Kiki must have been in bed with someone, and unless Bella’s dubious maternal instincts had persuaded her to allow the dog into bed with her and Casey, it would have to be Deaglan. Frank smiled as he poured a cup of coffee, convinced that Kiki was not being disloyal so much as spying on Deaglan until Frank could return.
The coffee tasted stale, as if it had been on the warmer for days. It was awful. And perfect. Maggie used to leave the coffee on the warmer for him in Portland every night, in the unlikely event that he were to visit. Even though he had only gone to their apartment once or twice a year, there had always been warm coffee waiting for him. And a note. If she and Casey were to be out, there would be a note. Despite Casey’s usual forgetfulness, Frank never came home to an empty house without a note explaining where they were and when they would return. Day or night. Leaving him a note had been important. Frank was important.
He limped to the library, his foot beginning to ache once again as it thawed.
If Deaglan had been there, Frank would have settled things that moment. But going upstairs would be too much trouble, and no sooner had he lay on the sofa and drifted off for some much needed rest, he felt Vincent’s lightweight, bony body straddling his hips. He opened his eyes when Vincent’s hand came against his cheek, his fingertips still cold from outside. “You awake?” V asked sweetly.
“Oui.”
Vincent smiled, the charming but demanding smile that always played across his face when he was anticipating a present. V loved surprises. But he hated to wait. “Where’s my car, Frank?”
“It’s gone.” He jerked his face away in time for V’s fist to glance across his ear rather than catch him straight on. He grabbed Vincent’s wrist, using the momentum to send him flying off the sofa. And right onto his head. Concern for Vincent’s wellbeing immediately suppressed Frank’s natural instinct to defend himself. He knelt beside him and reached tenderly for his head, expecting a handful of blood to greet him as if they were back in the warehouse, the trauma still as fresh in his mind as the day Vincent nearly lost his life. “Christ! Are you okay?”
“Stop babying me, asshole! I’m not gonna fucking break if you look at me wrong!” Vincent smacked Frank’s hand away. “What did you do with my car?”
Frank glared at him. Would it really be too much to get some sleep before they continued their argument from a week ago? “I. Lit. It. On. Fire.”
Vincent shuddered with rage, then kicked Frank’s cast as hard as he could. The pain doubled him over but he caught hold of Vincent’s ankle before he could flee, tugging his foot right out from under him and sending him crashing back to the floor. Frank pinned down his legs before Vincent could repeat his attack, and it wasn’t until Vincent awkwardly curled around his paralyzed legs to try and punch him again that Frank realized they were both grinning like fools lying there on the ground. “You really lit my car on fire?”
“It ran out of gas.”
He rolled his eyes. “Did I hurt your foot?”
“Very much so.”
“You taught me that, you know.”
Frank smiled. He had taught him that: exploiting physical weaknesses because Vincent would be unlikely to defeat someone with brute strength. He missed teaching him. There was absolutely nothing he had ever enjoyed more than imparting his knowledge to the boy and watching Vincent use that knowledge to satisfy his insecurities. And his bloodlust. “What would you say about getting back to work for a little bit?”
“I highlighted the hits that I want.”
The book! Frank gasped and turned back to the formerly locked cabinet. The door was hanging open, the wood chipped and broken where the lock used to be. The only thing left inside was the stash of Bella’s cigarettes. So that’s what Joe was talking about; Vincent had apparently discovered Silva’s book, realized the contents, decided for the both of them that they were no longer retired, and appointed a new handler all during Frank’s absence. It was a wonder he found the time to cause additional mayhem. “You highlighted Silva’s journal?”
“Mostly at random. I dog-eared the pages. And I used one of Casey’s highlighters.” Vincent paused to chew suggestively on his lip and said, “Do something about it.”
Frank grabbed Vincent’s hair to hold him in place while he yanked his pants over his ass. The pain reflected on Vincent’s face was more than expected, but Frank did not loosen his grip, playfully asking, “Oh, so I did hurt you?”
“Just a bump.”
