by Rien Gray
“That I shouldn’t.” I force myself to keep my eyes on theirs, instead of taking in how close Campbell’s mouth is to mine. “But I don’t know. I guess I’m worried about being in the way. That I could trip you up.”
A frown twists their mouth. “In my way, or everyone’s?”
“Well…” The question slices deep until there’s nothing left but the bare bones of honesty. “Both. But you’re the priority at the moment.”
Campbell is quiet for so long I’m not sure they’re even breathing. Then they blink, life returning in a rush. “If you don’t want to go home, you can come with me. But it’s a lot of empty grass and not much else.”
“What about the tombstones?”
They shrug and start walking down the street. It’s the same direction as my car, so I move to follow. “Potter’s fields don’t have tombstones. No one knows their names, so there’s not much point.”
So why is Campbell bringing flowers to complete strangers?
As it turns out, their car is parked in front of mine. It’s a very high-end sedan in deep blue, with Illinois plates. While the vehicle is nice, it’s not what I would have picked to match their taste. There’s no elegance or aesthetic.
They catch me looking at them and let out a soft laugh.
“I’m not from Illinois, if that’s what you’re trying to figure out.” A key fob press pops the passenger side lock open. “I always rent in-state to keep from standing out.”
Driving around advertising your home state would be a pretty egregious mistake for an assassin. I laugh too. “Am I supposed to drive behind you?”
“If that’s where you want to go.” They gingerly place the bouquet on the seat, then push the door shut and head to the driver’s side. “But I don’t know what you’re looking for, Justine. Chances are you won’t find it in a graveyard.”
In a way, they’re right. I don’t have much interest in the graveyard, but if Campbell thinks it’s so important, there must be a reason. What do I have to lose? The alternative is going home and taking Dalia up on her idea with the wine.
Campbell drives until we reach Oak Park Avenue. Grass stretches along one side of the road, but the rest is calmly suburban. A wrought iron sign designates the field and a small oval of concrete as a memorial park, and that’s where Campbell goes, flowers tucked under one arm. I trail a few steps behind them until reaching a plaque embedded in the concrete.
“Thirty-eight thousand bodies are resting under your feet right now,” Campbell says, their voice subdued. “And it barely changed a thing. The city forgets and tries to cut through the corpses every few years.”
They step onto the grass and lay the bouquet by the concrete. There are no markers or lines to separate one grave from another, but Campbell’s arrangement is so careful you’d think they were laying glass by hand.
“So if Chicago doesn’t care, why do you?” I say to their back, covered by a heavy woolen coat. “And why that number of flowers?”
“Five people, plus…” Campbell’s voice falls in their throat, threatening to crack. “Sentiment, I suppose. What could have been.”
Someone else that should have died, maybe.
I take a step closer, edging past the discomfort weaving through me like a serpent. “Was this for your family, Campbell?”
A startled sound catches in my throat when they whip around, eyes locking with mine. “Do you think someone like me has family, Justine?”
There’s a vein of vulnerability in that question, more loss than I can comprehend. I’ve lost friends and other people close to me, but that was a social severing, not a true death. Richard is going to be the first time I stand over the casket and recognize who’s inside.
“I don’t know,” I creak out.
“No, you don’t know, do you?” Campbell’s breath is hot, spilling against my lips with every word. “You don’t know a thing.”
What kind of answer am I supposed to give?
I never find out, because the next thing that happens is Campbell kissing me.
Chapter Eight
CAMPBELL
She’s not supposed to be here.
This is the only day of the year I let my guard down, that I can feel everything without a job getting in the way. I couldn’t bring all the walls back up so fast; I never should have invited her to the one place where I can’t restrain myself.
Except I did, because I wanted Justine exactly like this.
Her mouth is soft, flush with that tempting red lipstick. As the kiss deepens, Justine parts her lips, welcoming me inside. Just that hint of movement, proof that she’s as hungry for this as I am, shakes me to my foundation.
