Love Kills Twice

by Rien Gray

  “Close already?” That crescent-sharp smile flashes, eyes near-silver in the dark. “It’s been a while since someone’s taken care of you, hasn’t it?”

  I nod against the press of their strong hand, and that answering tightness is enough to push me over the edge. My hips jerk and roll, bringing more sweet friction against my clit, trying to draw the fingers inside me deeper. Pulses of pleasure echo every reflexive squeeze, carrying bliss through my entire body.

  By the time I finish, I’m panting for breath, dazed. At some point, the hand around my neck fell slack, and as the tepid air of the bedroom washes across oversensitive skin, it’s like being dunked in cold water.

  Jesus. I’ve never touched myself because of someone I’ve just met. Embarrassment sends heat away from the languor between my thighs and right to my face. I have no idea what Campbell would be like in bed⁠—hell, if they even like sex⁠—but apparently, my mind was keyed up enough to fill in the blanks.

  “Okay, Justine,” I mutter under my breath, “let’s work this out like a logical adult.”

  Of course, I was pent up. Usually, I bury those feelings deep, putting them out of my mind, and that kind of repression is bound to break out in some interesting ways. It’s been years since I tried breathplay⁠—the idea alone freaked Richard out⁠, which is an irony that’s never escaped me—but it felt damn good, and putting “assassin” and “choking” side by side doesn’t take a genius.

  Campbell is a convenient disguise to slip over the idea of a stranger fucking me, that’s all. Getting into a fantasy with a real face and name comes easier than some shadow in the dark. Combo that with the reality of what I paid them to do tonight, and the spark to my libido transforms into a conflagration. Normal enough, considering the circumstances.

  With afterglow fading between my thighs and the distant ache around my throat, I’m pretty tired. It’s a win-win, no big deal. I pull the covers up, turning to lay against my pillow, and close my eyes.

  Okay, it shouldn’t be a big deal, but how am I supposed to look them in the face when I hand over Richard’s keys? I don’t want to seem nervous, like I’m trying to call things off or, worse, called the cops. Campbell’s contract didn’t provide any promise of protection for me except an alibi, and I don’t need one of those if they shoot me for looking skittish.

  Logical Justine intervenes again, declaring Campbell is too confident for that. They read me like an open book at dinner and seem more likely to ask what’s bothering me than pulling the trigger on an assumption. Like the assumption that they even have a gun. I’m jumping to every conclusion in the book.

  I breathe deep. Campbell isn’t who I have to worry about. They’ve been paid and, unless Richard is alive in three weeks, not even remotely my problem. Keeping up the facade of mourning afterward is going to be the hard part, listening to his colleagues cry about how good a man he was. I’ll have to buy a different black dress for the funeral since the one I wore to dinner is more sultry than sorrowful.

  Then what? I’ll have to call his parents, then mine too. My mom might be more broken up about it than his. She declared us a perfect match after he proposed, despite my father never liking Richard. At the time, I chalked it up to us not having the same background, to Richard not having as good a job as I did. If it wouldn’t draw suspicion, I’d call Baba and apologize.

  Maybe I will, after a couple of years. Or not, considering murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations. They’ll worry about me being alone, or ask me to move back home to New York. Somehow, I’ll stick a pin in that idea, stop it from rooting too deep. I like my independence, and I certainly don’t need a husband to keep it.

  I steal a look at the clock. Midnight, and still no sign of Richard. If I could just move his stuff out of the house, it’d be like I don’t have a husband at all. That would be better than he deserves though. Richard doesn’t care about possessions; he cares about what he looks like to everyone else. A man put out on the street by his once-loving wife? Too sympathetic by half.

  And I can’t have that. So I serenade myself to sleep by counting how many of his keys I need to collect.

  Chapter Four

  CAMPBELL

  Coffee shops are fascinating microcosms of humanity.

