“I can’t picture the supervisor of killers having a ballerina painting on his wall. Even one with a bullet hole.”
“Well, he does,” she said, and found that she wasn’t really mad at him anymore. Silva hadn’t been much of a fighter in his youth. He was just the son of a gunsmith, who happened to save the life of a Czech heir to an assassination empire. It was funny where people ended up. “Liking tutus doesn’t make him any less of a man, Casey.”
He looked quite flattered for a boy who claimed to be completely secure with his feminine side. “No, I guess not.”
“You can have the painting when Silva dies. No one else would appreciate it like you would.”
Casey pulled her close to him, his arms strong against her back. “Thank you.”
“What are you going to do with the flag?”
“I don’t know. You want it?”
“No,” she said. “But I might steal it anyway.”
Chapter Sixteen
Casey dreamed of her laughing, wearing only brush strokes of oil paint and those high, high heels, dancing for him to the tune of David Bowie’s “Fashion” while twirling a yellow parasol. It was a good dream, enough to evoke a standing ovation that embarrassed both Casey and Frank when his unsuspecting big brother came to retrieve a slightly less threadbare copy of Emma. Casey was tempted to mention the similarities between the matchmaking Emma Woodhouse and Frank himself, considering that his surrogate siblings had officially traversed down the path to surrogate incest right in his backyard, but instead he put a pillow on his lap and kept his mouth shut.
Vincent would’ve called him on it. Vincent would’ve brought out a ruler. But Frank just pretended not to have seen, which suited Casey just fine. He had other things to think of, like whether yellow parasols were in this season. “I guess you got her into bed,” Frank said, obviously unable to resist what he must’ve thought was simple teasing. If only he knew…
“Cheeky.”
“Did you sleep okay down here?”
It was too easy. After being married to Vincent, who would pick up even the slightest innuendos like a satellite, Frank still set himself up for conversations he didn’t want to have. “Apparently,” Casey said, no longer embarrassed though Frank remained so.
Once Frank’s ears returned to their normal color he asked, “What happened to your hair?”
Casey ran his hand through it, his fingers coming up short where she’d thrown the knife at him. Here it was, the first of many lies he’d have to come up with. “Bella threw a knife at my head.” He’d do better with the next lie.
Frank raised his eyebrows. It was hard to tell whether he was amused or angry. He was the protective type, that had been proven on more than one occasion with Vincent. But Casey had never really been in a position to need defending.
“We’re cool,” he said with a smile. Frank’s expression didn’t change. That concerned him. “Really. It’s fine. Please don’t retaliate.”
Frank laughed. That couldn’t be good. “She threw a knife at your head?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think it was her way of asking for space.”
“You were lying down at the time. Why’s that?”
How did he know? “I fell?”
“She pushed you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, hoping this was as far as the inquisition would go. Frank was too smart to let anything get past him. But despite what Bella had said, he didn’t always have sex on the brain. That was the only thing that would make lying to him feasible. If Frank didn’t think in that direction, there would be no need for a lie.
“Give her some space, okay?”
“Okay.”
“The mud isn’t going to come out of that suede,” Frank said. So he’d seen the coat. Had he seen his shirt? “You can borrow one of mine.”
“Thanks.”
Frank affectionately roughed up his hair and left with his book, giving no further indication to exactly how much he knew. Before Casey could ponder it further, the one person who may be able to answer that question came moseying into the room, hopping onto the sofa so close he was nearly on Casey’s lap. “Nice pillow.” Vincent grinned and put his head on Casey’s shoulder. Whether Frank knew or not was no longer important, because there was no denying what Vincent had on his mind. “I guess she likes marshmallows after all.”
Casey grunted a reply. It was a noncommittal response he’d seen Frank use many times. Gideon too, when there was a possibility of the answer bringing conflict. When in doubt, grunt.
“Frank doesn’t know,” Vincent said.
“Thank God,” Casey sighed. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“What’s in it for me?”
He could see why Frank liked to strangle him. “When he finds out he’s probably going to be upset, which means he’ll go hide in the woods so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone. Including you.”
Vincent gave a full pout and said, “I would’ve settled for fifty bucks.”
Casey checked his wallet, knowing in advance that its contents wouldn’t meet satisfaction. Not that Vincent actually needed, or likely even wanted the money. It was the sheer aspect of blackmail that appealed to him. “Sorry, Vin. I don’t have any cash.”
“That’s okay. I got plenty from Bella.” He stood up, already bored with the game because he couldn’t win. “Frank’s reading Emma. Isn’t that funny?” And he left singing to himself, “Matchmaker, matchmaker,” from Fiddler on the Roof.
At least one thing was for certain with Vincent keeping the secret: Frank would remain in the dark until the worst possible moment.
Chapter Seventeen
I tossed away the claw hammer and whipped out my gun, firing the first shot at close range just to feel the blood spray across my face. I took a few steps back and started firing, nine rapid-fire shots, reload, tender and very expensive steaks yielding to each bullet. All three dogs sat eagerly at the foot of the tree, watching the meat as it dangled from where I’d nailed it to the bark. The opportunity for a piece of filet mignon obviously outweighed hearing the suppressed sound of gunfire.
