Death of an Assassin (Saint Roch City Book 1) (14 page)

A laugh escapes me. “You were nice not to bring it up when we first met.”

“Well, I don’t really go for the Odeur de Sea, but who am I to judge?” He joins my smile, and I’m strangely grateful to see him picking himself up from his family’s murder. Another quality I’m not likely to see in any mark ever.

“I can change my appearance.” I close my eyes and focus for a moment, hopeful that it won’t be the thing that finally makes him dive across the room at me.

My obsidian hair fades, and in the failing light of the storm, the platinum blond that appears just about glows in my dark bedroom. When I open my eyes, Thomas is staring at me, eyes full of wonder, but not lust.

“If I wanted to, I could turn my sights on you. Find out what look you like most. I could probably figure out how I should behave to lure you in even better.”

“Am I that easy?” Thomas asks, looking out my slider to the balcony beyond. The storm is slipping off the coast and into memory.

“All guys are. Usually. Unless you’re gay?” I ask, legitimately curious.

Thomas laughs. “No. I like girls. Not the girls who I’m usually forced to spend time with. But there is this one girl at school. I go to college―”

“New York? Boston? LA?” I interrupt.

“Maine,” Thomas says.

“Maine? You’re kidding?”

Thomas points a finger at my words more than me. “That’s exactly what my dad said when I told him I wanted to go there. They’ve got an interesting marine biology program. He wasn’t happy about it, but Mom convinced him…” He lets the thought trail off as his consciousness slips back to his overbearing father and what I have to assume is a slightly less-so mother.

“Well, the girl who attacked your house tonight. She was like me. My mother once told me about something we can do that does…” I stop and wipe my hand over my face, not willing to say the words.

Thomas stiffly nods, taking the twisting of his world quite well.

A furious knocking at my front door makes both of us jump, and my hand shoots under the nearest pillow to find my pistol. I level it toward the kitchen as Thomas and I stand together. I wave my hand at him.

Get in the bathroom.

It’s not really a plan, but it’s the farthest from the front door.

I move to the kitchen as the knocks fade for a breath of time, then pick up again, just as vicious as their first assault. I approach the door slowly, flicking off the safety on my gun and cocking it. A quick peer out the peephole and I consider if I should leave the door locked. I gamble, sliding the deadbolt, the chain, then opening the door.

A whirlwind of green silk blows in through the door, held together by my neighbor, Cassie. She flies into the kitchen and starts walking around, flailing her arms.

“Layla, girl, what kind of shit have you gotten yourself into now?”

“Please, come in.” I close the door behind her, then lock it again and set my pistol on the counter nearby.

“Mind telling me why your name popped up in my mother’s club tonight? Why there’s a price on your head that could buy this side of town?” Cassie roars.

I sit down at the kitchen table at the news. Hard. “What?”

“Some lowlife came to the bar, raving that he was going to collect a two-million-dollar paycheck with, and I’m quoting, ‘some black-haired slut’s head, goes by the name of Layla.’ He sounded pretty confident he was going out to get you tonight.”

I slam my head on the kitchen table repeatedly. From hunter to hunted in twenty-four hours. This must be what normal people feel like when they get a pink slip on a Monday morning.

“Well, as you can see, I’m not a black-haired slut right now.” I point to my hair, still blindingly blond from my demonstration to Thomas.

Thomas.

“He said just me?”

Cassie looks at me as though I brought up the weather. “Who the hell else would he want to kill? Who’s after you, Layla? I talked to Mum. She said if you can get to the club, you can lay low there for a while.”

I’m touched by the gesture, more so by Cassie talking to her mother about the thick underbelly of Saint Roch than the offer of sanctuary. It’s not that I don’t trust Cassie or Sophia, but I find it best not to get into bed with anyone who could use it against me for profit.

“It’s been a busy weekend,” I admit and look up to her.

She takes the chair from the other side of the table and slides it over to me as she sits down. In the dull light of the early morning, her serpentine eyes twinkle with something a snake should never emote, and I don’t know how to.

“Lay, what happened? What’d you get yourself into?” She takes my hands in hers, and despite their coldness, they do something to urge speech from me.

“Hit went sideways.” I chuckle and smirk at her. “That’s never happened to me before.”

She trades my smirk for her painful facial wince. “Happens to the best of them, I hear.”

I nod as though I believe her.

“I tried to clean it up, and I think I made it worse.” My hands go to my hair, and I run fingers through the strands, trying to wash away the odor of failure from my very being.

Cassie moves a hand to my shoulder and grips me as she moves closer. “Layla, relax. We’ll figure this out, okay? We can fix this. Don’t stress out. You’re messing up your disguise.”

I glance up, and in the fading moonlight that has only just broken through the retreating storm clouds, I see the hair between my fingers looks like a patchwork of paint. Some strands are blond, others black, and even the deep crimson from the night of the dearly departed Terrance O’Halloran peeks through.

“I’ve never… I don’t…” Frightened at the occurrence, I quickly focus and bring it back to blond, and hope to forget it ever happened.

