Erasing Faith (10 page)

KISS OR KILL

Faith Fucking Morrissey.

The girl was going to get herself killed.

I watched from a rooftop across the street as she exited the Hermes building, hugging her backpack to her chest like a lost little girl reunited with her favorite childhood toy. Despite the anger pumping in my veins due to her total stupidity, I drank in the sight of her.

Ten days, I’d stayed away. Forced myself to keep a safe distance. Told myself it was better — for her, for me, for the mission.

It hadn’t been easy.

And then, tonight, there she was. I’d been sitting in my apartment, scanning blueprints of the city sewer system that ran beneath Szekely’s compound and trying not to think about her, when she suddenly appeared before my eyes, large as life on the surveillance screens I used to monitor the Hermes office. She’d strolled up to the back door without a care in the world, scanned her badge, and walked straight into the arms of death. I thought I was going to have a fucking aneurysm when the door closed at her back and sealed her fate.

She had no idea how close she’d come to getting herself killed.

On my motorcycle, I’d made it in five minutes. I broke every traffic law known to man, smashed the window on an office building across the street, and sprinted up to the roof. I knew I was probably too late. That my presence was useless, as I couldn’t intervene. That she was likely already dead, lying cold and lifeless on an office floor, bleeding into the carpet.

None of that could’ve stopped me from waiting on that roof, praying to a god I didn’t even believe in for her to appear unscathed.

When she finally did, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and unclenched my fists from where they’d wrapped around the rooftop railing in a white-knuckled grip.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do more — kiss her or kill her.

She’d been lucky; that was the only reason she was still alive. The guard who’d caught her evidently thought more with the head between his legs than the one resting on his shoulders, because he’d let her go. If it’d been me in his position, I would’ve killed her. No question. She was a loose end — the kind Szekely paid lots of money to eliminate.

I watched the guard through night-vision binoculars, as he held the door open for Faith and let her pass. His eyes followed her until she vanished around a corner.

Istvan Bordas.

I recognized him easily, despite the garish infrared staining his profile green.

Thirty-two. Former officer in the Hungarian Defense Force. Specialized in automatic weaponry and explosives. Reputedly gave up his national decorations in favor of private contracting several years ago, when he’d learned the same lesson as so many honorable officers before him: that honor was great, but it didn’t pay the bills. Not like mercenary work could, anyway.

He was a killer.

But, apparently, I wasn’t the only monster with a soft spot when it came to Faith.

He disappeared inside and I headed back down to the street, my mind brimming with bleak thoughts. Men like Bordas did nothing for free. He was a hired gun — everything came with a price, whether it was a contract killing or a free pass during an unauthorized office visit. He’d collect payment from Faith eventually, it was just a matter of
when
.

I thought about the way his eyes had tracked her every move, lingering long after she’d disappeared from his sight.

When he came to collect, he wouldn’t be looking for cash.

I sighed deeply as I straddled my bike and stowed the binoculars in a saddlebag.

The girl was more trouble than she was worth. She was a walking, talking disaster — practically guaranteed to fuck up my mission. If I were smart, I’d let her stumble further into this deathtrap, where she’d be unable to complicate things for me. I’d walk away and leave her to the likes of Bordas, who’d screw her once and toss her away like a used rubber.

As I navigated down the dark streets, warm honey-gold eyes flashed in my mind. I pictured them far-seeing and cold — rolled back in the sockets of a corpse. Drained perpetually of life, along with the girl they belonged to.

Fuck.

There was no choice, anymore. Best intentions be damned, I couldn’t leave her to meet that end.  She was in this too deep now to go it alone. She needed protection. Someone to look out for her, to watch over her.

Not just someone — me.

She needed me.

She. Needed. Me.

Me
.

No one else ever had.

But she did.

My motorcycle growled like a wild beast as I unleashed the throttle and raced into the night. It was time to make some plans.

TALK NERDY TO ME

“How’s it going, Faith?”

“Can’t complain,” I said, grinning at Konrad. “One more run and then I get to go home and take a bubble bath.”

“Was that an invitation?” The snarky teen waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Konrad!” I gasped. “Don’t make me call your mother.”

His expression instantly clouded over. “You wouldn’t.”

“That all depends on what you have for me,” I said, winking so he’d know I was only teasing.

“I have eight for you, this time.” He grimaced. “But—”

“Eight!”

“Before you freak out — three of them are overnights. So, really only five more tonight.”

“But I’ve never done an overnight.”

“I know, but Istvan just told me you’ve been approved for them. Couriers usually have to be here at least four months before they’re eligible, and not everyone gets the green light. They must like you.” He grinned.

Damn. Ever since my after-hours encounter with Istvan the other night, he seemed to think we had a special connection of sorts. I’d caught the typically gruff guard smiling at me twice today. Now, he was making sure I got promoted up the work totem pole. What was next?

“Don’t make that face,” Konrad said. “This is a good thing! It means you’re trustworthy. Plus, it comes with a bonus.”

