PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I hate cold eggs, but I hate being the bad guy more so. This is one of the few times I'm not forced to be, even though I would really like for her to get lost.

  I finish my pancakes, then resign to calling her back.

  She answers on the third ring. “What now?”

  She sniffles.

  “Have you been crying?” My mouth slams shut.

  I don't want to know. I don't want to know if she was crying, or why she made off with my phone number, or anything else about her or her life. She has taken all the fun out of our drunken shaboink.

  “Why are you calling me, Dimitri?”

  “I'm going to text you the address to the cafe I'm at. You have thirty minutes to get down here if we really have to do this.” I punch the disconnect button and text her the address, 'cause I'm a man of my word.

  Or whatever.

  I finish my food, except the eggs. The waitress clears my plates and refills my coffee. In ten minutes, Syd is standing at the cafe entrance, staring at me.

  I wave her over.

  She drops into the opposite seat, purse thudding to the floor in unison. She's wearing a long t-shirt that has been cut and tied until it's not really a t-shirt anymore and skin-tight black pants. Her cheeks have this glittery dust on them, but she looks way too pissed off to be a fairy.

  “Fuck you, Dimitri.”

  “No do-overs,” I say.

  She lifts her arm to beckon the waitress, but keeps her eyes on me. When the waitress comes over, Syd says in a gentle tone, “Coffee, black, please.”

  The waitress walks away.

  Syd's voice darkens again. “You don't have to be a prick. I just wanted to explain what happened with the phone number.”

  I shrug. “Explain.”

  She glowers, then she leans back in her chair. “I had a one-night stand at a hotel once, and later I couldn't find the guy when I thought I was pregnant.”

  “Hold up. You said you had that taken care of.”

  “Well, I do, now.”

  The waitress sets a coffee mug in front of Syd and leaves.

  I narrow my eyes. “That thought hadn't crossed your mind?”

  Syd picks up her coffee but doesn't drink any.

  “Well, if you're all responsible now,” I say, “then you didn't need my number.”

  “Things happen.” She shrugs. “I try to always be prepared.”

  “Pretty sure that's not what the Girl Scouts had in mind.”

  “You were drunk and horny, so I figured it was easier just to grab it off your phone.” She sighs and drinks her coffee, then wrinkles her nose. “This is really bitter.”

  I push the bowl of creamer toward her.

  She plucks out one of the tubs and pulls back the top. “You know, there's a coffee made from monkey shit. It's like the most expensive coffee in the world or something.”

  “Sounds like the high-life to me,” I reply, deadpan.

  She smiles, but it only serves to emphasize the bleakness in her eyes.

  I could ask why she's sad, and she would probably tell me. I do not like this idea.

  She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Since we've got everything out in the open, want me to stop by this evening?”

  My first inclination is to say yes, then I remember there is the off-chance Karl might summon me. Unlikely for at least a few months, though.

  But I do have that rule against bringing home the same girl twice. The rule isn't usually difficult to keep. Syd, however, is terribly tempting. Even as annoyed as I am with her right now, she just might become the first exception. Something tells me she's burying her troubles, and I'm more than willing to help a good cause.

  I drink my coffee, mulling over the presented opportunity. “You got a lot of guys spitting game, I'd imagine?”

  She looks stunned, then her cheeks flush. “Yeah, there's a few, I guess.”

  “Well, that makes things easier,” I say.

  She laughs. “I'm not going to demand an engagement ring for Christmas, if that's what you're worried about.”

  “Smart lady,” I say.

  “No offense, but I didn't expect to find my Prince Charming at a bar.” She shrugs. “It's just for fun. What about it? You on board?”

  I really should tell her to take a hike, but clearly my self-control is on hiatus.

  I grin. “Hell yeah.”

  ***

  Eight o'clock that evening, someone knocks on my front door. It's Syd, of course. I don't have many visitors. Any, actually. Except the house cleaners, and they are long gone.

