Never Kiss a Bad Boy

by Flite, Nora

  Yes. This was better.

  “It's Friday night in downtown New York,” I said. “When has it not gotten busy in here?”

  Chuckling, he jumped from his seat and brushed back his short, copper hair. “Fair point. If all else fails,” he said, pointing at Anabelle. “I'll just wet my appetite in familiar waters.”

  Rolling my eyes, I reclined. “She's seen you take hundreds of girls into the backroom, I don't get why she puts up with you.”

  “Because I'm good with my hands.” Winking, Kite looked over my head. Turning, I saw what he did; a crowd was forming, eager half-dressed women who were here to enjoy themselves. “I'm ready to have some fun.”

  I knew what 'fun' meant. Enough substances in your brain or pussy on your cock, and you could forget about the dark pain, tortured cries, and twisted memories.

  At least, for a little while.

  - Chapter 2 -

  Marina

  I couldn't stop shaking.

  From the outside, my sweating face and sour-milk skin would have looked like fear. That was normal, right? When you were standing there, watching a man who seconds ago had been alive and was now solidly dead on the grass... you got scared.

  But I wasn't.

  I was trembling with excitement.

  This dead man—a man I'd followed for over a week and had learned was named Frankie the Razor—was going to be the first man I'd ever killed. The start of my revenge.

  And now, this monster was lying stiff on the ground.

  I didn't understand how this had happened.

  The tip of my toe touched something; the remains of a fallen hot dog. Around me, people were screaming. My ears heard it, the mayhem, but I was still in shock. The ruckus came at me from years away, not affecting me while I stood near the body.

  He wasn't breathing, I thought he'd stopped before he hit the ground. Was that possible?

  It had all gone down so fast. I'd been following Frankie, keeping my distance because that was what you did, if all the crime shows were to be believed. He was here to watch the marathon, I'd thought. Or maybe he was just strolling in the park. I couldn't know what was normal for him.

  The sun was still shining, the beautiful day contrasting with the murder scene. I saw the blood, it was seeping from his shirt in a giant ripple. Some had begun pooling on the grass.

  A hand shoved me, paramedics shouting for everyone to move. They crouched, examining Frankie and touching him with their hands and gear. They could have known just looking at his wide, glassy eyes. The man was dead.

  And I'd seen it happen.

  The guy in the grey coat. I hadn't spotted him until he'd bumped into Frank. The figure had materialized from no where. Then came the tip of the gun, knuckles that had been bone white and covered with tattoos.

  In my moment of pure amazement, I'd actually read them. Swim. His tattoos said 'swim' across his hand.

  The Starter had shot his pistol. I hadn't heard the other gun, just a few feet away from me. No one had. But unlike everyone else, I hadn't looked away.

  I was the only witness to a murder.

  The crowd was swarming, shoving to get close, cameras flashing photos of the grizzly corpse. Police were threading through, waving folks to retreat and asking if anyone had seen what had gone down.

  Lifting my chin, I pushed the chocolate brown hair from my eyes. In this city, cops and I were not friends. Not any longer.

  Ducking my eyes, I turned on my heel. My steps were fast, though I had no clue where I was going.

  That man with the tattoos.

  His sharp jaw, fine eyebrows and thunderstorm pupils entered my brain. Who was he? I wondered, burying my hands in my pockets in spite of the heat. Someone as efficient as that, he had to be experienced. Had Frankie betrayed him, angered him? Was there a motive to the killing?

  My world was a wreck. Revenge, it was all I'd had on my mind since I'd seen Frankie's scraggly mug.

  He hadn't recognized me, but he couldn't have. I'd been a six year old hiding in a closet on that fateful day, and the police had taken care not to plaster my face all over the news while they investigated the slaughter of my parents and older sister.

  Finding Frankie had given me purpose, even if it was a vicious one. I knew nothing about how to kill, but I'd planned to end Frank's life.

  It wasn't so simple, though.

  It had taken sixteen years to come across one of the two assholes who were to blame for ruining my happiness. I needed Frankie alive so he could tell me where to find his accomplice.

