He started to ask what she thought his options were, then wisely shut his mouth.
“I’m happy to have you here, Ethan.”
“I’m happy to be here,” he replied, and it was the absolute truth. “I’ll try not to cramp your style too much.” He tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek. “If you want to have one of your boyfriends over, I can always make myself scarce.”
She shot him an amused look. “You won’t bother me, darling. Don’t go busting through any closed doors without knocking, and we’ll be just fine.”
He grimaced. “I think I’d rather make myself scarce.”
She threw back her head on a hearty laugh. “Then you ought to make plans for tomorrow night. Jacob Dunbar is taking me to the library fundraiser, and I just might invite him back here for a drink afterward.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Followed by sex.”
He nearly choked on his beer again. “Maybe we should work out a signal.”
“What, like a dishtowel on the doorknob?” She laughed so hard she had to hold on to the table. “Boy, you should see your face.”
He imagined he looked like he’d swallowed something sour. He certainly felt as though he had. “Can we change the subject, please?”
“You young people think you invented sex.” She shook her head, still chuckling. “How do you think you all got here?”
He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on the top of her left ear, and the silver ring there. “Knowing something intellectually and seeing it are two different things. Let’s change the subject. Hey, have you always had that helix piercing in your ear?”
“I wasn’t inviting you to pull up a chair and give us a critique,” she replied tartly.
The lasagna that had gone down so easily was starting to feel like a lump of lead in his stomach. “I’m begging you to change the subject.”
She rolled her eyes. “I got it about six months ago.”
“Got what six months ago?”
“The helix.” She booted him under the table. “Pay attention.”
He scowled, rubbing his shin. She had a kick like a mule. “I’ve been here less than an hour, and I’m already black and blue.”
Winnie chuckled, completely unconcerned for the state of his shin. “You missed me.”
His leg throbbed, making it easy to hold onto the scowl. “I’m rethinking that right now.”
She waved a hand. “Pish.”
He blinked, his throbbing shin momentarily forgotten. “Pish?”
“And tosh.” She grinned at his blank confusion. “All the kids are saying it these days.”
Even a throbbing shin couldn’t hold out against Aunt Winnie. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“So they tell me.” She shot him a wink as she rose to her feet, beer bottle in hand. “Want another?”
He frowned, then shrugged. He normally allowed himself only one drink, even when he wasn’t on a job. But he was retired now, he reminded himself; the regular rules didn’t apply, and gloriously, multiple beers were once again possible. “Why not?”
“What are your plans for the summer?” she called over her shoulder as she walked through the swinging door into the kitchen.
He tipped the bottle back and polished it off. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
She returned with two fresh bottles, handing him one as she sat again. “Are you just going to laze around on the beach all summer?”
The idea was not without appeal. “I might.”
“Hmmm.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “If you’re thinking of staying on for a while, you ought to get involved in the community.”
He hastily swallowed his mouthful of beer as alarm bells sounded. “Don’t start.”
“You should really try to be a part of the world around you, Ethan, instead of hiding behind your computer screen, trading invisible money.”
He filled his mouth with beer again as he scrambled for a retort. The one that came to mind—I am part of the world around me, Aunt Winnie. In fact, I’m usually killing someone in it—was probably the wrong response. “I just want to relax,” he finally said. “Take some time, figure out what’s next.”
“All the more reason to find a constructive outlet for your energies,” she replied firmly. Her eyes narrowed in that way that she had, the one that warned him she had her teeth into it and wouldn’t be letting go any time soon. “I bet Honey would have some ideas.”
“I’m sure she would,” he replied, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Well, I’ll talk to her tomorrow night. She’ll be at the library fundraiser. You should come along. I’ll introduce you to some people.”
He filled his mouth with beer and tried to think of a polite way to say no way in hell. Swallowing was harder than it should have been. “What kind of name is Honey, anyway?” he asked, hoping to distract her.
“It’s a nickname,” Winnie said. “Her given name is Honoria, but as far as I know, she’s always gone by Honey. You can ask her about it at the fundraiser.”
Well, that didn’t work. “Maybe I’ll go,” he hedged.
“Of course, you’ll go,” she replied. “What else have you got to do?”
Floss. Examine his toenails for signs of fungus. Check his ass for ingrown hairs.
“Nothing, that’s what,” she finished and rapped her knuckles twice on the table as if to say that was that. “It’ll be good for you.”
He took one more shot. “Aunt Winnie, I think I should take some time to settle in.”
“Well, that’s what you’ll be doing, settling into your new community. Can’t do that sitting in my guest room, watching the M-TV.”
Even with dread filling his belly, he had to grin. “The M-TV?”
She waved a hand that nearly disguised the smirk twisting her lips. “Or whatever. Though, why you’d want to watch it is beyond me. Don’t even show music videos anymore.”
She polished off her beer, then pushed back from the table. “I’m out of the homemade stuff, so we’ll have to switch to microbrew. How about some ice cream to go with it?”
He winced. “Beer and ice cream?”
“Boy, beer goes with everything. Besides, if you eat ice cream while you drink, it’ll keep you from having a hangover.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing, Aunt Winnie.”
