by Amarie Avant
This morning, Harry placed fresh cut flowers onto the table on the balcony for our breakfast. He attempted to strike up a conversation about our plans, but Jagger glared him into leaving us.
Now, I’m seated with a perfect view of the Mandarin Oriental across the way. The picturesque view would’ve taken the air right from the lungs of all my girl cousins, had we ever been able to afford a hotel room so high in the sky.
I sip my orange juice, wondering if Brittany is crying harder over Ronald’s death or my disappearance.
An iPad is placed onto the table before me. At first glance, it appears to be a blog with biography for William Freedman. But he’s not worth 3 million dollars, more like add a gaggle of zeros and double down.
Then I gasp. “You’re being paid $3 million to murder him?”
“Yeah.” Jagger’s thick shoulders give a fraction of a shrug.
“That’s a lot of money…” I scoff.
His expression never registers an agreement.
“Look, African Americans are being rezoned to places like Barstow and Victorville. Those places we passed through on the way here. They’re given vouchers to move from the projects in Los Angeles to those places. Men like Freedman, an awful name for what he represents, become richer and couldn’t care less about the impact of gentrification. All he sees is more expensive shopping centers or ritzy apartments with plenty of amenities, while the people he’s displaced live in locations where it’s hard to find a good paying job. Something tells me that you’re not murdering him as a play on ‘Robin Hood.’”
He shakes his head. Picks up his coffee and drinks it.
Two days ago, while at the buffet, I felt so uncomfortable in my quest to prove that he was diabetic. And then I had forgotten my primary goal while engaging in a simple conversation. My eyes narrow, he needs to stop ignoring me and respond. I don’t expect to connect with the hitman over his next kill, but I have to know why.
“So why, Jagger?”
“The money’s good.”
“Obviously.” I glance at the price tag on William Freedman’s head again.
“I like to travel.”
“But did you request this assignment or was it given to you.”
He offers a tensed laugh, rubs his thick eyebrow and says, “Damn, I’m not even supposed to show you this.”
“What’s the number to member services? I should snitch.” Crap, I even grin with the joke. “So, is there a case manager that delegates who murders who? This profile makes me wonder if you or… the people you work with aren’t as barbaric as they seem.”
“As barbaric as me? That’s what you’re inferring, Mikayla, right?” His eyes twinkle with mischief. “We are a diverse lot. There are lower level cases.”
“Meaning money?”
“Yeah, less money. Those go into a pool, and the newer assassins are vetted for them. There are higher level cases,” he nudges his chin.
“Like me?” My bottom lip drops.
“You’re a beautiful, black queen—”
“You said I was a princess.”
He shrugs again, “You’ll be a queen soon.”
My heart clutches. Something tells me that the brute sitting across from me is far from royalty. “How?”
Jagger gestures for me to wait. He removes the iPad from my clutched grip as I wonder exactly how I will go from a ‘regular’ confident, black young lady, to princess… to a bonafide queen. Coronation pops into my psyche. “Will I have a coronation? I’ll be crowned as queen?”
“You might, but there’s a little more to it.” He uses his thumbs to type onto the screen.
“Then how, Jagger, tell me how?” I sit forward.
He hands over the iPad again. I grab at it, scanning the words faster, and speed reading them. There’s a chubby man with three sticks poking from his hair. He’s in a tribal costume, there’s also another photo of him in a suit. My eyes bug out as I continue to read.
“What! This man is the same age as my father! And his daughter, HRH Princess Sikhanyiso of Swaziland is the eldest daughter of King Mswati III of Swaziland. She is the first of his thirty children, and her mother is the first of King Mswati's ten queens. You want me to be one of this man’s many queens!”
“No, Mikayla. Scroll down, your thumb must have moved the location. Read about the Zihula nation.”
“Oh…”
My thumb glides down until I see a title heading for Kgosi (King) Fari Damba of the Zihula nation. The first photo I see, blows me away. It’s an aerial view of a tropical island. It looks like it would make a beautiful place to live.
