The Hitwoman Gets Lucky (Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman) (4 page)

"I am."

"So you're safe?"

I thought about the fact I was about to unleash Armani's wrath. I shuddered. "Sort of."

I heard Patrick sigh heavily.

No doubt I complicated his already complicated life.

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" he suggested in a mollifying tone.

Just the week before, I'd just read a bit in the paper about how my hero cop had convinced a kid robbing a liquor store to give up his weapon before anyone got hurt. I assumed he used the same level tone as he was used on me.

I took a deep breath and tried to sound reasonable. "Aunt Loretta gave me two tickets to see Barry Manilow."

Patrick chuckled. "Are you asking me on a date, Mags?"

"No!" I said a tad too quickly, not wanting to admit I'd imagined us holding hands and swaying to Mandy. "Of course not."

"Of course not." I wondered if it was my imagination or if he really did sound disappointed. "So why are you calling me?"

"They're for this weekend."

"Where?" Patrick Mulligan is not a man who panics, but I could swear I heard an inkiling in his voice.

"In Atlantic City."

"Terrific." I could practically hear him smiling his relief. "That's the perfect excuse for you to be there."

"Not so much," I explained. "She gave them to me in front of Armani."

"Your work friend?"

"Yes. She desperately wants to go. Apparently she's a closet Manilow fan. But I'm not sure—"

"Take her," he interrupted. "It'll be the perfect cover."

"But what if she figures out why I'm there? Or what if she sees you?"

"It'll be fine, Mags. You worry too much."

I glanced around to see if there was anyone in earshot. I was the only one in the parking lot. "What about your Rule Number One: Don't Get Caught?"

"You were paying attention."

"Of course I was."

"Don't worry about it.  We're not going to get caught."

"Promise?" I asked childishly, knowing full well promises get broken all the time.

"You've got my word."

Chapter Three

In a normal world, I could have jumped into my car, driven south on the Turnpike, and been in Atlantic City. No muss, no fuss.

But I don't live in a normal world.

First, there was God's temper tantrum when I told him my plans.

"You can't leave me here," he bellowed as I packed my bag for the weekend.

"You won't starve," I told him, giving silent thanks that I had enough clean underwear to get me through the weekend. "I'll leave you with plenty of food and water and I'll leave the TV on for you."

"But what if you get caught?" he asked. "Or killed?"

I considered snapping my bra at him like it was an oversized rubber band. "I won't get caught. And I'm not getting killed. We're stealing from a thief, not taking on a professional assassin." I'd already done that, and the assassin had come pretty close to ending us all. He'd beaten up Patrick, kicked poor Doomsday, and taken a shot at God.

"You don't know that," God griped.

"And you don't know that some idiot isn't going to run a red light and kill me."

He fell silent for a moment, remembering how just that very thing had happened to my sister Teresa and her husband, leaving Katie in a coma and me able to talk to him.

I used the silent reprieve to match up enough socks for the weekend.

"I'll get lonely," he whispered.

I turned my head and peered at him in his terrarium. He was pacing the length of it, agitated.

"What did you say?" I asked.

He stopped pacing and turned his slimy lizard eyes on me. "You heard me."

"No. I'm not sure I did." It's not often I have the upper hand with him, and I was going to milk it for all it was worth. Pathetic, I know.

Sighing heavily, his tail twitch signaling his vexation, he said, "I'll get lonely."

"DeeDee miss?" Doomsday panted hopefully.

I'd forgotten she was sprawled out on the other side of the bedroom.

God shrugged, the motion of his tiny little shoulders almost imperceptible.

"Miss God Doomsday." The dog got to her feet, walked over and pressed her nose against the wall of the terrarium.

"You're fogging up the glass, you four-legged, English-mangling cretin," God raged.

Unoffended, the dog licked the glass.

I laughed at the horror on the lizard's face, as he backed away, stumbling into a piece of driftwood.

"God miss. God miss," Doomsday insisted.

"Tell the poor thing you'll miss her," I suggested with a chuckle.

"Yes, yes," God agreed throwing his front legs up in a symbol of surrender. "I'll miss you, DeeDee."

