Prime Target (2 page)

Just one time in his presence, while my father
forced
me to watch Ivan perform, had been enough. My only consolation is that I was told the victim was a pedophile, but who knew if that were true or not.

“For that small mercy, I’ll make it quick.” He raises his gun, and I lunge forward, grabbing the box cutter and throwing it at him. It embeds itself in the side of his face, the point sinking into his left eye.

He howls with pain. “
Motherfucker!
” He doesn’t bother to aim, just starts shooting, as I dive behind the counter. A bullet hits me in the thigh, searing pain rips through me, and I see stars. Another hits my shoulder, rendering my arm useless.

I lie on my side, panting heavily and trying to manage the pain as he strides to me. Petrov mutters a curse and kicks me in the ribs.

“I ought to gut you like the pig you are,” he says, pulling the razor from his face. He throws it at me, and it plunges into my hip.

“Fuck,” I growl. My leg throbs. If I don’t get help soon, I’ll bleed out. That is, unless Petrov decides to shoot me once in the heart and three times in the back of the head. It’s his signature. Then again, that might work against him.

“Do it,” I taunt. “Show the world who killed me.”

He lifts his gun, blood running down his cheek. “The world will never know.”

There is a pounding on the wall. A wail of sirens.

Petrov scans the room while I grab the gun I’ve hidden under the base of the counter and take aim at his miserable head. When Petrov’s bloody gaze meets mine again, his eyes widen.

“Leave now,” I pant.

With a growl, he pivots and runs out of my store.

I yank the blade from my thigh and yell out another curse. Damn Petrov’s family, my family, and the fucking
Bratva
.

The sound of sirens is closer. I’m not sure if they are for me, or another crime. I fumble for the hidden latch near where I stored the gun. A small opening appears and I toss the gun in along with the bloody box cutter, then press the latch again.

Waves of darkness wash over me, and I pass out.

What seems like
seconds later, I wake up, gasping for air. I blame my comfortable life here for my passing out. In the past, two gunshot wounds wouldn’t have stopped me, and Petrov would never have left my store on his own two legs.

The bells ring again. “Come to finish me off, you bastard?”

“Roman? Is that you?” a familiar voice asks. “I left my coat.”

“Everly,” I croak.

Suddenly, she’s by my side, her fingers on my face. At least I won’t die before knowing how soft her skin is, or how tenderly she strokes me.

“Oh my God. Who shot you?” she cries, shifting to cradle my head in her lap. I hear a thunk. “Let me call 9-1-1.”

“Your dress,” I manage to say.

“Don’t worry about the blood—you’re more important.”

I smile against the pain. “No. Tear it into strips. I might need a tourniquet. He shot me in the leg…and shoulder.” I cough, and air rattles in my chest.

I hear fabric tearing even as she gives information to Emergency Services. The phone drops to the floor, narrowly missing my head.

“Where should I tie it?” she asks. As she leans over me like this, her breasts are directly above me. God, I’m dying, yet the thought of kissing her there is driving me mad. Or maybe it’s a sign I won’t die. She presses down on my wound and I groan, forgetting all about her delectable breasts.

Immediately, the pain lessens. “Sorry, sorry. In the movies and books, they always try to stop the bleeding like this,” she cries.

“Cut my trousers open and help elevate my leg.”

“At the same time?” she asks, voice trembling as she sits back. Once again, her hands go to my face, stroking my cheek. She leans over me. This close, I can see the fullness of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, and the concern in her gaze.

“No, love. Check the wounds to see if the bullet went all the way through or not.”

“O-okay.” Gingerly, she moves away from me, careful to place my head on the hardwood floor. I watch as she grabs a pair of scissors from her purse. “I knew these would come in handy one day.”

Quickly, she cuts my pant leg. In the background, I’m dimly aware the emergency operator is still on the line. “Well?”

“I can’t… Oh God, Roman, I have to pick up your leg to see.”

“
Don’t move him!
” the operator shouts.

Everly’s gaze flies to mine. She licks her lips, clearly torn between following the directions of a professional or me, the reserved shopkeeper. “What do you want me to do?” she asks softly.

“Check, please. I’ll help you.” Gritting my teeth, I lift my leg and break into a cold sweat. “Hurry, darling.”

“There’s a hole in the back, but it’s small,” she says, and I prop my foot on the shelf in front of me.

Sirens blare.

Everly looks over her shoulder. “They’re here. Thank God. They’re here, Roman.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, letting the darkness take me once more. Even if I never wake up again, this heaven I’m experiencing right now is worth it.

*

The world is
a great, white light as I open my eyes.
Too bright.

I screw my eyes shut once more, listening. It seems safe, just the hum and beep of machines. The slight echo of footsteps and voices in the hallway.

Shifting my head left, then right, I take stock of my body. Though I’m sore as hell, I can still move everything. I open my eyes and take in my surroundings, startled to find Everly curled up in a chair beside my hospital bed.

She’s sleeping, still wearing the same green dress. Only the hem is about a foot shorter and there are purple shadows under her eyes. How long has she been here? How long have
I
been here?

Someone walks into the room, and I turn my head to find a nurse approaching the side of my bed. “Welcome back, Mr. Smith.”

I find my voice. My throat is scratchy, and it burns. “How long was I out?”

“Two days.” She places a couple of fingers on my wrist and keeps an eye on her watch. “It was touch and go for a while, but that angel sleeping beside you wouldn’t give up. I’ve never seen someone pray so fiercely for another human being. She even donated blood—you’re a lucky man to have a fiancée like her. And she must be a lucky woman to have you, because ain’t no man worth getting that worked up over, unless he’s a good one.”

I glance at Everly just in time to see her cheeks turn a rosy pink. So the sleeping angel has a bit of the devil in her. Still, it’s…nice to wake up to a familiar face.