Justine leans into me with her whole body, pressed against the front of my coat. Her fingers find the lapels, gripping tight as if she’s afraid I’m going to pull back too soon. In the back of my mind, I wonder how long it’s been for her, but it doesn’t matter. I’m the one who has Justine in my arms now, with her making little sounds of need in the back of her throat.
I could stop this. I could push her away. I could even do what Richard wanted, and save myself. All it would take is my hands around her neck and—
She pulls back, breathless. “Campbell, I’m…”
“You don’t have to tell me you’re married,” I interrupt, making a joke to brace for the blow to come. “I already know that part.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” Justine sounds more disappointed in herself than me. I’m not quite sure how to read that. “I’m a client. Is this getting in the way of the contract?”
I blink. “Justine, do you think me trying to sleep with you means I want your husband less dead than before?”
A few seconds pass before everything processes, and she does so with a laugh. Then Justine pulls me into a kiss so hard, I see stars. With tongue and teeth and those warm and willing lips, it’s like she’s trying to crush me down and swallow me whole.
It sets my blood on fire.
“Say that again,” she demands.
Desire darkens her eyes to obsidian. I smile. “That I want your husband dead?”
Justine laughs, a warm sound I want to drink down to the last drop. “I meant the other part, but both halves are pretty nice to hear.”
She doesn’t care. How can she not be afraid of what I do? My mind swims with too many possibilities, but my body has other priorities.
If this is how she wants to play it, I’ll give back twice as good as I get. Except not in this place. Out of respect for the people I came here for, I can’t.
“Then come get in my car, and I’ll give you the first half of that equation.”
In the end, this won’t matter anyway. In fact, it’s the only way it can happen, in the days before the kill, before I become a ghost all over again.
“We can’t have sex in your car on a public street,” Justine protests, but I know she’s picturing it the second after the words leave her lips.
Logistics mean that I have to disappoint her. “We’re not. I’m taking you to my hotel, but your car can’t be anywhere near my room.”
This is already going to require some coverup. It’s the reason I haven’t gone anywhere near Justine’s workplace. After a point, even a wet-behind-the-ears rookie could put two and two together. Someone who’s seen constantly around a murder victim’s wife is automatically a suspect, and if the cops find me, there’s a path right back to her.
“How do you keep everything straight in your head after a kiss like that?” A faint flush of color paints its way across Justine’s face. “I blanked out on a good ten years.”
“I have to.” Even on a day like today. “But you don’t. If you follow my lead, you won’t have to think about anything at all.”
Justine shivers, relief pouring through her like a rush of cool water. It’s unmistakable with her body pressed this close, and I look her in the eyes before I whisper, “Get in the car.”
She moves with me, away from the grass and back to the sidewa
lk. I break apart from Justine long enough to unlock the doors and slip in the driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life as she fumbles with her seatbelt twice, then gives up on it.
“Don’t worry. I’m a safe driver,” I say.
“Hush, you.” She clears her throat, relaxing against the leather. “It would just be ironic if I died on the way, wouldn’t it?”
“That wouldn’t be fun for either of us,” I reply, hiding my amusement.
Heat pulses under my skin as I head toward the hotel, and I steal a glimpse at Justine out of the corner of my eye. She’s watching me, too, trying to keep both hands still in her lap. I’d let her attention wander if I could afford the distraction, but this is already a risk; I have to mitigate it before things completely spiral out of control.
Where someone else might see anyway.
For me, sex is usually a calculated urge. If desire is that much of a distraction, I find a woman at a bar or a club, someone who wants the same thing I do and nothing more. There’s one night, and it’s over.
Commitment is for people with less blood on their hands.
“Before we get there, I have a question for you.” It’s not one I want to ask, but with this sort of situation, it’s obligatory.
“You know I won’t tell anyone,” Justine insists.
I assumed, but that’s not it. “Do you care what I look like out of these clothes?”
