner alone.
All business, all the time. That’s me, and I don’t know why I thought for a minute that I maybe could have something else, something lighter and livelier and just for me. I know better. That’s not my life.
But Mia used to be all about number-crunching and she had an amazing thing happen to her, so maybe there’s hope for the rest of us, my romantic heart murmurs.
Torn between fantasy and reality, I hit the floor again, thanking Elaine for covering my tables.
It’s nearly nine thirty when the doorbell tinkles and my heart leaps in my chest. I can feel the difference in the room when Gabe walks in, a smile on his face. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Some stellar conversationalist skills I’ve got, I think. “Glad you could make it,” I greet him, genuinely smiling for the first time all shift, but then I intentionally add, “I already had my break, couldn’t wait any longer or Elaine wouldn’t be able to cover for me.”
He winces, rubbing at his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t think it’d be this late, but I got hung up with work and knew you couldn’t check your phone much while you’re on shift. I’m glad you didn’t wait. You need to eat when you can. I was hoping I could make it up to you by hanging out until you get off? Maybe we can do something then?”
His face is open, and it appears he’s being sincere, both of which go a long way in my book. Also, he gets brownie points for knowing I can’t be on my phone and that I needed to chow down when I could. He said he’d ‘try’ to be here at nine, that same voice hisses in my ear.
>
I think for a moment, letting him stew a little bit but knowing I’ve already made up my mind. He’s exciting and different, a bright spot in my doldrum life, something just for me. And I’m not going to deprive myself of his yumminess, however it comes, however often he stops by, or however long he stays.
Maybe that makes me easy, but I think it makes me human.
So I smile as I push my hair behind my ear and point to a stool at the counter. “Sounds like a plan. How was your day?” I let all my previous doubts and insecurities go, happy to just be here with him in this moment.
Take life as it comes, Izzy.
“Not bad. Looking much better now,” he says, sliding into a seat at the counter.
He tosses that half-smile that leaves me forgetting that my feet hurt after a long day of running around. Hell, that smile makes me forget how to breathe. And judging by the way it morphs into a cocky smirk, he damn well knows it.
“How was yours?”
“Good, one morning class, then helped my bestie do some house moving before my shift tonight,” I reply.
Seeing Mia and Charlotte today for a little while had been great, especially since it was a milestone moment for us. One of our trio is moving up the adulthood ladder by moving in with her man.
Mia had gleefully shown us around her new penthouse home while simultaneously directing the movers, liberally sprinkling ‘our house’, ‘our bedroom’, and ‘our plans’ into the whole tour.
It’d been pretty adorable, actually, but make no mistake, when we got to her precious gaming setup, it was all ‘my’, ‘mine’, and ‘don’t touch’ in her occasionally-present Russian accent, even to Thomas, who’d wandered in to say hello.
He’d ignored her semi-joking selfishness like it was their norm, which it probably is, and just wrapped her in his arms and nibbled on her neck, distracting her from telling us all about the new TERA game update. He’d winked at Charlotte and me, mouthing you’re welcome.
I’d been thrilled for her, and even as I stand here on uncertain ground, I’m still happy she’s getting her happily ever after. She deserves it.
I bring Gabe a menu, and as he reaches for it, I notice a bandage on his wrist. It’s a big one, and I wince. “Ooh! What’d you do, try to get yourself killed?”
Gabe looks at the bandage and chuckles. “Just a scratch. The bandage makes it look a lot worse than it actually is.”
I devil him a bit, pretending to poke at the wound. “After your crack gun shot skills, I’d have thought you’d be damn-near invincible. Guess you’re human after all, huh?”
He sets the menu down, his bandaged hand going to his lap, and I see something pass through his eyes, but it’s gone too fast for me to recognize and label it.
A customer calls for me, and I hold up a finger to excuse myself from Gabe. I head over, taking their order.
As I do, I think back to my conversations with the girls today.
Mia is understandably on the side of love, lovemaking, and generally spreading glittery happiness everywhere. It’s a good look on her.
Surprisingly, Charlotte is virtually the polar opposite right now, her sourness coming from the last guy she dated and really liked, who’d ended up as a married father of five.
She’d dropped him faster than he could say, “My wife knows and doesn’t care!” So she’s reasonably on the side of caution and distrust. Realistically, Char’s more likely correct even though Mia spouted off statistics about marriage rates, divorce rates, and some other numerical info I couldn’t possibly keep straight.
Mostly, I keep hearing Char’s voice, telling me to be wary, slow my roll, and run a background check on Gabe. It’s not like I think he’s the one, but I probably should be careful.
Keep it flirty and just have fun.
“It really has been too long,” I mutter under my breath, mentally arguing with Mia and Charlotte. To my surprise, Gabe chuckles. I look up, not even realizing that I had drifted back closer to him.
“What’s been too long?” he asks, and I can sense the heat to his question.
Even if I’d been talking about too long since I’d had a nap, which I wasn’t, I’m thinking about sex now. And to be fair, I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve had a partner-accompanied orgasm. B.O.B. has been my sole date for months.