The last time I was put in the hospital, no one came to see me. No one came to check on me, to see if I was alive, or could walk, or eat, or fucking talk. I’d lay in a stark hospital room for days, it seemed, until they discharged me. Then I collected my things and walked out, a stranger in a strange land once more.

“I am very lucky,” I say softly.

Once the nurse finishes checking my vitals and leaves, I count to twenty before calling Everly’s bluff.

“Love, I know you’re awake. No one blushes in their sleep.”

Her eyes pop open, and a chagrined look graces her face. “I woke up when the nurse came in, but when she said all that…there was no way I could face you.”

I sit up in bed, pressing the remote to allow the mattress to help me. “Sometimes falsehoods must be told in order to help others.”

“You would have gotten medical care whether I lied or not,” she admits, turning her pretty face away from me. “But I was afraid to let you out of my sight. I even rode in the ambulance with you.”

She had ridden in the ambulance? The vague memory of a woman weeping softly and holding my hand stirs in my mind, but I’m not sure if it’s my mother or Everly. My mother wept a great many nights after my father left her for the family he always wanted.

I flex all ten fingers, the black tattoos on my hands rippling with the movement.

“Do those have a meaning?” she asks, sitting up and adjusting her dress.

“I liked the look of them.”

Her lips twist a little, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. “That’s too bad. I was hoping for something with a story behind it.”

My story would make you wish you never met me.
“You read too many romance novels,” I grumble, looking around for the container of ice or water that always seems to be on hand in hospitals. I reach for the Styrofoam container, but Everly jumps up, gently pushing my arm away.

“Let me help you,” she says. She fills up a cup with water and sticks a straw in before coming back to me. “Here, drink this.”

I’m perfectly able to hold the cup with my uninjured arm and hand, but a selfish part of me wants to be fussed over. Especially by her. I allow her to hold the cup to my mouth, to take the straw between her fingers and gently push it between my parted lips.

The tips of her fingers touch my mouth, and a shudder rocks my body. A sharp inhalation of breath lets me know I’m not the only one affected.

Lifting my eyes, I gaze up at her, sucking on the straw and letting the cool liquid ease the burning path that used to be my throat. A connection forms between us, and she leans closer, so close that I can smell the lingering shampoo and perfume she wears.

My body goes hard, and my dick joins in. The thin sheet tents. Her eyes widen, and the cup shakes. The straw slips from my mouth.

“More,” I demand, and her attention returns to my face. I wrap my hand around her wrist and bring the cup closer, parting my lips and waiting.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers touch my mouth, the straw glides in, and I imagine she’s doing this to me. Her mouth on me, taking me inside…

“You can hold this; I need to go to the restroom to freshen up. I can’t possibly smell good,” she says, hurrying away.

A smile kicks up the corner of my mouth. I haven’t felt like this in years. Haven’t felt like a man instead of just a contract killer. Sure, I’ve been with women. Women wealthy, beautiful, and as deadly as I am with a gun. Innocents like Everly Andrews have no place in my life.

But the part of me she’s awakened doesn’t want to listen to that. That part of me wants her. Wants her smile, her laugh, her touch…her body. It wants to get to know her beyond my bookstore, to know what else she likes to drink besides hot cocoa. What else she likes to eat besides Granny-Smith-apple-flavored jelly beans.

“I feel a bit better now, but I really need a shower,” she announces, walking back into my room from the private bathroom. “Will you be okay if I go home to change?”

I won’t be okay, but it has nothing to do with my health or safety. It has everything to do with her.

“The nurses will keep me sorted.”

Everly stares at me for a moment. “I could go to your place and bring back whatever you need.”

The only thing I need is standing by my hospital bed. “That’s not necessary. But I really appreciate the offer,” I add before she mistakes my refusal as a rejection.

“One last question before I go,” she says, her smile turning shy.

“Ask away,” I softly command.

“Do you think you can call me Everly now? I mean, I did rescue you from the jaws of death.” She bites her lip, like she’s trying not to giggle.

For the first time in years, I throw my head back and laugh, uncaring of how much it hurts to do so. “God, yes. I’ll call you whatever you want, love.”

A uniformed officer walks into the room, and my laughter fades. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. “Mr. Smith, I’m Officer Jones, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Everly’s gaze bounces to the officer. “Do you need me for anything?”

Officer Jones gives her an easy smile, one that speaks of familiarity. “You’ve been more than helpful, Ms. Andrews.”

“Great.” She walks to me, her eyes soft as her fingers brush my hair back. I can’t help but wonder what she told the police. Has she betrayed me without even knowing it? “I’ll see you later,” she says, and then leaves.

Officer Jones steps closer to my bed, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. “Can you tell me what happened on the twenty-sixth?”

Prepared for this moment, I say, “A man walked in, clearly high, wanting money. He picked the wrong shop. I don’t deal with cash. Credit card purchases only.”

“That would explain the lack of a till,” the officer says as he takes notes.

I clear my throat. “When he realized I wasn’t lying, he got all pissed and fired a couple of shots, and then,” I close my eyes, as if the memory is painful to relive, “I passed out. I’m not quite sure how long I laid there before Ms. Andrews came inside, looking for her coat.”

“Detectives have already been down to your bookstore. We couldn’t find a weapon or any other bullet holes or casings.”

Inwardly relieved, I open my eyes. My secrets are safe. “Son of a bitch.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the perp? Maybe describe him?”

“Brownish hair, late twenties to early thirties. Male. Um, eyes, uh…bloodshot. His skin was a sickly gray color.”

Officer Jones snorts. “You just described every junkie down on Hargett.”

Perfect.
I make another noise of disgust. “I’m not that observant. Honestly, all I can remember is the barrel of his gun.”