“Not King Damba, he’s sick and dying, but his son Prince Fari, you’ll marry him.”
I don’t even hear Jagger’s words as stare at a photo of Prince Fari in a tailored royal blue suit. His eyes are sultry dark brown, and he holds himself with an aura that seems… fair. Not rough and vicious like the man before me. He is really handsome, similar to a young Djimon Hounsou. I scan over his background. Fari holds a university degree in Architecture and Urban Planning from Natal University, in South Africa. Even though I’m not aware of Jagger having any advanced education, I’ve determined already that he is incredibly intelligent. All the modifications he completed on his truck, heck, I’m afraid to touch his Magnums, and even though his motorcycle went haywire, I cannot see myself outsmarting him in that capacity, either, anytime soon.
And here I am, comparing the life this barbarian has thrusted me into to life with him. Seems like the perfect life. Um… the tropical island.
“How much will you make from giving me to Prince Fari, Jagger? Just so I have a ballpark figure of his wealth?”
“You’re not a gold digger.”
“And you’re no saint.”
He’s silent for a moment. Of all my Queen Petty attempts, this one seems to set roots. Did I make him jealous?
Jagger finally says, “Triple the amount, Mikayla, and a car.”
“A car?” I scoff. “So, I’ll be agreeable and say that Freedman, although doesn’t deserve death, he may very well deserve to have been placed in your path, all the lives he has discarded for his own gain. But Prince Fari? What’s the aim here? Huh, asshole?”
“You see me as an asshole?”
“Yes.”
Jagger leans back in his chair, his beautiful golden skin basking in the sun as he chuckles. “An evil, disgusting - shit, you’ve called me disgusting enough - devil, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then why can’t I just sell you to the prince for money?” He grits out, sitting forward to look me in the eye. He thrusts a stiff finger to his brain. “See, Mikayla, I know those lovely thoughts churning through your mind. You ask me your questions. Want to know this and that. The fact remains, you will marry Prince Fari, and I’m no fucking saint, nor do I have a reason to be.”
I scoff. “I like how you haven’t called me Uthando lwami. My threat must have penetrated. You use it to manipulate me when I’ve gotten the upper hand and you’re stuck in your emotions! Oh, and I haven’t forgotten. You’re not gentle…” the erotic dream I had yesterday morning floods my mind. It’s the wrong damn time. So I grit my teeth and continue, “You are a greedy, disgusting, devil—you added that yourself. Nevertheless, I agree, you’re a devil, who will sell me like a possession, like something you own because you are…” My cognition is working in overdrive, to slur curses and hurt him the only way I can, with words, but I’m stuck on how to end it, so I settle for a sneered, “Evil!”
Jagger
“Hurts huh? That I’m gonna make … let me calculate it for you, $8 million dollars off of you, Mikayla. Oh, and a supercar. Not your ordinary vehicle, but one that less than .0000001% of the fucking universe will ever get a chance to touch, let alone own.” I have had it up to here with Mikayla Bryant. And I don’t even give a damn if she cries. “So, yeah, I’m no Robin Hood. I won’t kill a man just because he deserves it. Shit, most of the men I cross paths with do deserve it, but I murde
r for the sheer enjoyment of it.”
She sits in her chair, brown gaze sparkling with tears that have yet to fall.
“Fuck yeah, most of the time, I chose a mark because of the price tag, heck, I’ve declined a few proposals that would make me filthy fucking rich because I was too busy working on a Humvee. I like fixing shit, not humans. So stop looking at me like I’m nothing but a major disappointment. As if I should care what you think of me.”
“You’re not,” her tone is hardly above a whisper as she offers the lie.
“My father,” I say, sitting back in my seat, “he grew up in South Africa. Wealthy family owned businesses, a beachfront resort being the crown and jewel. Cancer claimed his mother, my grandfather shot himself. You know how rich people are, very high incidence of suicide when shit hits the fan. With both his parents deceased, my dad gave away the hotel, all his possessions. Side story, my house, it’s bigger than that fucking hotel now, and built on the same coast a few miles up, so I can look down at all those snooty motherfuckers.
