Whatever for Hire

by RJ Blain

  A quick check of Malcolm’s address revealed he lived off the beaten path. With a little luck, I could kidnap him between his home and the highway, which would allow me to ditch his Jaguar, pack him into my rental, and be halfway to Arkansas before anyone realized he hadn’t made it home.

  My second option was to lure him to a karaoke bar, get him drunk, put on my best sex kitten act, and hope he took the bait. I’d give him a ride he’d never forget in more ways than one. Alas, when I pulled a Bastet, I was far too memorable.

  Roadside kidnapping it was. If I got my tail in gear, I could get into position near Nashville in time to catch him on his way home from his late-night shift at the firehouse. If I got lucky and staged the scene just right, he’d be compelled to pull over. I’d pose for him, digging at the engine of my rental.

  If he liked go-getters, I’d pretend to be one. I’d siphon gas out of the SUV, spill some beneath the undercarriage, and play one part ditz and one part mechanic. When he pulled over to help, it’d take my dart seconds to make him mine. To keep him safe, I’d use a low dose, timed to give me a few minutes to question him, get his real vital statistics, and inject him with the appropriate amount of influencer. Then I’d put the suppression bracelet on him, pack him in the SUV, ditch the Jaguar, refill the gas tank, and call it a day.

  While a simple enough plan, a lot could go wrong. A lot would.

  The devil wanted me involved. Bubba Eugene hoped for my failure. I hadn’t even left my hotel yet, and I already expected trouble.

  In my not-so-humble opinion, I was in for one hell of a job.

  I enjoyed driving, something I rarely got to do. It was a miracle I had a license at all; most states preferred when their drivers had permanent addresses. Using a mail forwarding service as my residence wasn’t exactly legal, but it got the job done. Using New York as my base of operations kept me too close to my aunt, but I had an easier time keeping my license up-to-date where I’d grown up.

  Many believed I still lived with my aunt, and I bet she burned every single piece of my mail out of spite.

  To keep my activities difficult to track, I needed a lot of prepaid credit cards, so I made a point of stopping at every town between Kingsport and Nashville. For the first few hours of my trip, I maintained my Cleopatra appearance, deliberately drawing attention to myself.

  Ten minutes outside of Nashville, I found a quiet place to pull over and changed forms, delighted when I ended up as a sex kitten with wings. As though God—or the devil—smiled on me, I wasn’t dressed as a gypsy, and my skimpy outfit would reduce most men to a drooling mess.

  For a brief moment, I hoped Malcolm would be one of those men. Drugging him during post-sex bliss counted as too evil even for me. To add to my frustration, a little off-road action prior to dosing him would be my only chance to sleep with him. Kidnappings tended to dampen relationships for some reason, and professionalism ensured I wouldn’t be jumping into bed with him.

  Having a good roll in the hay with a victim simply wasn’t done, not by anyone with an iota of self-respect.

  Professionalism wouldn’t stop me from thinking about him naked, though. There were limits to how chaste I could be, especially when the subject of my fantasy was the perfect example of heaven on Earth. While I waited, I daydreamed about the man; I wouldn’t get many chances later, that much was for certain.

  I’d be sleeping with one eye open and testing the limits of my endurance. Even drugged, I couldn’t afford to trust Malcolm. A smart man like him might find a loop hole in any order I gave him. I’d have to wait for him to sleep and beat him awake every morning. When the going got tough, I’d put everything on the line for someone who’d hate me within a few hours, assuming I pulled off the kidnapping.

  So much could go wrong.

  For my plan to work, I needed to find the perfect spot near Malcolm’s home to stage my ambush. I waited until certain the man would be at work before heading towards his property. Midday, traffic was light, which boded well for my late-night adventure. At four in the morning, we’d be the only ones out and about—I hoped. A helpful farmer would ruin my plans, but I believed they’d rise with the sun several hours after I had my target in my custody.

  It took me almost an hour to find a good spot. There was a wide shoulder and an overgrown access road less than a quarter of a mile away where I could dump the Jaguar without anyone realizing it was there. Someone would find it eventually, but I wouldn’t leave anyone any clues.