Fear. That’s new.

“I got replaced,” I continue. “Another hitter came in to finish the job. She went all out, and we just barely got out of there.”

Cassie’s hand rubs my shoulder as she follows my story, but her movements halt. “
We
?”

I freeze, realizing my slip only after she caught it. My eyes dart to hers. Cassie, my closest and only real friend. My mind actually considers the gun sitting just behind me.

A soft knock comes from my bedroom doorway, and Thomas stands there, hand resting on the frame, looking out at us. Cassie and I both stare at the boy sheepishly looking at two women who could kill him without breaking a nail.

I’m still staring at Thomas and shaking my head at his foolishness when Cassie turns back to me.

“Who’s the morsel?” She tries to make it sound like a joke, but I can tell she’s more concerned for my sanity than my comfort.

“That… would be my mark. Thomas, Cassie. Cassie, Thomas.”

Thomas steps forward and waves like an awkward teen, completely unaware of the literal nest of snakes he’s walking into. “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”

“Yeah, great to meet you.” Cass waves him off. “Why is he not dead?”

Thomas jerks at her question. “Well, that’s not very―”

I slam my head on the table again. “I don’t know! I almost got him on the first night, but I froze up!”

Cassie groans. “I take it you had a second chance, so why isn’t he dead, Layla? Why?”

“Uh, should I go into the other…?” Thomas asks, pointing his thumb to the bedroom.

“Quiet,” Cassie snaps, as though he’s rude for being uncomfortable about us discussing his murder.

“I don’t know,” I shout. “I mean… look at him!” I jut a hand out at Thomas who stands with the wide eyes of a confused puppy. “He’s not some gang member. He didn’t steal anything.”

“Lay, I’m not a hitwoman, so I don’t really know the code. But I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to ask why the person needs to be dead. Right?” Cassie scowls at me. “You just do the job and pay your bills.”

I nod.

“So who put the hit out on you? The guy who paid you to off him in the first place?”

“Probably.” I have no idea who that could be, though.

“If you kill him now, would it get rid of the bounty?” Cassie asks, but she knows I have no idea.

With a shrug, I look up at Thomas who stands at the threshold of my kitchen, surprisingly nonplussed by the frank talk of my killing him.

“Thanks for coming by Cass. I’ll figure this out,” I say, meeting Thomas’s eyes.

Cassie’s gaze move between the two of us as she stands, her green silk clinging to her body as much now as when she entered. “The offer still stands, Layla. If you need to lay low, Mum can hold you for a while.”

I can’t help but feel the pressing emphasis on
you
. As in,
just
you. Not your boy toy. Kill the kid and move on.

Cass unlocks the door, and as soon as she steps into the hallway, I lock up behind her and grab my gun. I turn to see Thomas has moved into the kitchen. His eyes move to the 9mm pistol clutched in my hand.

“Going to shoot me, then?” he asks with a sneer.

I move toward him, holding my gun firm, finger on the trigger.

I open the closet beside him and grab a raincoat that might fit him and shove it into his hands. I pick up a ratty, unwashed hoodie for myself.

“We’re going to find out who wants you dead. Because now they want me dead. Which means we have a very common goal now. Let’s go.”

’m actually not supposed to know where Malcolm lives. The whole point of having a broker is to insulate everyone involved in an arranged murder. Malcolm takes the contracts, gives them to me on neutral ground, and I carry them out. If one of us gets caught, they aren’t easily connected to the other.

Don’t get into bed with someone you don’t fully know, Layla.

Words from Mother Dearest. Mother Dearest who, I’m pretty sure, tried to kill me before she left forever and I found myself bouncing between foster homes. I never lasted long in any one home, especially when I started getting old enough for fathers to start looking at their foster kids. But that’s an entirely different mess of deliberately repressed memories.

My broker, the only solid connection I have to who put the price on my head, lives on the border of Westie territory in a pre-war brownstone. I’m not too ashamed to feel responsible for his nice living situation, as twenty percent of my contracts are more than enough to pay for this place. Thomas doesn’t exactly look inconspicuous in his duster, the brown edges only a few inches from the wet ground, but I’d be easily ignored. I’ve paled my skin down, given myself far too many freckles of varying sizes, yellow eyes, and ratty brown hair. All bundled up in a hoodie I haven’t washed since I moved into my apartment.

Thomas keeps his distance, silent as to the reason, but we both know it’s probably more than the smell.

He’s a smart one.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt respect for a mark before.

We stand on the doorstep and ring the door for Malcolm’s apartment. The same apartment I saw him go back to after the first time we met. I had been able to follow him from the club, and while that in itself made me lose some faith in my broker, I was still glad to be able to find out he was who he said he was. Luckily, he hadn’t moved since that day years ago.

In the gloomy light of the rainy morning, Thomas shivers just slightly under his coat, and he looks at me. “Bit nippy.” He chuckles nervously, and I ring Malcolm’s bell a few more times.