The dog sat down and flashed me a triumphant grin. All those teeth were kind of terrifying.

"I could see if the witches will take you," I suggested, falling back on my old nickname for my aunts.

"No," God stamped his foot, which is really not all that impressive, since he weighs mere ounces. "Take me with you."

"I can't. I'm taking Armani." I smiled at the memory of how she'd lit up when I'd returned from talking to Patrick and said, "Pack your bags, Chiquita. We're going to see the Dr. Pepper guy."

"You can take me too," God countered. "You could get my traveling case. It's in Katie's closet."

A lump rose in my throat and tears flooded my eyes at the idea of returning to Teresa's home. I'd only been inside once since the accident. That's when I'd met God. Since then, I hadn't been able to go back. It was as though cleaning out the house would make Teresa's death all that much more real.

"I'll go with you," God suggested gently.

"Too DeeDee." Doomsday left God's enclosure so that she could lick my hand and then nuzzle it with her snout, offering comfort.

"I won't give you any trouble," God promised. "I'll even eat freeze-dried crickets."

I swallowed the lump and blinked away the tears so that I could squint at him suspiciously. He normally refused to eat anything except live crickets. If he was offering to eat dried bugs, he must’ve been desperate to go.

"And you won't talk back?" I asked, trying to leverage his desperation to my advantage.

"Don't press your luck," he shot back.

"Okay. You can go, but you'd better be on your best behavior."

"You have my word," he said solemnly.

It was the second promise that had been made to me that day.

My doorbell rang and Doomsday almost knocked me over in her race to get to the door. "Patrick! Patrick!" she barked excitedly.

I followed at a more sedate pace, wondering what my partner in crime was doing there. For a guy who claimed it would be dangerous for people to see us together, he certainly showed up on my doorstep a lot.

"Hush, Doomsday," I admonished, reaching for my door handle without bothering to use the peephole. If the mutt said it was Patrick on the other side, I believed her.

"DeeDee," she corrected on a whine.

Ever since she'd decided she wanted to be called DeeDee because it's more girly than        Doomsday, I kept getting her name wrong.

"Quiet, DeeDee," I ordered. "Sit."

Miraculously she did what she was told. I would’ve liked to think it was because she was obeying me, but I knew it was just because she wanted to see the man on the other side of the door.

Truthfully, so did I. I smoothed my hair, hoping it wasn’t too mussed after having wrestled my overnight bag from the dark depths of my closet.

"Don't let him in!" God yelled from the other room. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

Ignoring the lizard, I opened the door to greet my favorite redhead. "Hey," I said, since I'm a sterling conversationalist.

"Hey yourself, Mags." Dressed in jeans and a moss-colored sweater that brought out the green in his eyes, he carried a non-descript brown paper bag.

I stood to the side so he could enter. As he brushed past, his aftershave tickled my nose.

He gave Doomsday a fond pat as he moved past us. Not for the first time I found myself jealous of the dog.

"Packing?"

"Uh-huh. I've got to pick Armani up in an hour." I closed the door.

"I brought you something," he said, holding up the paper bag.

I eyed it suspiciously. The last thing he'd given me was a necklace, which seemed sweet, until he revealed it was a vessel for poison. Needless to say, I didn't store that particular bauble in my jewelry box.

"Take it." He jiggled the bag.

"Is it a gun?" I asked.

"Do you need a gun?"

"
I
need a gun to put myself out of my misery!" God shouted from the other room.

Patrick tilted his head in the direction of the high-pitched squeaking that passed for God's voice. "He's a vocal little guy, isn't he?"

"You have no idea," I muttered.

Deciding that I wasn't going to take the bag, Patrick moved over to the coffee table in the living room and put it down. "Did you pack your black dress?" The slightly husky flirtation to his words did strange things to my insides.

"I hadn't," I said, fighting for control over my legs that were threatening to turn to jelly. It really was not fair that I was so attracted to a guy who’s married… not to mention that he could kill me and get away with it.

"You should." Heat flickered in his green gaze.

I leaned against the dog for support.

"And those shoes..." His words were loaded with desire.