  I open the door, but lean against the jamb. “Funny, they don't usually send the same girl twice.”

  “I'm the only one who would deal with your stupid ass.” She pushes past me and invites herself into the living room.

  I lock the door and turn toward her. “Make yourself at home. All my important documents are in the top dresser drawer.”

  “Are you really gonna be a jerk about it?” She puts her hands on her hips. “I thought we were going to fuck.”

  “That's what the advertisement said.” I nod toward the hallway, then head for it.

  She follows right behind. “You sure you single? This place is way too clean and organized for a bachelor.”

  “Positive.” I push open the bedroom door and step back with a gesture. “Ladies first.”

  She enters, flipping the light switch on the wall. “Do you live with your mom?”

  “Yes, she's downstairs watching Jeopardy. I told her I was having a sleep over.”

  I halt in the doorway, taking in Syd's body. Unbelievably, she is back for round two. More unbelievably, I let the little crook into my house again. I still have no idea what I would tell Karl about a hotel charge, though. I will just have to keep an eye on her this time.

  “You're lying.” She turns to face me. “There's no downstairs. Is your mom that type who shows up every week to do the cooking and cleaning?

  “Can you stop asking stupid questions?”

  She blows air through her teeth. “You suck.”

  “Oh, be quiet.” I fold my arms. “Want some wine?”

  She drops her purse on the floor next to my bed. “That's more like it.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Didn't realize I was in the presence of Dionysus.” She perches on the edge of the mattress. “Red, please.”

  I consider skipping the drinks altogether and just taking her right there. So many beautiful things await under those clothes, ready to be explored all over again.

  Instead, I turn around and cross the house to the kitchen. A half bottle of Malbec waits in the fridge. I pour a glass, think better of it, and pour one for myself too. Then I return to the bedroom.

  She has her shoes off, sitting cross-legged on the bed, but hasn't removed anything else. Thankfully. That's part of the fun.

  I knock the door shut with my foot and hand her a glass.

  She sips her wine, looking oddly sophisticated for someone with Ozzy Osbourne eye makeup and enough silver in her ears to take down a werewolf.

  She peers up at me. “Is it a celebrity?”

  I stare at her, dumbly.

  “The person you protect, is it a celebrity?” Her eyes light up. “Oh! Is it Stevie Nicks?”

  “What? No.”

  “Linda Ronstadt?”

  “No.”

  She bounces a little on the mattress. “Is it Jenna Jameson?”

  “Good god, Syd.” I move forward and take her glass, then place it with mine on the nightstand.

  She says, “You didn't drink any of your wine. Did you—”

  I interrupt the chatter mouth with a kiss. I like kissing. For a moment, I can pretend the person knows everything about me and doesn't mind. It's a nice fantasy. The fact she has been in my bed before makes the lie that much easier to believe.

  My hand slides under the back of her intentionally shredded shirt. Her skin is soft, and she tips her head back with a little moan. The familiarity of the soun
d is tantalizing. I lean in and kiss her neck. Her breathing quickens as I make my way down to her collarbone.

  Even knowing what waits for me, I want to take my time. Kiss every part of her from her lips to her knees. Never thought revisiting could be so rousing.

  My fingertips follow up the length of her spine until reaching fabric. She's wearing a sports bra. Seriously?

  I pull back, lifting her t-shirt over her head and tossing it aside.

  My gaze settles over the plump rises. The sports bra isn't that bad. Still, like a liquidation, everything must go.

  I reach for her, then halt. Something is wrong. Not with her.

  With me.

  My vision tunnels. I know this sensation all too well. I start grabbing at the floor, trying to find her shirt.

  “You have to leave,” I say, but my voice sounds distant.

  Minutes. I have minutes. Goddammit.

  My fingers grasp her discarded shirt. I stand upright and struggle to see. All I can make out is her hazy form.

  “Dimitri?”

  I hook her under one armpit and fumble with the doorknob, her shirt still in my hand.

  “Dimitri, what are you doing?”