  When Justine suggested we meet at one for the drop, I was amused, but the beauty of a phone call is people only know what I tell them. There’s enough cover and noise to make the exchange a simple one, which is the reason I didn’t ask for a change in location. By the third time the barista calls out a pickup for a four-line order to no avail, though, I’m starting to regret not going with my gut.

  Instinct is what keeps you alive, after all.

  My dark roast is burnt to a crisp, but I sip it anyway, making another sweep of the room. The couple in the back is still fighting in aggressive whispers, and both of them look near tears. I remember being sixteen with my first girlfriend, thinking the sun would fall from the sky if she ever left me. Except I ended up leaving first, neck-deep in figuring myself out, only to learn she felt that same way. I was her first little apocalypse.

  In the end, I never stopped being a heartbreaker.

  A man in a maroon suit reads the paper at my right, but it’s a shield for his anxiety. He checks his phone every minute or so, straightens his shoulders, and tries to get through another article. I haven’t seen him turn a page since I walked in. A row of empty seats rest between his overpolished shoes and a mother with her kids. Three in total, with the youngest two playing with the beads in each other’s braids.

  The oldest studiously counts out the change in her bag, weighing four fifty cupped in a palm before her mother smiles and says, “That’s enough for a Frappuccino, baby girl. Go make your order.”

  Full of gleeful pride, she strides up to the counter, not more than nine. Cute.

  My phone buzzes, and I answer before the second vibration. I wasn’t expecting a call, especially not now.

  “Campbell,” Sofia’s voice carries across the line, “sorry for calling you during real people hours.”

  The fold of tension in my brow fades. “Don’t make it a habit. Neither one of us are real people.”

  “Hey, I make sure you pay taxes. Just not, you know, on those accounts.” She laughs, but the mirth bleeds away quick. “That thing you called me about yesterday though? You were right.”

  Sofia is being vague, which probably means someone is within earshot of her office. Cattaneo and Associates does have actual associates, doing enough white-collar work to make the entire operation look clean. It doesn’t matter—I know what she’s talking about.

  “I thought so.” Disappointment is a distant pang. This is almost funny, when it comes down to it. “Thanks for confirming my suspicions anyway.”

  “At least you have a good reason to stick around Chicago,” she adds.

  I do, but Justine is two minutes late. “Yeah, I’m waiting for her right now.”

  The bell at the front door jingles, and I lean out of my seat to take a look. This table is meant to be out of the way, but I don’t want Justine drawing too much attention trying to find me.

  “I’ll get back to you later, Sofia.”

  I hang up.

  Justine looks harried, and I catch a glimpse of steel between her fingers: the keys. Dark brown eyes sweep the room before locking with mine. She freezes, a hare before the snake, then starts walking my way. It was how she looked at me when we first met at Ortolana—as if I was everything she wanted and feared all at once.

  Maybe I am. It’s a nice thought, one I’d chase if circumstances were different.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Justine says under her breath, taking the seat across from me. I settle back in my own chair, cleaved from sight again. “I have keys for the house, the car, and his safety deposit box, but I couldn’t find the one to his office. He never gave me a copy.”

  I hold out my palm, and she drops the keys into it, steel warm from the inside of her fist. “By his office, do you mean a
t the university?”

  “Yeah, where he supposedly spends most of his time.” She sighs, but expectation lingers on Justine’s face. It’s as if she’s waiting for me to tear her down for the inconvenience. “Can you still do this?”

  “Of course.” I allow a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “If I really need to get inside, I’ll pick the lock. Keys just make it easier to hide forcible entry.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

  I’m tempted to tease her, to ask Justine if she thought I only used legal routes to kill targets, but she’s on edge enough already. I pocket the keys instead. “What about his schedule?”

  “That one wasn’t hard.” Justine reaches into her black clutch, pulls out a folded sheet of paper, and offers it to me. “I printed out all his classes.”

  Good thing I brought a pen. The blocked-out schedule covers about six hours a day, but the weekend and the rest are blank. “What time does he leave the house?”