To her credit, surprise is so vivid on Justine’s face that it provides an answer all by itself. “No. God, no. Listen, I figured out my sexuality back in high school. I don’t have to project on you.”
“People do anyway, even those who should know better.” None of it should matter at all, but even with Justine drawing my eye from minute one, I refuse to fuck anyone who has a problem with who I am. The sex is never good enough to justify it.
Thankfully, the parking lot is empty as I pull in. I kill the engine, and the soft haze of white noise vanishes, leaving behind a tense silence. It’s the tension of a harp string waiting to be plucked, eager for noise and touch. Justine stares out the windshield to the hotel, and I wager on what she’s thinking.
“Are you worried this makes you like him?” I ask.
The reaction tapers up her shoulders, leaving them rigid as stone. “If you had telepathy, you’d tell me, right? Or does that cost extra?”
“If I had telepathy, I might not kill people for a living.” Maybe that would have changed enough in the past—maybe I would have known enough to save everyone. “But I know what I want, and you’ve already given me a taste of what you want. The rest is yours to take.”
Justine bites her lip. It’s brief, but enough to leave it flushed with color. “What if I want too much?”
“No woman’s accused me of ever giving her too little.” I pocket my keys, then pop the driver’s side door open. “So why don’t you test that?”
Goad, meet desire. Justine gets out after I do, following a step behind as I approach the room. The lock thunks hard when I turn the key, but I pause to do a mental inventory of the room before letting her inside; both guns are locked up, my laptop’s closed, and none of my clothes have identifying markers. My medals and the rest are still out of sight, as always.
I’d worry about the squad thinking this was disrespectful, but every one of that wild five would probably laugh and slap me on the shoulder. They always took me for a loner, and I didn’t do as much as I should have to convince them otherwise.
I miss them so much.
After I lock the door and step away, Justine presses against my back, her hands slipping around the front of my coat. “Should I take this off you?”
There are a lot of answers I could give, but we’ve already set the mood. “Take it off, then set it over the chair.”
With my arms out, the sleeves slide free with ease, and Justine’s heels click on the wood as she does what I ask. I turn around, watching the line of her skirt shift with every step, slender fingers deep in the wool like she’s clinging to the warmth inside it.
Silent steps take me to her, and I corner Justine from behind, framing her hips with my hands. The soft, startled sound in her throat rises in pitch as my fingers meet across her stomach, tracing slow centimeters upward. I pass the line of Justine’s ribs, the swell of her breasts trapped beneath a crimson blouse, and encircle the line of her throat like a necklace. She trembles, but there’s no fear in it. I know fear, inside and out. This is simple, animal need.
“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” I ask.
The answer is distant as a ghost, less than a whisper. “No.”
“But you wanted them to?”
Justine swallows, pulse fluttering against the inside of my palm. It’s like a trapped bird trying to break out of its cage. “Yes.”
This has to be done with care. We’re playing with death, contained by inches. With one hand guarding Justine’s neck, I draw the other up to her mouth, covering it and the bottom of her nose. Her first shocked breath comes short, but the weakness in her knees is the most telling, stockings rubbing together as she grabs the back of the chair to stay steady. A muffled moan vibrates through Justine’s throat, heart beating faster as the small gulp of air trapped in her lungs begins to run out.
Instinct makes her struggle, but Justine’s hands stay on the chair, never pulling or pushing me away. A faint whimper manages to escape through the barrier of my fingers, and when my mental count hits ten, I drop the hand at her mouth completely away.
She draws in sharp gulps of air, every gasp ragged on the exhale. Her head bows as she takes a moment to recover, and I brush past the curtain of Justine’s hair to kiss along her shoulder, counterbalance to the harsher touch. I’m careful not to leave marks—it’s for her protection as much as mine.
“Jesus,” Justine whispers, “that’s a lot more intense than when I do it to myself.”
I smile against her skin. “Isn’t that always the way?”
