The Deception (3 page)

I scan the perimeter of the room, ignoring the glittering ball gowns and black tuxes of the guests. They are not my target. Tonight, the hostess is my prey. Fitting to label her as such, I think, since she preys on children and sells them into human trafficking rings.

Her specialty is boys, and since boys demand a higher price than girls do, she lives a luxurious life while they suffer. While they are degraded and made to serve adults who have no business breathing. If I could take out every last one of those monsters with one fell swoop, I would, but I will settle for taking out the supplier.

I recognize her face from the picture my contact gave me, hidden inside a second edition copy of Dickens’
Oliver Twist
.  As a server passes by, tray balanced on the tips of his fingers, I set my half-empty glass of champagne on it and then make my move.

“Excuse me,” I say, giving the redhead my most charming smile. “I’m in need of assistance, and you look to be the woman for the job.”

Vibrant blue eyes assess me, clearly excited by my attention, and I briefly wonder if perhaps my contact is mistaken about her. Or perhaps she’s been forced into this by another—one who holds all the power in her miserable life.

She smiles, and in that smile, I can see the evil that lives inside of her. I have seen it countless times before.

“For you, I’ll do whatever job you want.” She leans closer. “Meet me at the top of the stairs in ten minutes.”

Taking her hand, I bring it to my lips, a parody of a kiss initiated when all I want to do is finish the job.

***

I
slam her against the wall, giving her a wicked smile even as my shoulder pulls a little. She laughs wildly. We’re in my hotel room, and she thinks this is foreplay. She thinks this is a mere prelude to us in bed. What she thinks is going to happen tonight, never will. I don’t fuck my targets.

“God, I knew you were perfect for me.” She bites my neck, and it takes all my self-control not to breaks hers in return.

Instead, I gentle my caress, running my finger down the line of her throat, all the way to the deep v of her cleavage. She grabs my wrist and forces it to her throat. The silver ring on my thumb gleams, catching my attention. I rub the bottom of it, imagining the sound of the click that springs the deadly needles into action.

She’ll never see this coming. She’ll never feel anything beyond the sting of a mosquito bite. This isn’t my chosen method, because I don’t have a calling card beyond death. There’s nothing in each kill that will identify me as the killer. Only whispers of who I am follow in my wake.

“You can squeeze,” she pants, and I oblige her. She grimaces slightly. “Something bit me.”

“Did it?” I loosen my grip on her and slowly turn away. Walking to the bar in my suite, I pour myself a drink.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

Turning, I lift the glass to my mouth. “Only what you deserved.”

Her face pales, contrasting starkly with her red hair. “You’re him,” she gasps, and then smiles slightly. “I always thought I’d get The Skinner.”

“You still could,” I mock, and then take a drink.

She slumps to the floor, like a marionette doll whose string are finally cut. Her eyelids droop. “Tell my mother I’m sorry.”

“But not all the children whose lives you destroyed?”

“Don’t judge me because we sin differently,” she slurs. “We’re the same.”

“We are not the same.” I throw my glass against the wall, purposefully missing her by inches. “I do not kill the innocent.”

A huff of air. “Exactly. The. Same.” Her eyes close, and she lists to one side.

Soon, her heartbeat will slow, her lungs will cease to draw in sufficient air, and her muscles will become so relaxed that her bowels will expel all the waste it stores. I’ve been told that on some level, the poisoned know this, that they are at least partially aware of their body shutting down, of the indignity of their death... I take one last look at the woman on the floor.

“I pray to God that he has
no
mercy on your soul.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I make a call.

“Service?” I don’t recognize the voice, but I do know that all traces of the body will be removed from my hotel room as quickly and discreetly as possible.

“Maid, please,” I reply and then hang up, tossing the phone on the bed a second later. I pull a clear bottle out of my pocket. Inside is a most useful liquid for a man in my line of work. The liquid destroys all evidence of DNA with just a simple misting and wipe down, or I could use bottle number two and simply replace my DNA with another’s.  Either way, this hit will never be traced back to me.

After spraying down
everything
—including the body—I exit the room.

***  ***  ***

I
return to the States on a Wednesday morning, the red-eye flight getting me back in time to open shop for Everly’s weekly visit. Only this time... I look forward to it, even more than usual, since this will be her first one to my shop in months.