  Justine stops to think about it. “I don’t have to be in at the gallery until nine, and he usually leaves right before I do.”

  I mark the hour between then and his first class of the day as a potential jump-off point. Ninety percent of students won’t report their teacher not showing up, and those who do aren’t likely to act on that troublesome urge right away. Accidents happen on the road to work all the time. Tragic.

  “When does he tend to get home?”

  She tenses like she’s been struck. Tightness creeps up Justine’s jaw and settles there as if she wants to bare her teeth. “Sometimes he doesn’t. But I don’t know, seven?”

  Richard’s last class ends at five, and the university is a twenty-minute drive from the Fortins’ house. Maybe he has office hours or stops on the way home for dinner, but either way, that’s a sizeable gap. I give it a different mark.

  “And the weekends?”

  Justine folds her fingers together on the table. They’re slender, with manicured but unpainted nails, and perfectly smooth, save for a subtle divot along her right index finger. A callus had set there once, but it’s too high to be from a pen. A paintbrush is my best guess, although it’s been a while since she held one.

  “He grades papers at home once in a while,” she answers quietly, “but otherwise, I’ve stopped paying attention.”

  Unless an opportunity presents itself, I won’t bother with the weekend. Unpredictable timelines complicate setup in similarly unpredictable ways. Saturdays and Sundays get an X, and the pieces start to fall together. I have a couple of windows to detail out, locations that need to be double-checked for ease of access.

  “Fair enough.” Justine’s eyes flicker away from mine every time I stare for more than a second, but I can’t read any fear in her gaze. Is there something else she thinks I’ll see? “What about alcohol? Drugs? Medication?”

  “Richard’s always been in pretty good health.” He seemed fit when we met, so that lines up. “I don’t know about any drugs, but he likes his whiskey. Beer, too, if it’s one of the parties at the university.”

  Liquor’s easy to toy with. People who die intoxicated rarely get the scrutiny they deserve. “How about you, Justine?”

  “Why? Are you going to dose a bottle in the house and wait for him to take a sip?” She laughs before the weight of her own words sinks in. “I mean…are you?”

  Now I can tease a little. “Worried about becoming collateral damage?”

  “Sounds like you’re telling me to go stone-cold sober after this meeting.” Justine smiles, picking up on my tone enough to relax.

  Most women don’t relax when I imply I might kill them. She really is my type.

  “Sobriety is good for longevity.” I haven’t had a drop since I was twenty-one, backward as it may sound. “You want to live a long time once I’ve finished, don’t you?”

  Justine’s legs shift under the table, displacing anxiety out of sight. I know every facet of fear—this isn’t it, but something has put her on guard. I search her expression for signs of doubt, the faintest hint of apprehension. Nothing, but she still won’t meet my eyes. It’s enough to make me curious, except I don’t know how Justine will take to being pressed.

  I’d like to.

  “That’s the plan,” she says, smile half as bright. “Do you need anything else from me?”

  Oh, if only I could answer that question honestly.

  As I stand up to make a show of goodbyes and leave, the front bell rings again. I tilt my head for a cursory check, and Richard Fortin walks into the coffee shop with a young woman I don’t recognize. Fury rises in my chest, but I have to be practical about this.

  “What’s wr—” Justine starts.

  “Not another word,” I snap, the order low and harsh in my throat. “Stand up, and come around to my side of the table.”

  Surprise keeps her silent, even if a frustrated reflex to being commanded burns in Justine’s eyes. Right now, I can’t care. The moment she’s out of everyone else’s sight, I clap a hand across her mouth, pulling her body back against mine with the other.

  “Your husband is less than fifteen feet away from us,” I whisper in Justine’s ear, not bothering to disguise my displeasure. “Why?”

  Her first answer is muffled, but when she tries again, softer and more plaintive, I shift my hand enough for her to speak. “I don’t…I don’t know. There’s a dorm across the street from this coffee shop.”