Anyway, when his parents died, my father, Jace, he spent a few years in Tibet, centered himself. Found some sort of religion. He joined a group similar to the one I am in now. Those people, holy as ever, they murder for the greater good of humanity. Then he returned home. He met my mother, whose family also lived in the area, meager setting, though. Alisha’s family helped convert Christians. When he married her, all that rage, and hatred the religious murdering sect taught him was pacified, because of her love.”
“So Jace changed?” She blinks.
“He did, for a while. Years later, I felt this craving in my soul, Mikayla.” I place out my palms to her.
“Oh, your scars are healing,” she says in shocked disbelief.
“Take my hands, Mikayla.”
She does.
“These are the hands of a monster who loves being just that, a monster. So when you ask me, do I place any thought into murdering William Freedman, or the two hundred fucks who came before him, I have to say no.”
“What happened to your father, and mother? I can’t imagine that Alisha would’ve wanted you to be the man that you are,” Mikayla huffs.
My blood is boiling now. I nod in agreement. “She didn’t. They stopped talking to me, while I was having the blueprints of my house made.”
“Sounds like you haven’t talked to them in years,” she responds, not knowing how right she actually is.
“Ten to be exact. They died a few years later. The same religious sect of murderers who my father joined, had another mission for him to take. He declined it. Their home was set on fire.”
“Oh, no,” she gasps.
“And because I can see your thinking very hard, I’ll tell you, that I joined X Member organization because at least there’s compensation for doing what I love.”
***
Tonight, Harry has scheduled private transportation to the Caesar’s Palace again. It’s where William Freedman, and all other fucks like him, stay for $40,000 a night. He stays in the Octavius Villas, with a personal butler and seriously private elevator and pool. There’s no other place to catch him other than during one of his few token times at the gambling tables.
I chose that place for Mikayla and myself to shop at, in case William Freedman had a spotter who frequented places he planned to visit prior to his arrival just to feel things out. The person could confirm my and Mikayla’s identities as Jace and Alisha Windhoek and help ease the two of us into the billionaire’s society. Rich men like Freedman are often anxious around strangers, unless pussy is being tossed around. Hence the X Member rule of not fucking your prey. We are a bad lot but mixing murder with sex is taboo for everyone.
I never thought I’d be in this situation until I saw Mikayla Bryant’s profile. Of course, I’d desire a taste of her.
I’m wearing one of the custom suits Trick modified and sitting on the chair in the living room. I glance at my palms where I held Trick’s sword. All the adrenaline in the world was rushing through my body, and my only thought was that that bastard had put Mikayla in danger.
The gashes run straight through the blood oath in my palms, making my shit look like shredded meat. They’ll heal fast enough. In fact, I squeeze my hands into fists as another forgotten emotion rolls over me. Anticipation. I cannot fucking wait to see Mikayla in the ball gown Trick also manipulated.
Feel like a teenage chump awaiting the arrival of my prom date.
Prom queen, more like it.
When I was a kid, we couldn’t afford much because most of the money went to the church my mother’s family assisted in running. I saw photos of my dad as a youth, of his parents as well. They never wanted for a thing and always wore formal attire.
I still feel uncomfortable in a suit and each one I wear is especially made for me.
Here she comes. I hear her heels clicking against the marble floor. My cognizance heightens as Mikayla stops just inside of the living room.
All of the air has disappeared from my lungs as I watch the vision of beauty standing across from me. The dress she’s wearing is like gold silk painted onto her curves. The neckline plunges down to her belly button, one sudden move and I’ll be gazing at her nipples.
My limbs don’t fail me as I get up. But my cock is once again ready to pounce. The closer I step to her, the more I’m enthralled by the saccharine scent she bathed with. It’s a sweet scent, really; has it masked the natural honey taste of her pussy?