  Her body tenses. I march her down the hallway, my consciousness waning. That's how it feels, anyway. I'm not actually going to pass out.

  Much worse.

  The doorknob on the front door jingles as I fight with the lock. Syd is yelling at me, struggling from my hold. She says something about me hurting her arm.

  I finally tug the door open, then shove her outside. I chuck her shirt in her general direction. She turns to step inside, but I slam the door shut in her face. She yells my name. My back meets the door, and I slide partway down. Waiting.

  She kicks at the door. “My purse is still in there! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I open my eyes.

  I'm standing in a large chamber with an arched ceiling and elaborate metal chandeliers. The walls are painted arabesque designs in shades of teal. Persian rugs, showing age but not wear, hang like tapestries. Etched lamps, tall hookahs with dozens of hoses, lanterns with colored glass, leather floor cushions, and silver trays propped on wooden legs spread across the floor.

  Down the length of the room hang sheer fabrics in jewel tones, barely obscuring the stage at the far end. The stage stands about three feet high, draped in thick rugs. On the stage rests a throne of hammered silver. Intricate designs wrap across the legs and base, up the high back, and down the arms. The cushion is red and gold.

  I have been in this room more times than I can count. I'm sure the room has been here for a hundred years, even if the mansion has not, and the decor must be ten times as old. The air smells deep and musky with the scent of argan oil.

  “Dimitri.”

  I settle my gaze on the man sitting on the throne. He is tall and wiry, with fair skin, hooked nose, and thin hair. He seems pleased with himself. Then again, he has no reason not to be.

  His name is Karl Walker, and I have known him my whole life.

  “There's a new wish,” he says.

  He nods, and a man standing at his side, but barely noticeable, steps forward and offers me a manila envelope. The man wears a dark blue and tan uniform, one of the six men who make up Karl's actual personal armed security.

  I take the envelope, because in minutes I won't have a choice anyway. I want to ask why he needs me again so soon after the last orders, but I know my place; I keep my mouth shut.

  “I request you hunt down that man and kill him,” he says

  I close my eyes. At least it's not another kidnapping.

  “Dimitri?”

  I hesitate, then I force my eyes open. The smirk on his face never fails to make my heart drop into my stomach. To make me think that for one day, just one time, I would love to be able to tell him no. To deny his request.

  But I can't.

  “Seek and kill that man, Dimitri.” Karl smiles, because his next words guarantee he will get his request. “This . . . I . . . wish.”

  A dull hum fills my head. It's a subtle noise, but it won't stay that way forever. The further I am from fulfilling the order—the wish—the more obtrusive the sound will become. And that's just the beginning.

  Like it or not, I have to obey his command.

  That's right. Karl is my Aladdin and I'm the fuckin' genie.

  There are a few caveats though:

  I don't have any magical powers.

  Wishes are unlimited.

  And Karl is an asshole.

  Chapter 2

  The target's name is Phil. He lives in a big house in Scottsdale. Rich guy. Typical of Karl. I'm not entirely sure what Karl's industry is, but he is one hell of a competitor. I mean, I haven't met any other suit who has a hired-gun at his command—literally.

  I asked my father once how this came to be. He said the deal happened so long ago, no one really remembers what transpired. We've been passed down generation after generation, serving Karl's family line as they see fit.

  While I have no proof, I do have a strong suspicion this is exactly how they have all used their upper-hand. I can't imagine any other use for us. It would be a waste just to have us cooking up soufflés in the kitchen or some shit.

  My boots clunk down the stone floor of the mansion hallway. I have my head down, sorting through the papers. My intel does a good job. They have provided a picture, an address, everything except the target's baby book. Hell, I could probably get that too, if I asked.

  But I have all the information I need. The trickiest part will be getting him alone. I could try to find an in with the guy and lure him off somewhere. Click of the trigger and problem solved. Or, I could use brute force and break into his house. Unfortunately, that increases the chances of the first shot fired being at me. Not a big fan of that idea.