  I’d have Malcolm hide his vehicle.

  Satisfied with my selection, I returned to Nashville to wait until it was time to put my plans into motion. I spent the day hiding out in an abandoned lot surrounded by weeping willows. The SUV’s tight confines made my wings ache, but I didn’t dare leave my vehicle. If someone did spot me, they wouldn’t get a clear view of me. They’d see I was avian of some fashion, which would throw searchers off my trail once I left the area and shifted to human form.

  As far as disguises went, it was dreadfully flimsy, but it was the best I could manage on such short notice.

  I arrived at my ambush point twenty minutes before I expected Malcolm Findlay to show up, which gave me the time I needed to drain the tank, pop the hood, and poke around the engine armed with a flashlight and my tranquilizer gun. I’d loaded the first dart estimating my target’s weight at two-twenty. If he did only weigh one-ninety with a human standard metabolism, I’d have my hands full, but he’d live. Hagnar’s chart included a column for lethal dosages, and I stuck well below threshold.

  I wouldn’t do Bubba Eugene’s job for him if he did want his cousin dead.

  Within minutes of setting up my ambush, headlights illuminated the road and my SUV. I lashed my tail, hoping he knew enough about cats to recognize my agitation. The vehicle behind me slowed, and gravel crunched as it pulled off the road before coming to halt.

  I either had Malcolm or a good Samaritan, and if I had a good Samaritan, I’d have more trouble than I wanted. I tightened my grip on my gun in my right hand and twisted to look over my shoulder, lowering my wing so it wouldn’t obscure my view. Through the headlights, almost blinding in their intensity, I identified the vehicle as a sports car.

  Bingo.

  According to Bubba Eugene, Malcolm was six foot even, on par with sex kitten me without heels. I’d been lied to again, no doubt about it, unless I’d lost a few inches somewhere.

  What a bastard.

  “Everything all right, ma’am?” A hint of a southern drawl blended with a Scottish lilt, something I hadn’t heard from his cousin. Damn, the man sounded even sexier than he looked. How was that even fair?

  Since shoot first and ask questions later applied, I fired, hitting him in his jeans-covered leg with my dart. “Sure is. Stay there,” I ordered. I smiled, flashing a bit of fang. “Don’t move and don’t speak unless questioned. No magic, either.”

  Malcolm Findlay Stewart stiffened, and his eyes widened.

  One day I’d have to give Hagnar a kiss he’d never forget for his help. The backstabbing-prone bastard always delivered on his promises, and his drug worked better than I had expected. Closing the distance between us, I pulled out the suppressor bracelet from my bra and clasped it around his left wrist.

  “Upally,” I murmured. I had no idea what the word meant, but Hagnar promised it would activate the bracelet’s magic. The matching bracelet around my right wrist warmed. “Is your name Malcolm Findlay Stewart?”

  “Yes,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  “Weight and metabolism?”

  “Two-thirty and five above standard.” Rage darkened his tone, and my bracelet’s heat intensified.

  I’d won the lottery; while I’d gotten his weight wrong, I’d dosed for six above, which would give me eight minutes before I needed to dose him again, plenty of time to have him ditch his car and return. “There’s a side road behind my vehicle. Take your car, hide it in the woods, and return here within five minutes. Leave your electronics in the vehicle. B
ring only your wallet with your driver’s license, your insurance cards, bank cards, and your credit cards. The rest stays. Don’t leave any notes, make any calls, or otherwise indicate there’s a problem. Oh, and don’t even think of hitting me or my SUV. Go.”

  He obeyed, and as he turned, his expression soured so much I had no doubt he hated me. While I waited for his return, I refilled the tank and started the engine. The SUV purred. Four minutes later, Malcolm marched towards me, and his fury once again heated my bracelet.

  “Front passenger side,” I ordered. Guilt took a few nibbles out of me for taking away someone’s free will, but I shoved the feelings aside to deal with later. “It’s really in your interest to cooperate. I want you alive. I’ve reason to believe others don’t.”