Since my trip to the hospital, Everly and I have grown a bit closer, despite my resistance. The woman is, for lack of a better word,
determined
to be in my life. 

The day I was discharged from the hospital, she’d shown up with a spectacularly gaudy
Get Well Soon
balloon and offered to drive me home.  Thankfully, and yet completely regrettably, my cousin, Ben, had arrived that morning to oversee my rehabilitation.

Something I appreciated, yet despised. A small part of me had hoped that the
Bratva
would forget about the man known as Roman Smith. That perhaps getting shot was Divine Intervention and I could be free to pursue Everly.

In the following months, I had to close my shop while I recuperated, watched for signs of Petrov’s return, and had the entire place cleaned of the forensics powder. Though every Wednesday, I would sit on a bench, in a small park by my shop, and wait for Everly. Always, I would stay by her side while she read from one of the books I delivered to her.

I’m a glutton for punishment, I suppose, but in those quiet moments, I felt at peace with the world. I had the most lovely, most beautiful, woman within arm’s reach, and I soaked her presence in. She didn’t try to force me to talk to her, though she did her best to get me to open up.

“What’s your favorite book?” she asks, setting her latest Zoe Ambrose novel down.

“The kind that makes me the most money,” I say, breaking off a piece of bread and throwing it to the birds in the park.

She rolls her eyes, and I bite back a grin. “Seriously, Roman. Tell me.”

“Saint-Exupéry’s, The Little Prince,” I say softly. “My mother read it to me as a child.”

She doesn’t make one of her gentle jokes at this. Instead, she inches closer to me, so close that our thighs are touching. “That’s a sweet memory to share with me.”

It’s a true memory. I pick up her book and examine it. “While you are reading a very raunchy scene.”

Blushing, she laughs. “It’s not raunchy. It’s romantic sex.”

We both grow quiet, and I hand the book back to her. Romantic sex. I can’t offer her straight-up fucking, much less romantic sex.

“Fantasy is good,” I murmur, and she beams at me.

“Thanks for not making fun of what I read.” Her hand reaches for mine, but I move it out of the way. She makes a little face, then goes back to her reading.

The moment has passed, but I can’t help wondering what it would have been like to give in.

A gust of sharp wind brings me back to the present, and I blink.

For reasons known only to God, Everly sees something in me. Something she wants to touch and hold. I feel the same way about her. When I see Everly, all I see is pure goodness and beauty. 

Yet, each time I look at my hands, at the tattoos that are inked so deeply into my skin that I’ll never be able to remove them, I see blood. My fingers are twisted and charred, oozing with blood, with the sins that I committed all in the name of ridding the world of scum.

And not for the first time, I wonder what Everly would do if I confessed the truth.

“Exactly the same.”
The redheaded woman’s words slither into my head.

A plaintive meow breaks through my clouded head, and I turn to find a small cat sitting by the back door. Its fur is an odd shade of bluish grey.

Kneeling, I rub its head. “Lost, little one?” I’ve always had an affinity for animals, from the time I was a child. A weakness my father said I inherited from my mother’s family. Animals were meant to serve us, to do our bidding, not perform tricks.

I scoop up the purring cat, heading in the direction of the local shelter. Everly won’t be here for at least thirty more minutes, so I have time to get this bit of fluff there.

“Ridding the world of mice, eh?” I croon, as the familiar brick building comes into sight. The door opens, and an older woman with black hair liberally streaked with gray comes out. Mrs. Tatum is the director of the city’s rescue shelter.  Bangles on her wrists jingle as they crash against one another.

When she sees me, she smiles—it’s genuine and warm, much like Everly’s.

“Mr. Smith, how are you today?” Her gaze zeroes in on the bundle in my arms and that smile melts away, leaving behind a frown so sad that grooves appear in the side of her mouth. “Ah, I wish you hadn’t brought it.”

I glance down at the cat. Yellow eyes regard me thoughtfully. “She can’t eat that much. I’m more than happy to donate food—”

“That’s not it.” She lets out a thick sigh. “We can’t take any more animals for at least a week. If they are left here, then we have to euthanize them.”