“A bump could kill you.”
“So could boredom.” Vincent looked Frank’s body up and down with implication. Frank shoved his fingers inside of him dry, smirking as Vincent gave a pained grin but reflexively raised his hips to meet him nevertheless. Frank pulled his hair tighter, craning back his neck. Vincent parted his succulent lips and tauntingly added, “You’re bored, too.”
There really was only one way to shut him up. Even with a cock in his mouth Vincent could attempt conversation. Frank wrenched the front of Vincent’s shirt up from behind, drawing the collar tight around his neck. Vincent mutely gasped in surprise, his entire face lighting up as Frank leveled himself over his body. Frank remembered in time to avoid needless discomfort for his naughty spouse that there was lube underneath the sofa. And under most of the furniture in their home.
He tugged the shirt towards him, constricting Vincent’s oxygen further as he entered him in one full thrust, a definitive feeling of being home at long last only then reaching his entire body. Frank stopped for a moment with his entire length inside of him and allowed Vincent to take that same wondrous breath before reining him in again, watching his face for any signs of alarm.
Frank felt Vincent giving himself fully, absolutely fearless as his breathing was restricted, the only tension in his body gripping Frank tighter with each thrust. Frank usually only strangled him when he could look into V’s eyes, but he could sense all the subtleties of Vincent’s body, knew the exact moments to permit him to breathe, whether to move faster or slower, to be gentle or rough.
Kneeling behind him, Frank tightened his grip on the shirt, guiding Vincent by the neck until he had no choice but to prop himself up with his hands. Vincent would just as soon lie there and take it, but Frank wasn’t going to do all the work this time. And he knew that Vincent would only help choke himself if he had to support both of their weight.
Frank kept his hand steady on the makeshift leash as he repeatedly drove his hips forward, forcing Vincent’s body against the restraint. V must’ve been seconds away from fainting, and still he did not panic. And neither did Frank. He reared back and plunged himself to the hilt, pulling Vincent against him by the throat. Vincent trembled beneath him in orgasm, his mouth open and wordless. Vincent’s eyelids began to flutter and Frank finally released his hold, lightly stroking Vincent’s cock while he writhed and gasped with pleasure.
He rocked his hips back and forth, gently fucking him as he admired his lithe little body from behind. Vincent had fallen onto one elbow and his head was lowered as he panted, unable to get his mouth open any wider to capture more oxygen because he was smiling so broadly.
Just as Vincent started to speak Frank reclaimed his control, pulling the shirt taut against his neck. If V had enough breath to speak, he had enough to continue. Frank lowered himself onto him, pressing his whole body against him as he cut off Vincent’s airflow. Vincent arched his back and Frank drove his cock deep inside, their cheeks together, lips against breathless lips.
Frank could feel that exquisite release finally within reach and he grabbed a fistful of Vincent’s hair, moaning so loudly as he came that he embarrassed himself.
“You can buy me another car,” Vincent said the moment he caught his breath. Frank gave him a firm slap on the thigh, as his ass was otherwise engaged. Vincent whimpered, but wisely kept his mouth shut until he had something more pleasant to say. “That was really good.”
“Yes,” Frank agreed, although he wished they were back on the sofa.
“You haven
’t strangled me in forever.”
“Sometimes my willpower astounds me.”
Vincent craned his beautiful face backward to smile at him. His pupils were enlarged, as expected post-coital and in such a dimly lit room. He looked healthy. Alive. “You were scared of that.”
As it was not a question, Frank saw no need to respond. Of course he was afraid. The one person in the world he would die without, and whom he could no longer comprehend how he had lived so long before meeting, had nearly been taken from him. Every moment they were together, and each second they were apart, he thought of how it had felt to hold him for what surely must have been the last time; Vincent’s body seemingly colder than death even as his precious heart pumped blood into the spreading pool on the floor. And it had been Frank’s brother, his father’s son, who caused the injuries that still haunted them. The guilt he felt could not have been stronger had he harmed Vincent himself.