  Malcolm moved with stiff reluctance. I was aware he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t fight the influence of Hagnar’s drug, which I assumed was made more of magic than medicine.

  I settled behind the wheel, muttering curses over my wings. Until I had Malcolm under my complete control, I couldn’t afford to shift, no matter how badly I wanted to become either a human or my wingless sex kitten form.

  If I could have spared even the five minutes, I would have taken to the skies. Damn it, I didn’t want to kidnap a sinfully sexy man. I wanted to fly.

  Malcolm glared at me from his seat, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Buckle up.”

  He obeyed, and his cheek twitched.

  I turned on the overhead light, reached over, and opened the glove box, pulling out my box of syringes and vials of the drug, diluter, and extender. It took me a full minute to confirm the dosage against the chart; to play it safe, I’d start with twenty-four hours and work from there. “Keep still so I don’t hurt you.”

  Well, by accident. I was pretty sure I battered the man’s pride and dignity. I rolled up the sleeve of his soot-stained, denim shirt to reveal his tanned arms. Frowning at the evidence of him having recently fought a fire, I injected the clear liquid into his bicep. Returning the empty syringe to the box, I closed it before shoving it under my seat.

  I buckled up, put the SUV in gear, and made my escape. One U-turn later, I began phase two of my plan.

  Since when did things ever go right for me on the first try? Other people would’ve gloated over the triumph. I worried.

  I made Malcolm stew in silence for twenty minutes to soften him up for the unpleasant discussion ahead of us. “Here are the rules, Mr. Stewart. I’m the only one you’ll obey, period. If I give you an order, you do it. My job is to keep you alive. As such, I want you to protect yourself from anyone other than me. Unless I tell you otherwise, stay near me. The bracelet you’re wearing suppresses magic. If you need to use magic to sustain your health, tell me.”

  “Sometimes,” my unwilling companion admitted.

  “You’re fine for now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. My name is Kanika. Bubba Eugene Stewart, or so he calls himself, hired me to get rid of you. According to the terms of our agreement, I believe he wants you gone on a more permanent basis. Since I’m not a damned assassin for hire, I have no intention of giving him what he wants. No matter what I named my business, I’m not in the business of killing people.”

  When I killed someone, I did it on the house. It made my guilt a little easier to bear. While Whatever for Hire sometimes led to unwanted calls, I dealt with those with a curt refusal.

  It took me a moment to realize I hadn’t given him permission to speak. Damn it. “When we’re alone, you can talk to me as normal. In public, you’re to show no sign you’re an unwilling participant in our road trip. If you behave, I might even let you drive.”

  “Since when did angels start kidnapping people?”

  “Me? An angel?” I laughed so hard I hiccupped. “Wrong mythos. I’m no angel. Don’t think I have a drop of angelic blood in me. Also, cat.” I held the wheel with one hand and pointed at my face. “Black fur.”

  “I noticed. Are you a lycanthrope?”

  “Not one of those, either. So, is Bubba Eugene the type to want you dead?”

  “He’d throw a party over my grave given half a chance.”

  Why wasn’t I surprised? Oh, right. Bubba Eugene oozed malice like a festering wound, transparent even over the phone. “I got that feeling. He tried to sell me a pretty story about how you’re the family’s black sheep. I figure you’re just better at business than him and he’s jealous.”

  “Bit of both.”

  “Is it true you have no lovers? Are you involved with anyone?”

  “I have no lovers, nor am I involved with anyone.”

  Hot damn. I stole glances while checking my side mirror. Photographs didn’t do the man justice, and the day-old stubble shadowing his jaw had to be some form of seductive magic.

  Falling in lust with him was way too easy, but I had a cure for that: bad questions.

  “Are you gay? Asexual?”

  “Neither.” He snorted. “Do I look gay to you?”

  “You look like sex on a stick. I bet you could get anyone of any species to jump in bed with you with a single ‘come hither’ look.”

  He snorted again. “I’m straight. I experimented once. Didn’t like it.”

  Hello. Now that was a statement begging me to ask so many questions. The cat in me took control of my tongue and growled, “I’m so tempted to ask.”

  Damn it, I wish I could purr.

