Beauty and the Assassin

by Nadia Lee

Angelika comes out, holding her purse. She stops next to me, then turns to Eric. “You know what? I guess I’ll quit immediately and not come back like you said. So, Mr. Almost Like an Assistant Manager, please tell the real manager what happened today.”

  I almost smile. Good girl.

  I put my hand protectively at her elbow and lead her out. And for the first time in ages, something that seems like warmth and affection ripples through me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Angelika

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I say as Tolyan and I get settled inside his SUV. It was satisfying to stand up to Eric, but Tolyan didn’t have to see the embarrassing spectacle.

  “I’m not,” he says, maneuvering the car out of the garage. “I’m glad I was there to make sure he didn’t get too aggressive. He had no excuse putting his hands on you the way he did.”

  “It was just a finger.” Given Tolyan’s attitude, he might be upset he didn’t step in sooner to do something about Eric, like before he touched me.

  “It’s easy for a finger to turn into a fist.”

  “Maybe so, but… I don’t think Eric has the kind of temperament that would let him really turn him violent in front of people.” He’s more the type to rant and rave and Tweet crap about me.

  Tolyan doesn’t respond, which I suspect means he agrees with my assessment.

  “By the way, I want to thank you for the opportunity at the foundation. I got the internship!”

  “Yes, I saw your memo. Congratulations. We should celebrate.” There’s actually a small bit of warmth in his tone when he says “celebrate.”

  My heart flutters like a high school girl being asked out to prom by her crush. “Um. What’s a safe activity?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well. You know, given my circumstances, certain things might be a little too…risky.”

  “Shouldn’t be an issue.” A corner of his mouth quirks upward. “You’re cooperative enough.”

  “No need to make it harder for you to keep me safe.”

  He flashes a quick smile, and it’s mesmerizing. It changes his demeanor completely, puts a light in his eyes so that they shine like precious stones, and softens his face to the point that he—wonder of wonders—looks approachable. “You should smile more,” I blurt out.

  His eyebrow arches. “I smile.” There’s a pause. “When needed.”

  “No, I mean just because you’re happy.”

  He considers for a second. “I suppose I’m happy that you’re being cooperative.”

  I shake my head. He’s either being purposely obtuse or he just doesn’t get it. Regardless, it’s probably a big deal. He’s generally so stoic and flat, he probably needs to remind himself how to smile before he actually does it.

  “Are you allergic to seafood?” he asks.

  “No. I love seafood.” I haven’t had any in a long time because good seafood is expensive, and bad seafood is awful. I got food poisoning once from some shrimp when I was in high school and missed half a week of classes. Never again.

  “Good.”

  He stops the car in front of a place called La Mer. A uniformed valet approaches to take the SUV. There are other cars around, many of them fancy, European and expensive. They shine like polished gems.

  Tolyan puts his hand on my elbow like he did when we left Coffee Heaven. A sharply dressed hostess greets us as we walk in. She’s what I always envisioned a native Californian might look like—blonde, sun-kissed skin and a bright white smile.

  “Tolyan, how are you?” she says.

  “Good.”

  “Your table’s ready. This way.” She leads us inside.

  Tolyan follows like he’s been here a hundred times before. I want to look cool and all that, but I just can’t. The place is freaking amazing. There are huge blue aquariums that act like partitions and walls. Colorful tropical fish swim in the beautifully decorated and set-up tanks. I spot small pink anemones in a lot of the tanks as well, looking like little flowers.

  “Here you are,” she says, gesturing to a booth ensconced by jellyfish tanks. The pink and orange creatures float like they’re in space. Their movements are amazingly soothing, like a relaxant for the brain. I feel all the tension in my body easing. “Just the table you asked for.”

  My head swivels in Tolyan’s direction. It’s like he’s known all along what I like. I’m flattered and surprised he already seems to know so much about me. That’s a lot of observation and processing.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I sit down, making sure I can also get a good view of the aquarium. He takes the seat opposite and the hostess hands us elegant leather-bound menus, then leaves.