And Frank had harmed Vincent. He enjoyed harming him, possibly as much as V enjoyed being harmed. Some of the things he wanted to do to Vincent—had done—frightened him. Things he had witnessed other men doing, things that terrified Frank in their power. But there they were in the afterglow, Vincent beaming with a delight that had not touched his eyes in a very long time.
Frank slowly rose off of him and left Vincent to free his limbs and stretch luxuriously like a kitten, slinking the rest of the way out of his pants. “The dogs didn’t come to your rescue.”
“I wasn’t in danger. And I locked them outside.”
He laughed. “You planned this, then?”
“I didn’t want to be interrupted,” he said seriously. “Frank, I—” V’s voice cracked with emotion.
Frank took him in his arms again, realizing then just how tired Vincent looked. “You’ve been having nightmares?”
“Since you left. I tried calling you.”
“I left the charger at home.”
Vincent shook his head. “This is why you need a handler.”
“And you told Joe he could do it?”
“Someone’s got to be our handler. We’ve got a whole book to work on.”
“That was going to be your Christmas present.” Frank grabbed Vincent’s discarded pants and fished Silva’s journal out of his back pocket. He leafed through it, each line of Silva’s ciphers decoded in the space beside it. “I cannot believe you translated this,” he said in awe.
“I was that bored.”
Frank smiled to himself. Vincent would never accept a compliment on his intelligence, but he really was quite clever. “We have got a lot to do.” He read through the names in the back of the book. Frank’s own name was crossed out heavily with black ink, the page nearly torn from the force of Vincent’s pen.
Then he came across a name that made his heart stop. Alan Barker. He breathed again when he took a closer look, and realized that not only was the pre-translated handwriting different, but Vincent had taken the liberty of adding Alan’s name close to a dozen times. Entire Fucking Blue-blooded Alcott Family was also listed. And Antoinette Bergeton.
“No more writing in the book,” he scolded.
“Come on!” Vincent said. “Don’t you have someone you’d like to see die?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t!” he laughed.
“Think about it. It’s fun.”
“It’s work,” Frank said seriously. He had always kept his work separate, and Vincent was right, self-defense didn’t count. There were only two men that Frank had legitimately killed for free: his brother, and the man who had killed Frank’s mother. Both murders were feral, vicious, and from a place of madness. If it stopped being a job then Frank was no longer human.
“What was that lady’s name who screamed her head off when you killed her husband?” Vincent asked.
The landlord’s wife. Frank remembered looking up at her while he’d cut her husband to pieces. He did not hear her voice but he knew she was screaming, her mouth open wide, her whole body shaking with it. She told the newspapers he was a monster. She told the judge to put him away forever. Frank had discovered later that she was old friends with the judge’s sister. They had tea once a week. That was why Frank was convicted of killing his mother as well as their landlord. “She is already dead.”
“You killed her?”
“It was a job!”
“Yeah, right. And who hired you?” Vincent said sarcastically.
“Bella did. She found the woman’s wardrobe murderously offensive.” Frank put the book away, safely in the pocket of his own pants.
Vincent hesitantly said, “I’m supposed to give that to Joe.” He was very quick to doubt himself when it came to his level of experience, and Frank could sense a nervous rant in the near future if he didn’t step in.
“That’s right,” Frank said. And Vincent was right about needing a handler if they were really going to get back to work. “Joe should have the book.”
He smiled with relief. “Joe’s gonna find out what he can about Malkolm. He said we should meet somewhere to talk about it. Malkolm’s gonna come after us?”
“It will likely be three of them. Malkolm, Boris, and Karl.” Out of the three, Karl was Frank’s biggest concern. Malkolm wanted to kill Bella, and Boris just followed along for the fun of it. But Karl took true pleasure in violence. He wasn’t so much an assassin as a commissioned serial killer, and he’d had his eyes on Frank for years. Frank would not even entertain the thoughts of what Karl may have planned for him, for them, but he fully intended to get his knife back the next time he saw him. And cut out Karl’s heart for once and for all.