  So the young woman is a student, one of Richard’s. “You invited me to a coffee shop right next to one of the university’s dorms?”

  “I wasn’t thinking. I⁠—” Now Justine sounds afraid, breath tight and quick. “I’ve never done this before.”

  At least she’s sensible enough to keep her voice low. Her answer is so quiet that Richard’s voice carries over hers. He’s in the corner around from us, an inch out of sight.

  “No, Alice, you’re doing fine. If we keep up our study sessions, you’ll sail through this class.”

  Justine goes rigid in my arms. I’m not sure if shock or anger is winning the war inside her, but it doesn’t matter. We can’t afford to be seen together, and there’s only one path out of the coffee shop.

  A light, airy laugh floats around the corner: Alice. “I don’t know about studying, Professor Fortin. Half the time, your eyes don’t seem to be on my book.”

  Justine spits a curse into the palm of my hand. If I had to guess, it’s “you son of a bitch.” Her mouth is hot against my skin, as if she’s holding a forge between her teeth. Anger’s winning, hitting a boiling point. It’s entirely justified, but I can’t afford any mistakes at this point in the hunt.

  I spot-check the baristas. They’re not looking our way.

  “Don’t fight me,” I whisper in her ear, and walk us backward until my elbow taps the latch of the bathroom door.

  Pushing down slow, I keep pressure on it until the lock clicks, letting the door swing open so I can walk us both inside. Once Justine and I are through, I use my knee to knock the door shut again, leaving us completely in the dark. She draws in a sharp breath against my hand, and her heart is beating hard enough to hear.

  Does she think I’m going to kill her?

  “I’m moving my hand to lock the door,” I say, slow and measured so Justine hears every word. “Nod if you understand.”

  She gulps, then nods.

  I slip my hand from her stomach to the lock and press the little steel button. A tremble ripples through Justine, and with her body against mine, I feel it from start to finish. If I’m being honest, I expected her to struggle halfway into the shadows, but she stays put, even as I let go and flick on the light. An echo of her lipstick is imprinted on my palm, the rest streaked bright and crimson across Justine’s cheek. She’s breathtaking.

  For a split second, I wonder what it would be like to kiss her.

  Focus, Campbell.

  I force a smile. “Let’s talk about how we’re getting out of here.”

  Chapter Five

  JUSTINE

&
nbsp; I’m still stunned by the time Campbell turns the light on.

  Hearing Richard with that girl made me see red, but I’ve never been taken from abject rage to scorching, shaking arousal in less than thirty seconds. All I can do is watch as Campbell goes over to the sink to wash my lipstick off, cleaning their hands with the meticulous patience of a surgeon. The water is pleasant white noise, drowning out my heart as it tries to hammer its way through my ribs.

  When they pulled me back, I thought they were going to kill me for the mistake, until I remembered that I’m the client. Richard is the one who’s on the chopping block, not me. After that flash of fear, there was only one thing I could think about as Campbell dragged me into the dark: their powerful body pressed tight against mine. I didn’t need the hand at my mouth to move; I just wanted the other one to slip under my skirt and cup between my thighs.

  Last night was a mistake. I shouldn’t have turned a real person⁠—a real assassin⁠—into a lightning rod for my libido’s greatest hits. Now I’m locked in a bathroom with said assassin to avoid my husband, and somehow, I want Richard dead even more than I did yesterday. How dare he run around with his conquests in public. Anyone could see him, but he’s too shameless to care.

  Campbell turns around to face me, brushing an invisible wrinkle from their heather-gray Henley. “I apologize for grabbing you that way, but I wasn’t sure you would react in time. The risk outweighed my manners.”

  I open my mouth to say that it’s no big deal, but the words sink inch by inch until they’re hilt-deep. Racking my mind for the last time someone apologized to me⁠—honestly, unprompted⁠—I come up with nothing. A bone-deep ache winds through my chest, recoiling against the truth.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, voice strung tight as catgut. “Why you? You kill people for a living.”