I sighed. Bonus or not, I’d heard from several other Hermes girls that overnight deliveries were a pain in the butt.

Often, customers dropped off packages at the end of the day, after most businesses were closed, with instructions to deliver them to their destinations first thing in the morning. Rather than have couriers come all the way into work to retrieve the packages — only to head straight back out and potentially miss a crack-of-dawn delivery deadline — the sorting staff would occasionally send a package or two home with the girls overnight. That way, we could simply drop them off on our way to the office and, joy of joys, get an early jump start on our workdays.

Efficiency was highly prioritized, here at Hermes.

I rolled my eyes.

“So, how does it work?” I asked. “Do I keep my bike with me, too?”

“Yep,” Konrad said. “And I’d lock it up, if I were you. If it gets stolen, you’re the one who has to shell out the cash to replace it.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” I grumbled. “Where am I supposed to keep it, under my bed? Stuffed inside my pint-sized closet?”

“When you see your bonus check, it’ll all be worth it,” he said, winking. “A few months of this, and you’ll be able to afford a bigger apartment.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give me my damn packages already.”

“Here are the overnights.” He handed me three thick business envelopes — probably some poor suckers’ divorce papers. “And these three are regular delivery.” He passed over several more parcels.

“And the last two?” I asked, looking at the final bundles after I’d stored the others in my satchel.

“These are
special
delivery.” Konrad’s eyes were twinkling with mischief. “Both to the same destination. Make sure you deliver them last tonight.”

“What are you up to, Konrad?” I asked, taking the first package from him. Enclosed in a black plastic bag, whatever was inside felt soft, slightly squishy. Like a stuffed animal or a piece of fabric. The second parcel was a smallish box, wrapped in black paper.

“You can thank me later,” he said mysteriously.

I stared at him for a moment, riddled with questions, but he failed to offer up any more details.

“Whatever, weirdo,” I finally said, zipping my messenger bag closed. “See you tomorrow.”

“Have a good night, Faith!” he called after me. “Enjoy that bubble bath!”

I shook my head in exasperation as I hurried to retrieve my bike.

***

Standing on the sidewalk with my head tilted up at the sign, I felt my brow furrow in confusion. My last destination of the night wasn’t a private home or an office building — it was a restaurant. A really nice one, from the looks of it. The patrons filtering through the front doors were all dressed semi-formally — women clad in expensive summer dresses, men clothed in dress shirts and ties.

“
Elvarázsolt.
” I sounded out the name in butchered Hungarian, my eyes scanning the sign overhead.

“Enchanted,” a smooth, male voice said in perfect English.

My eyes snapped from the sign to the elderly man in an impeccable suit who’d just addressed me. He was hovering not three feet away on the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“The restaurant’s name. It means
enchanted
.” He smiled. “I am Hugo, the maître d's here. We have been expecting you.”

I nearly smacked an open palm against my forehead, but managed to restrain myself. “Oh, yes! Of course. You need your packages.” I hastily unzipped my messenger bag, rooting around for the two black parcels. “I’m so sorry for the delay, sir.”

A gentle hand landed on my arm and stilled my movements. I looked up into Hugo’s smiling eyes.

“Miss Morrissey, it is not the packages we’ve been waiting for.”

My jaw dropped at the sound of my name. “What?”

“Please, follow me,” he said simply, gesturing to a young busboy hovering nearby before turning toward the doors.

Before I could so much as dismount from my bicycle, the busboy was at my elbow. “Your bike, miss,” he said, his English poor but intelligible.

“I— What—”

I heard Hugo sigh before he pivoted to face me. “Daniel will take your bicycle. It will be well looked after, locked away in my office for the duration of your meal.”

“Meal?”

He smiled indulgently. “Come.”

Totally bewildered, I hopped off and watched helplessly as Daniel wheeled my bike through a side entrance and out of sight. Hugo had already disappeared inside the main doors. With no other options, I clutched my messenger bag tightly and rushed after him.

I stepped into the opulent lobby, my eyes scanning from the mahogany bar to the gold-gilded wall sconces, and tried not to feel too self-conscious under the curious stares of the patrons who’d gathered to await their reservations. I suppose I did look a little out of place, in my neon uniform, helmet, and tennis shoes. I certainly felt like a fish out of water.

“This way,” Hugo called, waving me over. He led me out of the lobby and down a narrow hallway, to a room marked with a single word I instantly recognized. I’d memorized it on Day One of my Hungarian adventure.

hölgyek

He’d brought me to the ladies restroom.

“What—”

“The packages, madam,” Hugo cut in smoothly. “You may open them, now.”

“But, they’re—”

“If you look closely, you will see they are addressed to you.”

Okay, so… Hugo was clearly a few fries short of a Happy Meal. That was the only explanation for all of this.