Frank’s footsteps were silent despite the dry leaves littering the ground, but I sensed his presence even before Charlie’s tail started wagging. “Enjoying yourself?” Frank asked from behind me.
I kept shooting, my jaw clenched. I felt a stress headache coming on and I wanted to enjoy my gun while I could still handle loud noises. “Yes.”
“That was dinner.”
“I want pasta.” What I really wanted was to shoot somebody. Not only had Gideon completely dismissed my ferociousness the day before while his would-be murderess was screwing his stepson, but just that afternoon I walked in on him and Maggie talking about the hit, and they went silent the moment I showed up like I was a fucking two-year-old.
Frank wiped some blood off my cheek before giving me a kiss. He could always tell when I was upset about something, even without me posthumously killing a cow.
I said, “I brought one for you,” never taking my eyes off the tenderized target.
He lifted my shirt, pulling another gun from the back of my pants. He knew that I would have a silencer in my pocket for him, but he reached into the wrong one and got Bella’s wad of cash instead. “What’s this?”
“Bella gave it to me.”
“For what?” he asked suspiciously.
Not tattling on her for fucking his little brother. “Well I can’t come out in the woods and play assassin without any money, Frank. Otherwise it’s just murder.” Frank had a secret, it was only fair that I had one too.
“Oh, so it’s Bella’s fault that you’ve murdered our dinner?”
“That works. Wanna play?”
“I already have the gun, don’t I?” He took the silencer from my other pocket and replaced it with Bella’s cash. “What’s on your mind?”
“Gideon.”
“The hit?”
“Nope.” I shot a piece of steak off the tree. Charlie got to i
t first, swallowing it down before Hugo could catch up. Kiki chose to merely roll in the blood left on the ground.
Frank scowled. He tended to get hostile when something, or someone was bothering me. He shot a hunk of steak off closer to Hugo. Charlie got that one too. “Anything I should know about?”
“He treats me like a kid. So does Maggie. I’m gonna be the one who kills whoever ordered that hit.” I freed another piece of meat. This time Hugo managed to get it first. “Right?”
“Yes,” Frank said, then stressed, “if it’s safe.”
“It’ll be safe. You always keep me safe.”
Frank missed his shot and bark flew off the tree instead of dog food. Kiki went chasing after it anyway. Me and my big mouth. I knew he blamed himself for what happened with Henry, just like I blamed myself.
“Almost always,” I said, wrapping my arms around him and resting my head against his shoulder. “Unless I don’t listen to you.”
He held my arm with his free hand, aimed, and shot the smallest steak clear off the nail. It went to Hugo. “I’ll talk to Gideon,” he said, completely changing the subject. This was about the closest that we ever got to discussing what really happened in that warehouse with Frank’s brother.
“And tell him what?” How could he convince Gideon of something he didn't even believe himself?
“That despite being a brutal little sociopath you have a very sensitive disposition and would appreciate being included on all matters related to his impending assassination.” He smiled at me. “I may not always be able to protect you, but I will always defend you.”
I hugged him tighter, as if that could close the distance between us. “And I'll defend you. Through anything.”
“I know you will.” He handed me his gun and kissed the top of my head. I dropped both guns to the ground and draped my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his. My head was starting to pound but it wouldn’t be a bad one; a working headache instead of a stop me in my tracks migraine. And anyway, making love with Frank had a tendency to make me forget all my troubles, no matter what they were. “You look a little bleary. Are you okay?”
“Just go slow.” As much as I loved the truly rough stuff that we used to get up to before I got hurt: strangulation, getting thrashed with a belt and then fucked raw until I couldn’t sit or stand, there was something to be said about making love. It made it feel like things would be okay. Like this normal life was survivable and we could manage it as long as we had each other.
He stroked my hair, his five o’clock shadow tickling my face as he kissed me. I stood on my tiptoes so I could meet his lips, working his coat off his shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. The pounding in my head was increasing with my heartbeat and I would probably regret it later, but I didn’t want to stop.
We moved down together, kneeling on his coat in the mud. Frank kissed the back of my neck and reached in the right pocket this time, finding the lube I always carried. We didn’t bother stripping any more than strictly necessary in the crisp autumn air, and we didn’t bother with foreplay. He held me to him with one arm around my chest as he entered me, supporting both of our weight with his other arm. I rested my aching head against the curve of his shoulder, slowly stroking myself in rhythm to his gentle movement. Our other hands were entwined, our wedding rings like magnets bringing our fingers together.
He’d given me the ring when we moved to Paris. It wasn’t actually a wedding ring but it was one of the only things he had left from his mother: a thin silver band from her first communion. It fit perfectly, like we were truly meant for each other.
I stopped jerking off before coming, letting the feeling of him inside of me bring me to climax instead. I closed my eyes tight, trying to focus on the pleasure as the force of orgasm made my head throb no matter how good it felt everywhere else.
Frank became perfectly still, waiting as I steadied my breathing.
“I’m fine,” I whispered. It was bad enough when we had to wait to have sex because my head hurt, much less when we had to stop having sex.