  “This is unbelievable,” I say. “It’s the best restaurant I’ve ever been to.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “It’s great. And I love jellyfish. The way they move is so nice.”

  The skin around his eyes relaxes a little. “Good.”

  “I didn’t even know there were restaurants like this. I mean, I’ve read about those marine park places, like in Florida where the restaurants have views of the dolphin tanks, but this is a real restaurant restaurant.”

  “Dolphin tanks?”

  “Yeah, you know. Attached to the pools where they swim around? I read about them and thought it’d be cool to have lunch and watch dolphins. But this is even better.” I look around. The tanks are situated in such a way that we have complete privacy. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

  A server comes over, carrying a tray with a bouquet of pink roses and two flutes of champagne. He hands the flowers to Tolyan then places one flute in front of him and the other in front of me.

  “Congratulations,” Tolyan says, giving me the roses.

  Unexpected pleasure heats my face. I can’t remember the last time I received flowers. “For me? Really?”

  He nods.

  I hold them gently and bury my face in the soft blossoms. They smell amazing. I look closely and note the white silver ribbon around the bunch. It reads, Congratulations. Emotions, warm and sweet, swell in my chest until my heart is full and achy.

  I lift my head and gaze at him, my eyes hot. “Thank you,” I manage to whisper through the thick lump in my throat.

  He isn’t smiling, but his gaze seems softer. “My pleasure.”

  “You’re so good to me.”

  He says nothing. The lighting isn’t the best where he’s seated, shadowing a big portion of his face. But I can see his lips curve.

  This must be how Cinderella felt when she finally got to attend the ball and have a little fun after years of living a horrible life.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “It’s nothing. A toast?” He lifts his glass.

  I raise mine, and we clink.

  And I tell the universe that Tolyan isn’t just a fresh, fragrant lemon, but the whole damn orchard.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tolyan

  The next few weeks go by as planned: uneventfully.

  The café doesn’t bother her. Videos of Eric Jones acting like the ass he is go viral on social media, and Coffee Heaven is busy with damage control. They don’t have the bandwidth to pester Angelika even if they wanted to.

  Meanwhile, the little fawn and I go to work together and come home together. Then we walk the dogs and have dinner afterward.

  She loves to chat, but since I’m not a talkative person, she usually does ninety-nine percent of the talking, with me nodding and making a few appropriate noises. It’s amazing what you can gather from mundane conversation.

  Like how she managed to stay half a step ahead of Roy, how she learned latte art, how she stretches her money and what she’s planning to do with it when Roy’s taken care of.

  When she said she wanted to go to college, I imagined it would be to study literature or some such. But she wants to major in math and economics.

  “They’re practical and useful, and I feel like I can use what I lear
n to help people, you know?”

  Her eyes sparkle whenever she talks about her plans, and her walk becomes carefree, hips swinging until lust envelops me, and later I find myself fisting my cock in the shower.

  Not an optimal development, since she’s bait. But it’s just lust—nothing too complicated. I can deal with it, even if this is a particularly intense case.

  By the time we hit the five-week mark living together, I’ve decided to put the next stage of my plan into motion. It’s an adjustment to my original plan, but I like it far better. I’ve waited long enough, and it’s time to poke Roy. Hard.

  The little fawn is puttering around in the kitchen, making one latte after another. She’s been doing that on weekends since she quit Coffee Heaven. I doubt she’s doing it to keep her barista skills sharp. Baristas generally need to make more than lattes.

  I don’t know why she is making her fourth coffee when she hasn’t even taken a sip of the other three and I already turned her down when she offered me one. But I let her brew as many as she wants. It’s Saturday, and it’s good to have a legal and unproductive hobby. My dogs are leaving her alone, since she isn’t making anything they can eat. Stravinsky is trying to dominate Mussorgsky, without much success.

  I lounge on an armchair with some vodka and my favorite cigar. Beside me is a special phone I set up just for Courtney Young.