Or, that’s what I thought until I pulled out the first parcel and saw
FAITH MORRISSEY
scribed across the top in tiny, silver lettering. I turned disbelieving eyes to Hugo, but he simply smiled again and gestured for me to open it.

I tore through the thin plastic and was shocked when my fingers sank into whisper-soft fabric. Pulling off the wrappings, my eyes went wide when I saw a magnificent cocktail dress in the most stunning burnt-orange hue I’d ever seen in my life. Simple in design, with a sweetheart neckline and a fitted silhouette, the dress somehow managed to be elegant and modern at the same time.

“This can’t be mine,” I whispered to myself, even as my hands curled tightly around the floaty gauze in a proprietary grip.

“There is still another package, madam.” Hugo’s gentle reminder startled me back to reality. Before I could protest, he reached out, plucked the dress from my hands, and draped it across his arm like a sommelier’s towel.

I stared at him for another moment, dumbfounded, before reaching into my bag and pulling out the small black box. In one swift movement, I tore off the paper, lifted the lid, and found myself gaping at a gorgeous pair of strappy, gold lamé sandals. They were dainty, delicate. Whimsically designed to wrap around the ankle and calf like winding golden vines.

My mouth fell open.

It seemed I’d been transported into a live-action, modern-interpretation of Cinderella, complete with a stunning outfit I’d never be able to produce on my own and a mysterious Prince Charming I’d yet to meet.

A semi-hysterical giggle escaped my lips when I realized that my fairy godmother was a short-statured Hungarian man named Hugo. All he was missing was an enchanted wand and some magic words.

“Bibbidi-bobbiti-freaking-boo,” I muttered under my breath, eyes still locked on the shoes.

“Very good, madam,” Hugo said politely. “You may change your attire inside. You’ll find a garment bag hanging on the back of the door, for your uniform. After you’ve changed, please return to the hostess station and we will guide you to your table.”

“But… This is crazy!” I finally managed to form words, as he handed the dress back to me and began walking away. “Hugo! Who arranged this? Was it Konrad?”

There was no response from the mysterious maître d's. He rounded the corner and faded out of sight, leaving me alone with a beautiful dress, gorgeous shoes, and about fifty million questions.

If this was Konrad’s way of finally getting me to go out on a date with him… that boy was in for a world of hurt.

My stomach clenched with nerves as another, far more disturbing possibility occurred to me. What if this wasn’t Konrad’s plan at all — what if it was Istvan’s?

Was this the next step in his seduction strategy?

Crap. I was so screwed.

Sighing deeply, I pulled open the bathroom door and prepared to pull my sweaty self together.

***

Light from the flickering candle refracted off my crystal wine glass, as I slowly rotated the stem between two fingers. I watched wax trickle down the candlestick, dripping in creamy yellow rivulets onto the silver stand as the flame consumed the taper. Taking a sip of my wine, I contemplated checking the time on my phone again. 

I’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and my date — whoever he was — had yet to arrive.

I refused to entertain the possibility that it was anyone but Konrad.

The kid must’ve spent months saving up for this restaurant, the dress, the shoes…

I almost felt bad. Almost.

“More wine, miss?” My waiter was quite diligent — so much so, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to ride my bike home if he kept refilling my glass at this rate.

I turned to smile at him. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, miss.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to know when my date is arriving, would you?”

His eyes darted to the empty chair across from me and he opened his mouth to say something. Before he could express a single word, he was interrupted by the sound of wooden chair legs scraping against the floor, as well as a familiar masculine voice, speaking from the other side of the table.

“Sorry I’m late, Red.”

I stilled completely, my eyes frozen on the waiter’s face. The young man flushed under my gaze, nodded politely in my direction, and hurried away from the table so fast he made Harry Potter’s apparition skills look sluggish. Damn — I really could’ve used his help. I needed someone to pinch me, hard, because I must’ve been dreaming.

There was no possible way that Wes Adams was sitting at the table across from me. It was simply inconceivable that he’d been the one to arrange all of this.

“Red?”

He was using that soft tone again — the one that made my insides melt — and I couldn’t resist anymore.

Eyes wide, heart in my throat, I turned my head in his direction. And there he was.

For no reason at all, I found myself blinking back tears. 

“You did all of this?” I asked, my voice breaking a little.

He nodded.

“Why?”

“Figured it was time I took you out on a real date,” he said, shrugging casually, as though there was nothing special about the evening he’d planned.

Thoughts tumbled unchecked through my head as I tried to process that this was actually happening. My mind was spinning. My chest was so full, it ached. My heart beat so fast, I worried it was about to explode into a million tiny pieces. Staring at Wes, all I could think was how handsome he looked, sitting there with the candlelight illuminating his angular features, dressed in a crisp white button down. No tie, but that was no surprise — he didn’t strike me as the tie-wearing type.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” I finally whispered, when I’d regained a little of my composure.

“I told you — I don’t leave things up to fate.” His eyes locked on mine. “I make my own.”

My head shook in disbelief. “I can’t believe you did this.”