“I’ll take her home with me,” I immediately say, uncaring that even something as small as a cat can complicate my life.

“I’ll stop by later with some supplies for you,” Mrs. Tatum says.

Without further ado, I hurry back to my shop and await Everly’s return.

***

N
aturally, Everly loves my cat. Naturally, the cat hates Everly and hisses as soon as the woman attempts to hold her.

“Perhaps I should put her in the back?” I whisk the cat away, placing her in a nearly empty storeroom. There’s some cat food in a bowl, a small dish of water, a litter box, and a blanket—all courtesy of Mrs. Tatum. But the damned cat bolts out of the room before I can shut the door and disappears into my shop.

“Later then.”

When I return, Everly is digging through her box. She stops when she sees me. “Does it bother you?”

“That the cat doesn’t like you? Not particularly.”

Everly tilts her head to one side. “The cat will come around, but I was speaking about the robbery and assault.” Her gaze flicks to my shoulder and lower still to my thigh, as if she can still see the bullet holes. “I don’t know if I could ever come back to work.”

“Yet, here you are,” I say dryly, and she blushes a little.

She hefts the box and takes it to her usual spot, sitting down and curling her legs up beside her. “I won’t have an order for next week.”

A sort of panic sets in, my heart beating in staccato at the thought of her not making her weekly visit. Though we haven’t made much progress—okay, so I haven’t made much progress in our conversations, I can’t help but wonder how lonely my store would be without her in it. Actually, I do know. Six days a week, I know how it feels. It’s fucking miserable.

I’m
fucking miserable.

“Why is that?”

“Out-of-town guest.”

Male or female? It hadn’t occurred to me that Everly could be in a relationship, with anyone, because every Wednesday, at precisely four o’clock, Everly Andrews is mine.

The bell on the door rings and once again, Everly’s eyes widen, but this time, it’s in pure terror. “Roman... someone’s here. Maybe you should call the cops,” she says, her voice shaky. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out pepper spray and a cell phone. “Here.”

Pepper spray versus a gun?
Jesus.

Quickly, I check the monitor, taking note of the face before striding to her. Carefully, I kneel beside the chair. Her scent washes over me, lightly floral and completely feminine. “You are perfectly safe. We’re perfectly safe. The man who just walked in is an old friend of mine.”

Everly exhales, her body trembling. I take her hand into mine, reveling in the contact. She’s just as soft as I remember, the skin just as satiny and delicate. “Let’s put up the pepper spray, shall we, before it goes off on its own.”

She rewards me with a tremulous smile. I allow my thumb to pass over a knuckle, and her breath hitches. She leans forward slightly, mahogany waves falling. Our eyes meet, and I’m helpless in this moment. The last time she was this close to me, I’d been shot.

Now, I’m perfectly healthy and perfectly willing to take her to my bed. Because of her, I haven’t been with anyone in months.
Months
. The thought of using another as a replacement for her leaves my mouth as dry as ashes in a dead hearth.

“Your friend,” she says, her lips inches from mine. Plump and pink.

Lickable. I want to devour her, starting at that mouth.

“He’s browsing.”

She covers my hand with hers, but not to pull it away. Instead, she squeezes, and my dick gets hard. I close my eyes. This is no way to react to her fear, but my body knows who’s touching it.

“Have lunch with me on Friday.”

My eyes pop open. “Pardon?”

“Lunch. You and me, we’ll eat and talk about books and non-shooting things. We won’t mention bullets or hospitals or nightmares of seeing a friend covered in blood,” she says, her smile quivering at the corners.

“You had nightmares?”

She nods. “I didn’t think I could ever come back here again.”

“Why did you?”

A little shrug and she looks away. I turn her face back to mine with my free hand. Heat arcs between us, my thumb dusts her lower lip, and her mouth parts. I dip my finger in slightly, and her tongue touches the tip before she pulls away.

A groan escapes before I can stop it.  My sweet
solnyshko.
“Love, tell me why you came back.”

“Because my friend, who was
shot twice
, came back. If you can be strong and brave, Roman, then so can I.” Her hand moves from mine, and I watch as she starts to dig around in her purse. “But I don’t want you to be as afraid as I am, so I bought you something.”