  In my memory—my nightmares—I recalled the other man as being gigantic, muscular. Dead eyes that held nothing, and a terrible smile that was missing a tooth. But I had no name, nothing of use.

  I'd needed Frankie to lead me to him. Now, it was too late.

  I need to find him, I realized. The 'swim' tattooed man who'd moved like a panther. He'd murdered Frankie so effortlessly, he had to know something about the guy.

  Stomping down the busy sidewalk in the city, the sirens of cop cars in my ears, I knew what I would do.

  No matter how long it could take... I would find the assassin from the park. I'd scour the whole city if I had to. Someone would have to know who he was.

  Swim—as I'd begun dubbing him—would be found in time.

  I'd waited sixteen years to claim revenge.

  I could wait a little longer.

  ****

  The news stations wouldn't shut up about the murder.

  That was good, honestly. I listened to every station, flipped channels in my apartment and scrounged the internet. Newspapers piled up and covered everything. It only took a few days before they said the word that would turn my heart into a propeller.

  Hitman.

  The kill had been too precise, too fast. The burn from the gun barrel on Frankie's skin revealed it was a close up attack. The cops said they were sure of it.

  They also revealed that he was part of a notorious mafia family—the Montegos. Frankie had enemies, and his enemies had money. Someone had organized a hit on him.

  “Holy shit,” I said to myself. Sitting up on my couch, shoving aside paper stacks, I grabbed a notebook. There were too many things crowding into my skull. I wanted to write them down so I could make a plan.

  Tapping my chin, I scraped my brain for every sliver of detail about the man. Reddish hair, I'd seen it burning in the sun around his scalp like a halo. He'd looked young, maybe my age. Light skin, pretty tall—taller than Frankie—and those onyx eyes.

  He had a bluetooth device on his ear, I suddenly recalled.

  I didn't recognize the model, I'd never bothered buying one of those things; I lived a pretty simple life. For cash, I helped out with online data entry for hospitals. The money I'd inherited from my father's burned business had dwindled over the years. The leftovers, all fifteen grand of it, were sitting in my bank.

  Thinking about the money forced painful memories to bubble up. My neck hurt from how hard I shook my head. Stop, not now, I told myself. Focus on this. Think about the bad shit later.

  Turning the page, I chewed my pen. If he had a bluetooth phone, maybe he was talking to someone. Does that mean he doesn't work alone?

  Write down everything, Marina.

  Every detail.

  On a fresh piece of paper, I drew the man's tattooed knuckles. This was what I would show people. It would be the easiest way to identify the guy I was looking for.

  I'd gathered as much information as I could. With nothing else on my side but determination, and a dash of hope, I began my hunt.

  I would find my hitman.

  ****

  Eight Months Later

  Licking my lips, I reached up to take the paper back from the inked shopkeeper behind the counter. “I'm sorry, say that again?” I asked.

  “I said those look like Kite's knuckles. Yeah, I remember the time he and I got wasted. I challenged him to a bloody knuckles contest.” Snorting, the bald man folded his arms. “It was a stupid a
s hell decision. Guy didn't back down, tore me up. Like I said, stupid of me.”

  A vibrating tremor inched up from my knees to my lungs. Kite. His name is Kite. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Shrugging into his ears, the guy pointed out the door. “Well, him and his friend Jacob own a bar down on Northline. The Corner Velvet, ever hear of it?”

  I hadn't. “No,” I said quickly. “Can you give me the address?” I tried to soften my excitement.

  Suspicion filled the man's face. “Sure thing.” Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a scrap of paper and scratched out the information. If he was curious about my intentions, he never asked. He simply gave me the address and waved me off, perhaps deciding that if I had any plans for Kite, he didn't want to get involved.

  That was good.

  Because the plans I had were as serious as they could get.

  - Chapter 3 -

  Kite

  The air outside was crisp. It cleared my head, shredded my throat.

  In long shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, I didn't just jog through the streets.

  I sprinted.