When her hips push back against mine, I have to stifle a sound. It’s so much better when I don’t have to hide. There are too many clothes between us, although I intend to make quicker work of Justine’s than my own.
“I hope you’re planning on doing something about this.” Slender fingers find the hand that abandoned her mouth, guiding me down to the hem of her skirt. My nails scrape a smooth line up the inside of Justine’s thigh, until my palm is pressed right between her legs. Heat answers my touch, even through the barrier of her panties. “Because otherwise I will.”
“You make that sound like a threat.” I start rubbing slow circles with my fingertips, knowing the friction won’t be anywhere near enough. If we’re doing this, I’m taking my time. “When I’m sure I’d enjoy every second I was watching you.”
Her hand tightens, encouraging more. “I should have known an assassin would be voyeuristic.”
“I’d say I’m split about even when it comes to observation and getting my hands dirty, at least in practice.” I grind my hips against the curve of Justine’s ass, enjoying the spark of pleasure that follows. “But you know what I’d rather do?”
A moan, equal parts eagerness and frustration, twists its way through her teeth. “What?”
“I want you spread open on my bed. I want you so wet you can barely speak. And then I’m going to taste you until you come so hard you’ll think I’m still crushing the breath out of your lungs.”
“Fuck,” Justine mutters. “Campbell, you…yes.”
“Yes?”
“Please.”
Even my patience has a limit. I move us together, and when Justine is close enough to the bed, I let her fall. She lands on cool sheets, looking up at me with eyes lost to a ring of black. I stand at the edge of the mattress, in the gap between her bent knees, and grab hold of them.
“Take your blouse off.” With steel in the words, I make it a command. “I want to see more of you.”
Justine’s fingers slip on the smooth buttons at least twice before she gets all of them u
ndone, but I watch in satisfied silence as she strips. The bra underneath is black silk, and she reaches back to undo the clasp.
I didn’t tell her to do that, but I’m certainly not complaining. Once it’s gone, there is only the full amber cast of Justine’s skin, the softness of her breasts tapering to hard, dark nipples. When I lean down to bring our bodies together, Justine grasps at my shirt, trying to pull it up and out of the way. My mouth catches hers in a deep kiss, and I seize her wrists to keep them in place.
There’s no recoil, no alarm. I keep waiting for Justine to be afraid of me, to understand how much danger she’s in.
“Not yet,” I whisper against those gentle, perfect lips. “What did I say I wanted?”
Her fingers relax by degrees, and our hips are close enough together that the heat there is a constant presence. “Does that mean I can’t touch you until after?”
“Keep it above the shoulders.” In a slow shift, I bring Justine’s arms together over her head, pinning them down against the bed. “Or I tie your hands behind your back with my belt.”
She shivers, but a smile of delight curves her mouth. “What was that you said about threats a minute ago?”
“I think you want to touch me more than you want to be bound right now.” Another kiss to her lips, and I start working my way lower. My teeth scrape the curve of Justine’s throat, sparking a gasp, but the next sound is more insistent when my tongue traces her collarbone. “So do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
I let go of her wrists and take advantage of the freedom to cup Justine’s breasts, teasing the peak of one before my mouth is occupied with the other. Fingers slip into my hair, and I approve of the contact with a hum.
“How rough do you like it?” The question spreads warmth across slick skin, making Justine squirm under me.
There’s a hard swallow, slow and considerate. “Don’t break the skin. Otherwise, touch me however you want.”
I love having leeway. “Good.”
The first hard squeeze of my hands earns a whimper, but I’m already kissing a hot, sharp trail between Justine’s breasts and down her stomach, my fingers searching out the zipper of her skirt. It opens with a hiss of metal teeth, freeing the tightness around Justine’s thighs before I pull the sheath of fabric away. I kneel in front of the bed, tracing back up her stockings to the line of her underwear. Black silk, a mere inch from my lips, is soaked through.