My face flushed, betraying the heat that rushed through my body. The dress really isn't all that. It's black and a little short and the heels that go with it are a little too high for my comfort level, but it seems to have quite the effect on people. Men people.

Patrick's gaze searched my face for a long moment. "Breathe, Mags."

Turning away, embarrassed by my reaction to his flirtation, I said, "I've got another stop to make before I pick up Armani." The words came out a tad cool and businesslike, but that was just what I needed to soothe my racing libido.

If the sexy hitman was bothered by my response, he gave no indication. "You haven't opened my gift."

I eyed the bag. "That's not a gift, it's a tool to be used on the job. It's equipment. It's like when a man gives a woman a vacuum cleaner or an iron."

Patrick quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe you need to date different men if they're giving you household appliances."

"Nobody has ever given me a vacuum or anything. But I've heard stories." Dirk the Jerk had given Teresa a humidifier for her last birthday. She hadn't been pleased.

"What kinds of gifts did your dad give your mom?" Patrick asked.

"Stolen goods," I spat out.

Patrick flinched.

"Beautiful stolen goods," I amended. "For a thief, he had great taste."

"That's not stolen," Patrick said, waving at the bag.

"He probably paid for it with his blood money!" God opined from the other room.

"Up shut!" Doomsday growled. "Open."

I couldn't very well tell her that I was afraid to open the bag, not with Patrick standing right there. I trusted him, but not enough to let him know that I talked to animals.

"Quiet, DeeDee," I ordered.

"She's upset we're fighting." Patrick walked back over to pet the dog, who I was still leaning against. "Don't worry, baby."

He stood so close that I could feel his breath on my face, smell the wintergreen freshness of his breath. "Mags and I will work things out."

I tilted my head back so that I could see him better. His expression was strange, like he had something to say to me, but couldn't force the words out.

"What's in the bag?" My voice was high and reedy.

"It's just a T-shirt."

Needing to put some distance between us, I walked over to the bag and pulled out a black T-shirt that said Barry Manilow: Copacabana.

"It'll help you blend in as a fan," he said.

I shook it out, examining the size. "It's huge."

"You could wear it as a dress. A belt. Those shoes..." he teased.

"You just happened to have this lying around?"

He shrugged. "I took Daria to see him a while ago. She insisted I buy it."

I couldn't help but smile at the idea of the tough guy being bullied by his daughter to buy a shirt. "How was the show?"

He shrugged and then said grudgingly, "No man his age should have that much energy."

"So you liked it?" I pressed.

"What's not to like? Did you know that he wrote that jingle, ‘Like a good neighbor... State Farm is there’?"

"Can't say that I did. Daria is a Manilow fan?"

"Rabid." Pride lit up his face as he talked about his daughter. "She likes a lot of older musicians. Manilow, James Taylor, Bette Midler."

"Unique taste," I murmured.

"Crappy taste!" God shouted from the bedroom.

"You'll wear the shirt?" Patrick asked.

I nodded.

"Okay, I'll see you down there."

"How will I find you?"

Flashing a devilish grin, he said, "Don't worry, Mags. I'll find you. Drive safe." Bending, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of DeeDee's head.

I did my best to ignore a twinge of disappointment that he didn’t do the same to me as he let himself out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.

"Hurry up!" God yelled. "We have to drop off the slobbering beast, get my carrier, and pick up your friend."

"Keep your pants on," I grumbled, rushing back to the bedroom to finish packing.

I made sure I didn't forget the dress and shoes.

Chapter Four

If I'd known Armani was tone deaf, I'd have insisted we take the bus to Atlantic City, but because she’d been the one to “call in sick” for both of us, I found myself stuck on the Turnpike with a woman belting out an off-key version of "Somewhere Down the Road." If I could have driven the car and simultaneously covered my ears, I would’ve done it. Instead, I squeezed the steering wheel so hard I expected it to snap every time she went for a high note.

"She sounds like a cat wailing because it's being subjected to a bath," God groused. His little plastic travelling terrarium was on the floor behind me, wedged between the seat and the pillow Armani had insisted on bringing.