“I think I’m gonna need that rocket launcher,” Vincent said.
“You are not getting a rocket launcher.”
“Joe said I could!”
“I’m saying you can’t.”
Vincent pouted. “Why?”
“Is this a daddy issue thing?”
“Whatever,” Vincent muttered in annoyance, channeling his inner teenager. “He sent you home.”
“I was on my way.”
“Without my car,” Vincent reminded him. Frank flung him back to the floor and spanked him so hard it hurt his hand. “Oww,” V purred. The smile had never left his face.
The hall stairs creaked and Frank quickly buttoned his pants. “Get dressed,” he told Vincent. He hoped it wasn’t Casey. If the kid still had a bruise, he would have to kill Deaglan before he could get some sleep. The same misfortune applied if Deaglan was the one approaching. That left Bella, which reminded him that sleep would be far, far away.
The sound came no further than the middle of the stairway. It must have been Casey. He was the only one with the sense not to disturb them. “You want me to go get him?” Vincent asked, having not moved an inch to do as he was told.
“Go get me another cup of coffee.” He would sleep later.
Chapter Seventy-One
Deaglan’s leprechaun lucky charms proved even more auspicious when Casey forbade Frank from avenging him, a black eye for a black eye being perfectly sufficient to bring the conflict to a close. I was not so fortunate.
“No thank you, Alan,” I said as sweetly as I could, declining another cup of muddy brown tea poured from a flowery tea kettle. I was squeezed uncomfortably between Frank and Casey, forced to sit on Alan’s hideously effeminate pink sofa, in his hideously effeminate flat which smelled like sugar plum fairies visited every hour on the hour, and until I could swallow my pride and apologize, I’d be subjected to hearing Alan’s effeminate voice jabbering about how well his remaining family members weren’t doing. If I were related to Alan, I’d die too.
“And that’s where I got this lovely tea set,” he said excitedly. He was a little worse for the wear, but I suspected that had more to do with stage makeup than damage I’d actually caused. It had been too long for his cheek to still be swollen. Deaglan had nearly knocked Casey’s head off, and his black eye was hardly visible anymore.
“It is l
ovely,” Frank agreed, making a show of carefully lifting the cup to admire whatever it was they stamped on the bottom of cups to prove how great they were.
“Okay, I’m sorry!” I said before another teacup discussion could commence.
He smacked my knee. “Like you mean it.”
“I don’t mean it!”
Frank cleared his throat, and was about to smack me again when Casey pointed out some new old piece of furniture in the corner. Alan proclaimed, “That was from my dear aunt Beatrice—”
“Okay, I’m really, really, really sorry! I’ll fix your car!”
“Yes, you will,” Frank said. “Casey, why don’t you go make some more tea. And bring biscuits.”
“Sure!” Casey said, not even suspecting for a second that we were getting rid of him so we could have a grownup conversation.
Frank leaned forward and pointedly stared at Alan with the kind of serious expression on his face that made me need a cold shower. “You are leaving Paris. Tonight.”
“But darling, I have business!”
“Business won’t matter if you are dead, Alan.”
“Yeah,” I chimed in. I considered it Frank’s ESL which caused him to use if instead of when Alan was dead.
Alan waved his hand dismissively. “I think you’re overreacting, Frank. At any rate, I’ve decided to sell the gallery. If the assassin epidemic is as bad as you say it is, then I’ll let it be someone else’s problem. I’ve already had an offer.”
“An offer?” Frank asked. “From whom?”
“A fellow countryman. I’m sure I have his name here somewhere…” Alan excessively patted himself down, continuing his search where he didn’t even have pockets. The threatening look Frank was giving him obviously had the same effect on Alan as it had on me. Alan had better knock it off or else I’d be apologizing all over again. “Well, it’s not important. I can’t exactly meet him for a tour looking like this…” He paused to glare at me before continuing, “I told him I’d get back to him in a few weeks. But I’ve already found the perfect new space! The previous owner died of a tragic potpourri overdose—”
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 36