  While brief, he smiled. “Go ahead.”

  “How’d you experiment? What went wrong?”

  “Threesome with two men. Turned out my girl just wanted to watch. Let’s just say I regret everything, especially the girl.”

  If I had a hunk like Malcolm, I wouldn’t share him with anyone. Then again, if I had a hunk like Malcolm, would I even let him out of the bedroom? Probably not. Her loss.

  I would have changed so much if only I hadn’t owed the damned devil a favor. Neglecting research before accepting the job from Bubba Eugene had been the second of my mistakes. My third had been insisting on having some morals during a job requiring me to throw most of them out the window.

  Oh well. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. “Well, never fear. I avoid mixing business and pleasure.”

  “This isn’t one of those sex-trafficking grabs?”

  I almost drove the SUV into a ditch, and I slammed the brakes to regain control of my nerves and the vehicle. “What? No!”

  Several deep breaths later, I eased the rental back onto the road where it belonged.

  “I’m strangely disappointed.”

  Maybe Bubba Eugene had more than financial reasons to want to get rid of his cousin. “Are you mentally ill?”

  “No. I just like sex.”

  Malcolm liked sex but avoided it like the plague? Also, I couldn’t afford to think about sex with him. If he asked, I’d be tempted to pull over, to hell with my morals.

  It was going to be a very long trip.

  “I’m going to stop for gas at the next station. No signaling for help in any fashion. Play along. Pretend you’re my boyfriend or something. If anyone ask, we’re skipping town for a bit of fun.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “I can do that.

  “Please do.” I hesitated, wondering what he thought was so funny about the situation. “You get to pump the gas. No fucking up my rental or driving off without me.”

  “Okay.”

  “No water or windshield wiper fluid in my gas tank, either.”

  “I’m fairly certain that falls under not fucking up your rental.”

  I sighed and regretted I hadn’t spent more time planning the kidnapping of Malcolm Findlay Stewart. We hadn’t been on the road for long, and I was already in over my head.

  To keep anyone from tracking Malcolm by his money, I took possession of his wallet and gave him one of the prepaid cards I’d purchased on the way to Nashville. While he pumped gas, I bought snacks and drinks for the road before taking a few minutes in the bathroom to splash
cold water over my face.

  No matter how bad my case of lust became, I wouldn’t jump Malcolm. I wouldn’t sleep with him—or anyone—under the influence of drugs. I wouldn’t sleep with him even if he wasn’t on drugs, either. Kidnappings put dampers on relationships, and I wasn’t interested in corrupting Mr. July, who was hotter than the devil, into suffering from a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome.

  Some lines I refused to cross, and that was one of them.

  I cursed my ethics, which were twisted on a good day, kicked the concrete foundation of the building hard enough my toes throbbed, and used the pain to get my head into the game and out of the gutter. With my chin lifted, I returned to the SUV and slid behind the wheel. Malcolm leaned his seat back, stretched out, and yawned. He feigned sleep, but I caught him watching me through his lashes.

  I left him alone; there’d be time enough for mind games later. Leaving the gas station, I drove until I found a dirt road leading away from the highway. Pulling off, I parked far enough from the road no one would catch a peek of me shifting.

  “Stay,” I ordered.

  Shifting took longer than normal; instead of the few seconds I’d grown accustomed to, it took me over a minute, and it hurt a lot more, too. I blamed the bracelet. Some good came of it, though. I ended up in my human form, but instead of my usual full gypsy attire, I wore a pair of jean shorts and a denim halter top barely able to contain my breasts. I hadn’t escaped my heritage; a coin belt hung off my hips, and bells decorated my suppressor bracelet.

  Best of all, I wore a pair of kickass combat boots.

  I refused to think about omens involving combat boots. If I did, I’d jump at shadows and look for trouble. A good fight was the one I avoided, and I already had more problems than I knew what to do about. While I hoped to dodge any form of combat, I expected it. My three handguns wouldn’t help much if I faced a real assassin or battle mercenaries, but I’d look good going down.

  The pair of thigh holsters I added to the ensemble made my legs look fantastic. Killer, even.