  See, most people won't shoot to kill. They'll take out a knee or something. Personally, I would rather die than what happens if I don't fulfill a wish.

  Failure isn't an option. Not for as long as I'm still breathing.

  A familiar voice says my name.

  I look up from the papers in my hand and stop short.

  Silvia is standing at the hall doorway, twirling her crimped black locks and eying me up and down. She does that a lot. It's unnerving.

  “Daddy sending you on another mission?”

  “Yeah. Wanna take this one?” I offer the papers and envelope as I head toward her.

  She laughs, but it's also unnerving. Everything about her is unsettling, ever since we were kids.

  She pops her gum. “Afraid not.”

  I push past her into the foyer, passing underneath one of the two massive white staircases, and head toward a set of exit doors.

  “Dimitri?”

  I glance back. She has her head tilted, still running her eyes up and down like she's grooming me in her head. She probably is.

  She smiles. “Don't waste my inheritance, okay?”

  I scoff, repressing the shudder, then let myself out. I expect Silvia to follow, but she remains inside where she belongs.

  A white Honda Civic is waiting in the carport, engine idling. Low key. That's how I roll.

  I slide in, drop the file into the passenger seat, and pull out to head toward Phoenix.

  Her inheritance. That's what Silvia calls me.

  If Karl thinks of me as his guard dog, then Silvia considers me her puppy.

  And she's just itching to get her hands on me.

  ***

  On the drive home, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I fumble with one hand to pull it out without swerving lanes, then tap the accept button and put it to my ear.

  “Dim's Mortuary, you slice 'em, we ice 'em.”

  “You're gonna need ice after I finish beating the crap out of you.”

  It's Syd.

  “Yeah, about that . . . ” I flip the blinker and exit the freeway. “Work called.”

  “What the fuck, Dim? Did you go out the window?”

&nb
sp; I slow to a red light. “Wait a second, you went back inside?”

  “No shit. I needed my purse. Keys, driver license, you know, those minor things.”

  “Ah,” I say, because how else am I supposed to respond? Next time I will have to remember to lock the door.

  “You're a jerk,” she says. “I'm coming over tomorrow, and you're making this up to me.”

  “Can't, sorry. Gonna be out of town for a few days.”

  “Doing what?” She sounds unamused. “Is the celebrity traveling?”

  “That's one way to look at it.”

  She huffs. “What happened, anyway? First off, I didn't hear a phone. Second, you were gone when I went back inside. What's up with that?”

  “What's up with what, Syd?”

  “Were you hiding? You weren't hiding, were you?”

  I raise my voice. “You're breaking up! I'm approaching a tunnel!”

  She growls. “You're a terrible liar. Are you going to tell me what the hell happened?”

  “What happened when?”

  I turn into my neighborhood. Almost home. Thank you, Flying Spaghetti Monster. I can't wait to get in a few hours of shut eye before I start this wish. Before the dull hum in my brain grows too loud to sleep.

  “This evening, Dimitri! What happened this evening?”

  “No hablo ingles,” I say, then hang up the phone as I pull into my driveway.

  I expect to see Syd standing on my front porch, but she's not. Chances are high my tires will be slashed in the morning. She's that kind of girl.

  I grab the case file, lock the car, and strode up to the front door. My phone vibrates again as I step into my living room. I glance at the screen and sigh. It's Syd.

  Of course.

  I answer. “Comprate un bosque y pierdete.”

  “Yeah, I took high school Spanish, too,” she says. “Get lost in your own damn forest, jerk. I'm coming over.”

  “No, you're not. I told you, I'm heading out of town.”

  “Well, let me send you off right.”

  I glance around the living room. Nothing seems to be out of place. Maybe Syd kept her paws to herself this time.

  I push open the door to my bedroom and flop down on the bed, facing the ceiling. Truth is, I won't be summoned while I'm on a kill. Not to mention, I have a few hours to piss around before the hum starts demanding action.