“That’s not the dress you were told to wear tonight, Mikayla,” I find my voice, and it’s as hard as ever. I’m like a dope fiend who was given one shot of the good shit, and no matter how hard I try, no matter how ruthless I am, I can’t have another hit of the drug between her thighs. I want to escort her back into the bedroom, no other man is worthy of seeing her looking so damn beautiful. Fuck, I’m not worthy, either.
Mikayla tilts her head, the pulse of her neck is on display, begging me to softly nibble as she places on one of those chandelier earrings. “I picked this outfit myself, Jagger. We’re crossing paths with Mr. Freedman at the high roller tables, consider me your good luck charm, as I will not leave this suite in anything else.”
“You had two choices, this wasn’t one of them.” I grit out. “Do I need to remind you that the other dress options were improved to keep you save.”
She glances up at me from thick long eyelashes. “Isn’t that what I have you for?”
The doorbell chimes.
Mikayla starts for it, I grab her wrist and yank until she spins around and is pressed against my chest.
Mikayla scoffs. “No, need to be a bully, Jagger. Just compliment me, it’s how conversations normally progress when a female spends half the day getting prepared for her male.”
My jaw tenses. I’m a selfish man, yet something tells me she wasn’t spending so long getting dolled up for my benefit. The doorbell rings again. Harry has arrived promptly to escort us to our ride, which means that Mikayla stepped from the room right on time. This charade is for William Freedman.
There are a few times I could have set up a sniper rifle while he was coming from meetings and attending an event at the convention center. The profile that was provided outlined his entire schedule. But I want Mikayla at my side… maybe I can persuade her to my way of thinking.
Trick assumed I replaced Ava Sinclair for her, after all. The thought has wiggled its way into my mind a few times, yet looking at Mikayla, she’d be the perfect assassin. Initially, Trick’s ideas, the ones he shared when she’d passed out, seemed far-fetched, crazy even. But just looking at Mikayla, I can’t see myself giving her up so easily. If I can persuade the princess to enjoy the taste of blood, during Freedman’s death, it might overshadow the deadly trouble, which will surely come my way.
Mikayla
Jagger excels at anything his hand touches. He’s a beast with a gun. The way he touched my body was such perfection that I’m starting to have withdrawals being forced to go without more. And here, in the mid
dle of Caesar’s Palace high stakes lounge, he started off with BlackJack, which has a $50,000 minimum on a single hand. The chips he started with have begun to stack up. With champagne in my hand, I lean close to him, and have to force myself not to close my eyes while breathing in his intoxicatingly sexy scent.
My hand rubs over his bicep, heck, I’m just playing my part. The instant I laid eyes on him, sitting in the living room of our suite a few hours ago, lust blossomed, and my wetness trickled ever so softly onto my thong. And then the asshole said something rude, as usual. I take another sip. I’ve come to the conclusion that Sinclair is a woman. Trick mentioned her twice. The first time was when I woke from being unconscious, the second time, during his fight with Jagger he spoke of her beauty.
He’d said I was just as beautiful. Or maybe more…
But Sinclair is from their world. She’s the type of woman that attracts a man like Jagger.
I watch as Jagger completes the hand movements that let the dealer know he is choosing to ‘stay’ or be ‘served’ with yet another card. Each time, he adds to his stacks of cash. The Filipino dealer moves methodically and fluid as he tosses him more money than I’ve ever laid eyes on. He loses once, tosses a golden coin his way and continues.
“Kiss me.” His thick lips are surrounded by bristles and hardly move. Jagger does a hand movement to stay. “Mikayla, kiss me now, and stop staring.”
Damn, I have been drooling on the man I’m supposed to be pretending to be married to! I reach over to offer him a peck on the lips. His hand clasps the back of my neck and doesn’t let me go. He claims my mouth in a kiss so strong that my heartbeat thumps in my ears.
“That’s a right beautiful good luck charm you have there.” A man’s voice says from the behind me.
“Very lucky,” the Filipino nods as I sit back on my stool and glance around. Jagger reaches past me and shakes none other than William Freedman’s hand.
“Jace Windhoek,” he says.
Oh, damn, I forgot.