  It didn't feel like spring was so far away, the sky more blue than cloudy. The grass was still faded and brown, but otherwise... the park looked exactly the same.

  Especially the spot I'd unconsciously approached.

  Had it been unconscious?

  Heaving, I grabbed the tops of my thighs and hunched over. My chest argued with me, acting like breathing was not what it wanted to do. I ignored it, staring straight at the spot on the ground just yards away.

  There was nothing to signify that the body had been there. But I knew.

  Since the day I'd pulled the trigger and killed Frank...

  I couldn’t let it go.

  Rubbing perspiration from my face, I stood straighter. The park was sparse, nothing like the packed day in June. Someone was walking a dog; I heard it bark. It reminded me of the gun blast.

  Curling my hand at my hip, I felt the invisible weapon. The idea of it made me itch, boiling in my tendons. I wanted to crush the handle, feel the weight. I knew, as I turned and jogged from the park, that I would go home and clean my gun.

  I'd been handling it every night that I wasn't wasted on booze.

  You need to stop this, I told myself flatly. This can't be healthy.

  Telling myself this wasn't new. I'd tried to hammer it into my skull for months. I had debated seeing a therapist, but imagining the conversation had been enough to put me off.

  Yes, that's right. I keep visiting the spot where I murdered someone. Oh, no. Not the first man I ever killed—just the last.

  Oh? You're going to need to call the cops?

  Well, thanks for your time!

  I was too burnt to run the miles back to my place. This time, I flagged down a taxi.

  Watching the city creep by through the foggy window, I felt—was lonely the word? Detached. That was better.

  When I was younger, I'd felt like this. Back then, I'd had reasons to withdraw into myself. I imagine all kids cope with rough shit that way.

  Then Jacob had arrived in my tiny world. Our blood oath had given me gravity. Jacob, of all people, was at my side and ready to talk.

  That wasn't the problem. I wasn't craving human interaction. What I was lacking these days was something more encompassing.

  Now that I wasn't a contract killer...

  I didn't have a purpose.

  Paying the taxi driver, I shut the door and headed into the apartment. I took the stairs, long strides that skipped a step at a time. I wanted to get away from my depressing realization. Alcohol didn't do it, sex didn't do it, and literal running was futile.

  But I still tried.

  Inside, I threw my sweater onto the couch. My shoes left wet smudges on the wood floor; I ignored them. Almost possessed, I entered my bedroom. There was a pair of black panties by the side of the bed, I just kicked them aside. The woman they belonged to wouldn't come back for them.

  Tracing my fingers down the side panel of my bed's headboard, I found the indent an inch up from the shaggy rug. A little pressure, and the secret cover popped off. Inside the hollow bed frame, I stored a number of things. The Ruger Mark Two was what I retrieved first.

  Bringing it with me into the living room, I also carried a bottle of oil, a rag, and my tools. Reaching the coffee table, I shoved everything on it.

  There was a rhythm to taking the gun apart. My fingers were practiced, unscrewing and twisting at the smooth metal. Surgical precision, I had the Ruger dismantled in minutes.

  I could have done it faster, but I savored this process.

  Polishing the barrel, I hummed softly. The vibration in my pocket demanded my attention. Digging the device out, I saw Jacob's name, then tapped the button and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Hey man,” I said, going back to cleaning. “What's up?”

  “Just checking in.” His voice had an echo. I knew he was in the basement at the bar. “Did a few errands today. What about you, what are you up to?”

  Glancing at the partial-gun, I held it to the light. It shimmered. “You know. The usual.”

  “Right. Got it.” Jacob rolled something, metal grating.

  “Are you working right now?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  Chuckling, he breathed out softly. “Got a delivery this morning. You want to come down, help me out? Could use more muscle.”

  My smile went sideways. “I guess I am stronger than you.” Jacob made a noise that said he didn't agree. “Let me finish up and change. I'll be there in thirty.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Think you'll stay for the night shift?”

  In my fingers, the gun came back together. I'd assembled it while we talked. Now, holding it eye-level, I stared down the sight and aimed at the front door.