He slowly traced his hand over my body, coming to rest at the scar on my side. I’d received it the night we met, and had the wound reopened the night I was nearly taken from him. It was his scar as much as it was mine.
I arched my back, willing him to continue. He began gently thrusting, holding my body to him so I remained nearly motionless. His lips were hot against the side of my face, kissing my forehead and my temple, my closed eyes.
Frank didn’t make a sound when he came. Even his breathing was no louder than the rustling leaves on the trees. He sat back and pulled me onto his lap, softly tracing his fingers through my hair. “Please don’t kill our dinner again, Vincent.”
I smiled, utterly content in his arms. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lying beside Bella in the darkness, Frank patiently listened to her shallow breathing with kitchen shears gripped in his hand. He had shared a bed with Bella for years when they’d worked together, and he knew her to be a very sound sleeper despite the horrors she’d experienced as a child.
She curled onto her side, her arms cradled under her chin like a little girl holding a beloved doll. Frank waited for her to be still again, then carefully gathered her long hair in his fist. Bella’s hair went down to her waist when she didn’t have it fastened in an elaborate chignon, and as far as Frank was aware, hadn’t been given more than a trim in decades.
He held it between them, careful not to lay on it as he moved closer, their bodies nearly touching. Frank remembered once having to calm her from the point of hysterics after a sniper job, when the wind from the top of a skyscraper caused her jeweled barrette to become tangled in her hair. He had utterly destroyed the expensive barrette, prying out each gemstone with a knife so he could safely remove it without making her lose a single strand. Her hair was very important to her.
For several minutes he remained motionless, holding the scissors and contemplating the outcome. It was not Bella’s emotional attachment to her hair that would prevent Frank from avenging Casey in the same manner. It wasn’t even the prospect of her attacking Casey again. That simply was not Bella’s style. It would be like wearing a special dress more than once. Frank knew that her method of retribution would be more personal, as close as she could get to his heart without interference from his ribcage. And Vincent’s hair was far too precious to Frank for her to miss the opportunity.
Vincent wore it in a style that Frank thought of as resembling a cockatiel, though he’d never tell him so. It was short on the sides and in back, with enough up top to grab hold of and drag him around, which was precisely the point. Although Frank could have given him the cut with his straight razor in about ten minutes, V insisted on having it done in Paris every six weeks in a salon that took twice that long just to get a reservation. Frank couldn’t really blame him. He’d shaved the kid’s head when they’d first moved in together to help disguise Vincent from Charlie, and Vincent was still upset over it four years later. Frank could only imagine the marital conflict it would cause if he drove Bella to revenge and she tore Vincent’s hair out with her bare hands.
Frank gently draped the fistful of hair over her shoulder, where it cascaded across the front of her silk nightgown like a spreading pool of blood. Then he waited. It was nearly three o’clock when Bella awoke, finally sensing the danger upon her two hours after it had begun. “What the fuck are you doing, Frankie?”
“Do not throw things at Casey,” he said, and he snipped the scissors close to her ear. She gasped and leapt out of his way, falling backwards off the bed. Frank walked quickly but calmly from the room with a subdued smile on his face while she screamed after him, calling him a “fucking cocksucker,” which he never had understood as being an insult.
He crawled back into bed with Vincent, checking that the noise-canceling headphones they'd bought to help with V's migraines were still in place over his ears. No doubt the rest of the house was awake for
Bella’s shrieking, but Vincent was sleeping like a baby.
V stirred only slightly as Frank moved against him, muttered a request for pancakes, and fell promptly back to sleep. The only sound to be heard was the gentle ticking of the hall clock, a wedding gift from Alan with a note declaring people to be “like wine, improving in flavor with age.” Frank carefully removed the headphones from Vincent’s ears and placed them on the nightstand. The remainder of the night would be silent as Bella searched her hair for damage, verifying the proper length of every strand. The morning was another story, but Frank spent the few hours until sunrise watching Vincent sleep, peacefully curled around his body, holding him close with scissors in hand.
Chapter Nineteen
Gideon was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table looking weary and frustrated. Frank remained standing. He could very well have eased Gideon’s mind and informed him that the enemy they were seeking was Silva, but it presented questions Frank could not yet answer. And Bella had not suffered quite enough out in the countryside to relieve her sentence and take her back to Prague where she belonged.
“She was shouting last night.” Gideon never said Bella’s name. Neither did Maggie, unless she was swearing.
“Must have had a bad dream.” Frank did not like when other people were up as early as him. The mornings were his time. Only Casey was allowed to visit him so early.
“I have a meeting next week. Am supposed to have a meeting next week.”
“Cancel it,” Frank said. There was no more need to have Gideon stay in France than there was for Bella to stay in his home, but he had brought the near-assassination too close to Casey by writing in his sketchbook, and Frank wanted to punish him. Not to mention that Thanksgiving was approaching, a holiday he still found perplexing, and he needed Maggie’s culinary charms to feed Vincent. The last time Frank attempted to cook for V on that damned American holiday, he’d apparently done everything wrong and they ended up feeding the “too French tasting” turkey to the dogs over the next several months.
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 12