“Oh, nothing,” I deflect. “Sorry. My friends are living rent-free in my brain.”
“You should charge them. Might help things,” Gabe teases lightly, making me laugh and thankfully not pressing for an answer to his previous question. “What are they saying?”
“Well, first, you have to know that one is literally in the midst of her happily ever after and one just got blindsided. So it’s all filtered through those lenses.” I point to my right shoulder, and say, “Mia here is jumping up and down, clapping and telling me to go out with you, or stay in with you, but to see where this goes.”
His eyebrows climb his forehead and his eyes darken, but there’s a sparkle of joy in them. “And the other?”
I look to my left shoulder, intoning, “Charlotte is telling me to be polite but recognize that I don’t know you, and realistically, you don’t give off the vibe of someone staying in town long-term. And she reminds me that I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl.”
I barely hold back offering ‘but I could try to be’ because for Gabe, I might ‘hit that’ even with no promises.
There’s just something about him that calls to me, body and mind, and I know if I don’t at least try, I’ll always wonder and probably regret it.
His mouth opens and shuts like a fish, and I’m pretty sure I just dumped way too much information on his shoulders.
The door dings before Gabe can gather his thoughts enough to ask me which way I’m leaning, and I look up as heartburn walks in the door.
Well, not exactly heartburn, but the same delivery driver, along with two other customers behind him.
We’re usually not this slammed this late at night, but they just keep coming today.
Seeing my conundrum, Gabe waves me off. “Go take care of business. I’ll be here when you get a minute. And I’m staying until you get off tonight.”
My thighs clench together with hopeful wishes that he means that in more than one way.
Shut up, Charlotte, I can be a one-and-done if I want to be.
Within ten minutes, The Gravy Train’s in chaos and Elaine and I are in the weeds. Besides seating the three new tables, two other tables want to add extra orders, and it’s so bad that Henry himself has to bring the plates to the counter because we’re doing our best to keep the main floor caught up.
“Here you go, ma’am,” Henry says, setting a plate down. “Sorry about the wait, seems we’ve got a packed house all of a sudden. Food’s worth it, though.” He’s trying to be charming and kind, but the woman’s having none of his apologies.
I glance over from where I’m writing down Delivery Driver’s order, thankfully simple tonight with a double cheeseburger and fries, when the woman replies. “It’s kind of hard to mess up a ham and swiss melt.”
Henry shrugs and heads back to the grill, but I can see the vein throbbing in his temple and know he’s getting stressed out, which isn’t good for his ulcer and therefore, isn’t good for any of us.
I clip the driver’s order to Henry’s spinner and scan the floor. Table seven needs refills, which I make quickly and deliver with a smile, promising their onion rings are coming right up. Table twelve is making a waving check mark in the air, so I flip through the slips in my apron and drop it off.
Thankfully, they offer cash and don’t need change.
“My burger’s fucking ready. You gonna get it or should I do it my damn self?” I hear from behind me. I glance up, and though Henry never hit the bell, Delivery Driver’s burger and fries plate is sitting on the warming shelf.
My lips spread in the plastic not-smile everyone who’s ever worked customer service has and tell the man, “I’ll grab that now.”
But I don’t hurry. He doesn’t deserve for me to raise my heartrate one extra beat in hustle for his sorry ass.
“Shitty fuckin’ food and shitty fuckin’ servers. Lazy bitch.”
My teeth are grinding as I move behind the counter to grab the plate, slow as dripping molasses as I check and double-check for accuracy.
Quality assurance at its fucking finest by Ms. Isabella Turner. You’ll get your burger when I’m damn good and ready to deliver it.
Suddenly, I hear a commotion behind me as hands slap on a table and a voice growls out, “Apologize.”
I turn, my jaw dropping as I see Gabe on his feet, his back to me as he stares at Delivery Driver. “What the fuck?” Driver asks, his face going a little white as he looks up at Gabe. “Seriously, man?”
“The people here are working their asses off and doing the best they can. Doesn’t matter how much you hate your life, it doesn’t give you the right to spread that anger onto these folks.”
“Who the fuck are you to tell me—”
“I’m the guy saying you need to find another late-night hangout if this is how you’re going to behave,” Gabe says, reaching down and ‘helping’ Delivery Driver out of his seat. “Get out and go learn some damn manners.”
For a moment, I’m worried Delivery Driver’s going to throw a punch. But I’m rooted in place, something freezing me as I watch him stare into Gabe’s eyes. The coldness is back, the same coldness I saw at the shooting range.
Right now, Gabe could hurt this man and not even blink an eye. Tension fills the air as Driver’s hand clenches but then relaxes, and he takes a step back, knowing he can’t win against Gabe or a roomful of people all sneering at him.
Henry’s out of the kitchen again, and behind him is Martha, who’s watching from the pass-through to the kitchen with the phone in her hand. My guess is she’s already half-dialed 9-1-1 because while she’s intimidating as hell, this is beyond even her skills.
Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Page 9