  After today, she’ll quit contacting Angelika directly.

  I’ve never cared much about what happened to the bait in an operation, but somehow I don’t want Angelika hurt in the process of getting to Roy…even though ridding Roy from her life—permanently—is what she wants, too. That means I need absolute control over what is getting fed to Roy Wilks. I need to be in charge of the messages the snitch is getting.

  So now, Courtney Young thinks Angelika’s phone got hacked and she got a new number and device.

  Even though I didn’t update anybody with my new number, I couldn’t NOT get in touch with you. You’re the only friend I have left, the only person I can trust.

  I might as well have texted, You’re so special, you see. You’re my BFF. Or some other such saccharine bullshit.

  She bought it. But then, liars always do. They consider themselves so slick that they can’t imagine anybody else finding out about their betrayal.

  It’s hard not to sneer at her moronic arrogance. The only person she could have fooled is someone as innocent and sweet as the little fawn.

  I type up more bullshit.

  –Me: Don’t trust anybody who says they’re me and contacts you. If they do, let me know.

  –Courtney: I will. Don’t worry.

  –Me: Actually, no. I’m putting you in danger by asking you to do that. Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.

  –Courtney: Do what?

  Are you holding your breath, Courtney? The cigar smoke drifts lazily toward the ceiling.

  –Me: Stay in touch. I’m not saying we should never talk, but just wait until I know I’m safe.

  –Courtney: Which will be how long? It’s been eight years. It could be another eight!

  Of course you think that. And you’re panicking.

  What is Roy giving you, Courtney? Money? Drugs? He’s good at what he does. Deserves his street name of the Dealer.

  I wonder if I can flip her to be my informant. But no. People who switch allegiances so easily aren’t trustworthy. Besides, who cares if Roy Wilks finds out about her screw-up and does something about it? It can’t be anything worse than what I would do if Courtney fell into my lap. I have a singular dislike for people who betray their friends.

  –Me: It’s going to be different this time. Roy has made me realize I can’t just run.

  –Courtney: What do you mean?

  Her bated breath is almost tangible through the digital space.

  –Me: I think I’m in love. But I can’t be with the guy if I keep running from Roy.

  Three dots appear on the screen. I take a swallow of the vodka. Then another. Still no text from Courtney. Just the three dots.

  –Courtney: Love! That’s great!

  Amusement and contempt twine like snakes inside me. It shouldn’t have taken this long for you to type three little words, Courtney. Was the declaration of love such a shock?

  –Me: He’s perfect. I didn’t know multiple orgasms were real until now.

  –Courtney: Wow. I’m thrilled. So tell me about him.

  –Me: He makes me happy. And whenever I’m with him, I think of the future. Like, wedding and babies. I think I deserve it after eight years. Don’t you?

  I puff, enjoying the cigar. Angelika’s now on her fifth latte. Is she trying out a new recipe? I thought those fancy drinks were more or less all the same.

  –Courtney: Incredible. Just incredible. You know who you have to call to be your maid of honor!

  –Me: I can’t impose like that. You live so far away.

  –Courtney: Not for my best friend! Besides, I’ve always wanted to visit L.A. You’re still at the same place, right?

  Oh? Did Roy ask you to find out where Angelika has gone? It doesn’t take a genius to know her garage apartment is empty. I never made any attempt to hide the fact that she doesn’t go there anymore, and she doesn’t know enough to think about that. She’s too drunk on her current good fortune. As well she should be.

  –Me: No, I moved in with my guy. It’s for the best. Safer, too. He makes me feel protected.

  I hope she films Roy’s reaction when she shows him these texts and sends me a copy. It would be very entertaining.

  –Courtney: Good for you! He must be special.

  Oh, I am—specially skilled.

  –Me: He is. We even work at the same place.

  –Courtney: The café?

  –Me: No. At a charitable foundation. It’s amazing.