  It smelled like polish. It felt like heaven.

  Under my finger, the trigger squeezed. The empty clip did nothing. In my head, I imagined the bang; my shiver went to my belly.

  All I wanted to do was feel that rush again. Fuck, I wanted it so bad. I needed something rolling over my tongue—alcohol or flesh—to make me forget.

  “Yeah,” I whispered into the phone. “I think I might just hang around after all.”

  ****

  Anabelle was already serving customers, the place busy with the happy-hour rush.

  I tossed her a look; she hurried our way, giving us priority. “What can I get you boys?” she asked.

  “Whiskey,” I said. “Straight, please.”

  She gave me a glass, then handed Jacob the same. We clinked the containers, and dammit, it was hard not to smile after a gulp of that strong drink.

  “So,” he said, leaning back on the stool. “I noticed another bottle of Johnny Walker was empty.”

  I flinched. “Yeah, I finished it off. Is that suddenly a problem?”

  He shrugged casually. “You started it and finished it all by yourself, last night.”

  Rocking my glass in my fingers, I watched the golden whiskey slosh. “It's okay if you lecture me.”

  “I'm not going to do that.”

  Wrinkling my forehead, I eyed the ceiling. “No? Then how about this. I forgot I drank it all until you reminded me.” Glancing sideways, I saw Jacob's tight frown. “Ah. There it is.”

  My friend hesitated. “Kite, I don't want to tell you how to live your life. I'm just worried you're in a spiral.”

  Leaning closer to him, I put down my glass on the bar-top. “You'll be happy to know you're right. I am in a spiral. Any suggestions on how to fix that?”

  “You could quit drinking.”

  I tightened my spine. “I just need something to fill my time.” Pointedly, I slid the whiskey further from me. “If not this, then what? More women?”

  Jacob's lips parted; no sound came out. His eyes, pale blue and always so calm, flitted over my shoulder. Whatever he was seeing, it had stopped him in his tirade. Twisting, I spotted the source of his interest.
/>   All curves and curls, the woman just looked warm. Not friendly, I'm talking the kind of girl you wrapped yourself up in and understood how humans lived in caves before we had furnaces.

  She was dressed in a jean skirt that squeezed her hips, and black leggings that made me cry with how they hid her lovely legs. When she walked, the little gap between her thighs created a heart.

  It would fit my face perfectly.

  Her luxurious, coffee colored hair hung down her shoulders in waves. It shielded some of her cheeks, highlighting her shining brown eyes.

  She was hot as hell... and looking at me.

  “Holy fuck,” I said with a poet's mouth.

  Jacob cleared his throat. “She's coming this way.”

  “Of course she is,” I said under my breath. “I summoned her with my mind. She's the cure for my addictions.”

  Rolling his eyes, he inched closer to talk near my ear. “How do you know she's not coming over here to talk to me?”

  “Well for one, she's not looking at you.” The girl hadn't stopped staring the closer she got.

  Jacob breathed through his nose. “Don't be so cocky, Kite.”

  Hopping off of the stool, I gave him a tight shrug. “Don't be sore. Have a drink—on me.” Grinning, I indicated my abandoned whiskey. “I'll go meet my new friend halfway.”

  Spinning, I abruptly closed the distance between me and the dark-haired woman. She pulled up short, but didn't waver or give me that pretty little surprised look a lot of girls did.

  No, not this one.

  Bold as ever, she leaned up and hushed into my eardrum. “I need to talk to you. In private.”

  Blood stampeded into my heart. Oh, I like her. Winding an arm around her waist, I felt the knitted material of her form-fitting sweater. “Private? You read my mind.” Guiding her through the crowd, I shot a smirk at Jacob as I passed. “We have a private room down the hall, that should work.”

  “Sure. That's fine.” She had a lovely, low voice. It was creamy, I wanted to fill my head with it.

  Down the thin hall we went, beyond the bathrooms and the spare closet we used as an office. The new area was low-lit, curved booths and a second bar for special events.