“Don’t argue with your elders,” she snapped back, and he finished his drink with a grin.
It was good to be home.
Chapter Three
Ethan woke the next morning to sunshine and the cheerful chirping of birds. There was a breeze blowing through the open window, carrying with it the scent of the lilac bush below.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept with the window open.
He grinned up at the ceiling. He had nothing on his agenda for the day except eat, relax, and buy more beer and ice cream. He and Winnie had shared the last bottle around midnight and had polished off the Rocky Road an hour before that. And since he didn’t even have so much as a headache, he decided she might be right about the curative properties of ice cream when it came to hangovers.
He slid out of bed and stretched, reaching for the ceiling with a heartfelt groan. The first solid sleep he’d enjoyed in months, combined with the prospect of nothing in front of him but lazy days, had his smile shifting into a grin so wide, he was surprised his face didn’t hurt.
He let his arms drop to his sides as he padded across the room to peer out the window. It was early, the backyard grass still showing the damp of the morning dew where the sun had yet to reach. The sky was blue, with only a few fluffy clouds marring the view, and though he couldn’t quite see it, he knew the vast expanse of Lake Michigan lay just beyond the tree line.
Happy days.
He was turning from the window when a slight movement caught his eye. He watched the curtains on the second floor of the house across the yard—Honey’s house, he remembered—shift and float in th
e open window. He narrowed his eyes as a shadow moved across the opening, the unmistakable shape of a woman perfectly silhouetted on the gauzy white curtains. He stood frozen to the spot, his mouth going dry as she hovered there, the shape of her as clear as if the curtains weren’t there at all, and then she moved out of view. He let out his breath in a hiss, a little befuddled by the amount of heat brought on by that one small glimpse of a curvy, female silhouette.
He shook his head as he padded into the bathroom. As much as he’d like to stand at the window in wait of another look of the lovely Honey, there were more urgent matters. He took care of business quickly, then eyed the shower. Aunt Winnie had renovated sometime since his last visit, and what he remembered as a cramped space with fixtures and tiles in what his aunt had called “Shades of the Seventies” had been thoroughly modernized with an eye toward comfort and beauty. Gleaming white tile replaced the avocado green and brown flooring, and brushed nickel sat in place of the pitted brass fixtures he remembered. The cracked and peeling tub had been pulled out, and in its place was a generously sized shower stall with adjustable showerheads.
He was looking forward to using that shower. But he’d been yearning for a run on the sand since he’d seen the lake on his drive in yesterday, and it was early enough for the beach to still be mostly clear of sun worshipers. Besides, the shower would likely feel twice as good after he’d worked up a decent sweat.
Decision made, he made his way back into the bedroom to dig out a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt from the dresser. Despite his protestations that he was perfectly capable of unpacking, Aunt Winnie had insisted on helping him settle in the night before. He’d managed to slide the case that held his weapons under the bed before she’d gotten to it, and when she’d asked about it, told her it held work that he’d brought with him.
Not entirely a lie, he told himself, and better than letting her find the three pistols, four knives, and one disassembled rifle he was carrying with him. Why he’d bothered to bring them along, he wasn’t sure. Habit, mostly, and a steadfast belief in the principle that it was better to have a tool and not need it than to need it and not have it.
Either way, he needed to find a new home for it, so Aunt Winnie wouldn’t be tempted to go looking. She’d threatened to hide it from him last night, questioning his commitment to his leave of absence; if he’d brought work with him, he couldn’t be that serious about turning over a new leaf.
He’d managed to convince her to leave it be, swearing that he wouldn’t open the case unless it was an absolute emergency, but he knew his aunt well enough to know that wasn’t the end of the conversation.
He frowned as he pulled on the shirt and shorts, then dug out a pair of beach sandals. He could empty the case, but then he’d have to find secure hiding spots for half a dozen weapons. No, it was better to leave them in the case, as long as he could be sure Aunt Winnie wouldn’t go snooping.
Sandals in hand, he left the guest room, padding across the hall and down the stairs on silent feet. He wasn’t surprised to hear the clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, or at the scent of coffee filling the air.
“I’m headed for a run, Aunt Winnie,” he called, and a moment later she came through the swinging door.
She wore walking shorts the color of raspberries and a trim white camp shirt, wiping her hands on a dishtowel with a frown on her face. “You’re not wearing shoes,” she pointed out.
He lifted the hand that held the sandals. “I’ll wear these until I get to the beach.”
“Barefoot run?” She pursed her lips, then nodded. “I’m making pancakes, so don’t be too long.”
He grinned as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Did I mention I love you, Aunt Winnie?”
She waved her dishtowel at him and laughed. “Go for your run, you rascal.”
“Yes ma’am,” he replied with a wink and headed for the front door.
On the front porch, he slipped the sandals on his feet and jogged down the steps. He set off at an easy walk to the beach access, one block down and two blocks over. The town was just as lovely as he remembered; houses mostly built in the first half of the previous century, tidy gardens, meticulously tended lawns. There were colorful flowers, and the occasional kid’s bike lying abandoned on the grass, likely left in a rush when Mom called Junior in for dinner the night before. It was early, the world around him just beginning to gear up for the day. He saw people getting into their cars with briefcases and travel mugs, others in bathrobes out on porches to pick up the morning paper. He got more than one friendly wave and cheerful hello, though they didn’t know him any more than he knew them.