  I don’t give her more information. It wouldn’t be like Angelika to go into that level of detail. But it should be enough for Roy to figure out. If not, I will be disappointed.

  –Courtney: Sounds cool. Listen, I gotta go. Boyfriend’s calling.

  You mean you have to run to Roy and tell him everything…

  –Me: Okay. Have fun.

  –Courtney: You too!

  I put the phone away and finish my vodka.

  Angelika lets out a frustrated groan.

  “What’s wrong?” I stand up and make my way to the kitchen. Six lattes.

  “I can’t do it. This is so frustrating.” She throws her hands in the air. “I’ve been practicing for weeks!”

  Her reaction is out of proportion, but since making lattes seems to be important to her, I decide to make an effort to calm her down. “It’s just some latte. Nobody cares that much.” I certainly don’t.

  “It’s not the latte. It’s the art!”

  I look down. Each cup has some kind of picture created with milk on top of the coffee. They seem fairly good. “Are you trying to put them on your social media account?” Last time I checked, she doesn’t have anything like that, but she could’ve made one. I’m not opposed to the idea; it’ll upset Roy Wilks. And the more upset he becomes, the more reckless he will be…which means it will be easier to dispose of him.

  “No. I don’t do social media. I’m trying to…” She blows out a frustrated breath, then gestures at the cups. “What do you think?”

  I study them with a focus worthy of Monet or Picasso.

  “They’re excellent,” I say after a moment. “This…hamster is quite good. Superb facial features.”

  Angelika buries her face in her hands and collapses bonelessly onto the countertop. She looks like one of Dali’s melting clocks.

  I look at the hamster face again. Is it supposed to be a squirrel? The cheeks are fat… “Apologies. I meant squirrel.”

  Her shoulders are shaking now. A low, pained sound tears from her throat.

  She needs to quit making that sound. It’s…grating. “Chipmunk. I often get the animals mixed up.”

  She finally lifts her fac
e, which is red. “No! It’s supposed to be a Doberman! Like them!” She gestures at my dogs.

  “A Doberman?” I look at the smiling foam creature, then look at Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky and Stravinsky, then back at the latte.

  “I thought it’d be cool to make one for you. You said you’d like it.”

  I did? I don’t remember. I must’ve said it off-handedly at some point. But admitting that would upset her, since she went through all this trouble.

  “Ah, a pup,” I say, since the animal’s nothing like one of my dogs. It looks too young and cute. Like some friendly Disney woodland creature. “Stravinsky was like this when he was small,” I say, looking at the wide, innocent eyes the little fawn has created in the foam. It’s a lie. Stravinsky was far too feisty, with a tendency to bite, when he was a puppy. Mussorgsky schooled that out of him.

  She sighs. “Never mind. I know it doesn’t look anything like your dogs.” She turns the cup around and studies her creation. “You’re right. It does look sort of…rodentlike.”

  Her distress is uncomfortable. I should shrug off the discomfiture and help myself to another vodka, but somehow my feet refuse to move.

  After a moment of struggle, I say, “At least it’s cute.”

  “You think?”

  “If you hadn’t said anything, I would’ve never known it was a failed Doberman.”

  Her shoulders sag as she cups her face in her hands and stares at the lattes. So much moroseness in her eyes. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut.

  I puff my cigar, since that’s better than shoving my foot in deeper.

  “Do you think it’s even possible to do a Doberman?” she asks after a second.

  Do I look like a connoisseur of latte art? “Most certainly,” I say, patting her back gently. “Just practice some more.”

  An abrupt thought stills my hand. I’m behaving like she’s more than convenient bait. The fact that I don’t want her hurt physically, I can accept. After all, she’s a nice young woman. Lovely and entirely too trusting. But not wanting her hurt emotionally? That’s a completely different level, and not something I signed up for when I took her in.

  But what disturbs me more is that I don’t find this new wrinkle horrifying. The only thing I’m feeling is a tight squeeze in my chest, where my heart is beating.