It was a different world here, he reminded himself, and though it felt a bit unnatural after living in solitude for so long, he responded to each greeting in kind. When he reached the beach access path, he kicked his sandals off next to the steps and made his way down to the water. The sand was cool under his feet, not yet warmed by the sun, and the breeze off the water was brisk enough to raise goosebumps on his bare arms. He walked to the edge of the lake, allowed the frigid water to lap at his toes, and with the rising sun at his back sucked in a deep breath. The beach was empty but for the gulls screeching overhead, the sky a smooth and unbroken blue, and he was more relaxed than he’d been in…years, he realized. Maybe even longer.
It was oddly liberating to know he wouldn’t be plotting someone’s death today.
He sucked in another deep breath, then set off down the sand at a brisk jog with a smile on his face.
He kept the pace steady, his steps light as he made his way south. Dodging the occasional piece of driftwood, he settled into a rhythm that soon had his muscles singing, his skin warming. A sheen of light perspiration replaced the early morning chill.
It felt good. It felt really good.
He was barely winded when he judged he’d gone about two miles and turned to retrace his path. By the time he reached the beach steps, and his shoes, his skin was shiny with sweat, and his muscles were warm and loose. He was a bit shaky in the legs and knew he’d be feeling it for a few days until he got used to running on sand again. He kept in shape—a guy never knew when he’d have to outrun a cop, a client, or a target—but treadmills and roads had nothing on sand for working the legs.
He took a different route back to the house out of habit, cutting over one block short of Aunt Winnie’s street. The houses were as charming and as quaint as all the others he’d seen in Sweetwater so far. If it weren’t for the very modern cars, the telephone lines, and the satellite dishes decorating almost every roof, he might think he’d stepped back in time to the late fifties.
He was shaking his head at the pristine wonder of it all when he heard a panicked cry. Instinct had him reaching for the pistol he habitually kept at the small of his back, and he cursed when his fingers encountered only sweaty skin. Head up, he scanned the houses for the origin of the scream.
It wasn’t long in coming.
Just ahead on the right was a cottage-style house, slightly smaller in scale than the two flanking it, painted a soft gray with bright white trim. The covered porch held a wide swing with hanging pots of colorful flowers that matched those in the beds, and the large lilac bush on the corner was in full and fragrant bloom. The front door was painted a bold and striking cobalt, and as he watched, it flung open to bounce on its hinges, and Sugar Bowl Honey came streaking out.
She was dressed in running gear, loose grey shorts and a snug tank top in the same blue as the summer sky. Her hair was all bright and bouncy curls, pulled back into a ponytail that showed a streak of pink, starting at her left ear and running back into the tail to disappear then reappear amid the blonde tresses.
She bolted down the steps and ran full out to the end of the sidewalk where she stopped, put her fingers to her lips, and let out an ear-piercing whistle that would’ve brought every cab in Manhattan to a screeching halt.
Before he could react, she spotted him, and with an expression that made him wish again
for his non-existent pistol, dashed over. “Did you see him?”
He went on alert, his whole body tensing. “See who?”
“Milo.” She slapped her hands on her hips. “Little bastard snuck out on me while I was putting on my shoes.”
Eyes narrowed, he scanned the street for the threat. “Who snuck out on you while you were putting on your shoes?”
“Milo,” she repeated, her tone exasperated, and he turned back to find her looking at him as though he’d slipped a few gears.
“And who,” he asked with what he considered remarkable patience, his body still poised to act, “is Milo?”
“Oh. Sorry. You’re new. Milo is my dog.”
His body relaxed subtly, and his breath sighed out in relief. “Good to know you don’t have a kid who you call ‘little bastard,’” he muttered.
“What?”
“What kind of dog?”
She eyed the street with anxious eyes, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Huh? Oh, English Mastiff. Brindle. About this high.”
Ethan’s brows rose as she held her hand out at hip height. “Big dog.”
“Yeah.” She swung back to him, big brown eyes wide with worry. “You didn’t see him?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, hell,” she muttered. She huffed out a breath, irritated and concerned all at once. “He knows I don’t have time for this, and if he thinks he’s still getting his walk on the beach after pulling this crap, he can just think again.”
She didn’t look insane, he mused—in fact, she looked pretty damn good—but you just never knew with people. After all, he didn’t look like a hired killer. “Uh, he is a dog, right?”
“Yeah.” She huffed out a breath. “If you see him, would you give me a call? Winnie has my cell–”
She broke off as a flurry of deep barks shattered the morning quiet, followed by a high-pitched scream.
“Oh, no no no no no, not Mrs. Patterson’s cat again.”
He watched, fascinated, as Honey seemed to seriously consider leaving Milo and Mrs. Patterson’s cat to work things out on their own. Then she huffed out a sigh, squared her shoulders, and set her face in an expression of humble apology. “Wish me luck.”
Honey and the Hitman Page 4