Honey and the Hitman

by Hannah Murray

  He smiled gently. “Anytime, sweetie.” Then he looked at Ethan. “And by ‘anytime,’ I mean ‘never again in this life.’”

  With the laugh, Ethan’s whole body relaxed. “That’s a deal.”

  David turned toward the kitchen, then paused. “Um, can I assume you’d like us to not talk about this with anyone?”

  “Yeah.” And just like that, the tension was back. “Yeah, that’d be best.”

  David nodded, his eyes level on Ethan’s. “Maybe you can meet Seth and me at the Market Street house tomorrow morning. Say, nine o’clock?”

  Ethan knew what he was asking, and though it went against every instinct he had and twisted his stomach into painful knots, he knew he owed his friends at least a partial explanation. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” A ghost of a smile hovered over David’s mouth. “Bring coffee and doughnuts.”

  The knot eased, just a little. “You got it.”

  When the back door closed behind David, Ethan crouched to look Honey in the eye. Fingers gentle, he took her chin and turned her face to the light to see the damage. “It stopped bleeding,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the cut with the gentlest of touches. “You probably won’t need stitches.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital,” she began.

  He silenced her with a look. “You’re going. You took a hell of a punch, sweetheart.”

  “Two of them, actually,” she corrected, and he clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

  “Two of them,” he amended. “You won’t need stitches, but I want to make sure he didn’t break anything.”

  “He didn’t,” she insisted.

  Undone, he lowered his brow to hers. “Humor me, all right? I need to make sure you’re okay.”

  She sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat, and he knew he’d won this round. “Okay. But I want to clean Milo’s face off first. I don’t want to leave him bloody.”

  He studied her face for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Stay here; I’ll get you something.”

  He ducked to the kitchen to dampen a dishtowel, then brought it back. Honey smiled her thanks as she gently stroked the blood away from the dog’s muzzle. Milo sat stoically through the impromptu grooming, slurping at Honey’s face as she worked. It made her laugh, and Ethan’s heart lightened at the sound.

  “There you go, my brave, brave puppy.” She dropped a kiss on his muzzle as she handed the now bloodstained dishtowel back to Ethan.

  “You want this in the laundry?”

  She didn’t even look at the towel as she continued to nuzzle the dog. “I don’t ever want to see it again. Just throw it away.”

  He started to argue, then thought better of it. He tucked the edge of the towel into his back pocket, then reached down.

  “Come on, buddy.” He nudged Milo off Honey’s lap. The dog moved reluctantly, sticking close by her side as Ethan helped her to her feet.

  “Give him a treat, one of those smoked knucklebones on the shelf in the pantry,” Honey said, and let Ethan lead them both into the kitchen.

  “As soon as I get a chance, I’m buying him the biggest, meatiest bone I can find,” he told her as he tucked the stained towel in the kitchen trash before heading to the pantry.

  He dug out the bone, unwrapped it, and laid it on Milo’s bed. The dog settled in to happily gnaw while Ethan crossed to the back door to lock it.

  Honey blinked weary eyes. “I suppose I deserve an I-told-you-so about locking the doors.”

  He eased an arm around her waist to walk with her to the front door. “Nope.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Just do me a favor and lock them from now on, okay?”

  “Gladly.” She laid her head on his shoulder as they walked through the dining room to the front door. “Suddenly, I’m exhausted.”

  “Adrenaline crash,” he told her. “It’s natural. Any nausea?”

  She pressed a hand to her belly. “Now that you mention it.”

  “You need some food. Protein.” He held the front door for her as she stepped out onto the porch. “What do you say we stop for that burger?”

  “Sounds good.” She stood on the porch for a moment, peering up at the sky. “It stopped raining.”

  “Yeah. Just lean on me,” he told her as he slipped his arm back around her waist.

  “I’m not fragile,” she told him, but she didn’t protest when he held her all the way to the car.

  “Humor me, okay?”

  “Okay.” She sighed as she settled into the passenger seat, pulling the seatbelt around herself as he climbed in the driver’s side. “Can I have a milkshake, too?”

  He reached over to fasten her seatbelt himself. “Baby, you can have whatever you want.”

  * * *

  The trip to the emergency room only took three hours, which Ethan considered a minor miracle. Honey was exhausted from the fright and the adrenaline crash, even with the chocolate milkshake they’d stopped for on the way, and he took ruthless advantage. The fact that she allowed him to herd her into the ER told him she was hurting more than she’d let on.

  They told the ER staff that she’d slipped in the kitchen and hit her face on the counter, and thankfully, they seemed to believe it. She was poked, prodded and x-rayed, and while nothing was broken or fractured, the doctor was fairly certain the bone was bruised. He prescribed ice and rest and gave her something for the pain. While they were waiting for the paperwork to be completed, Ethan went to the pharmacy and had her prescription filled. By the time it was ready, she’d been cleared to leave.

  He took her home and tucked her into bed, bullying her into a pair of comfortable pajamas and overriding her protests by the simple method of ignoring them. The pain pill had made her sleepy, and once he had her settled in with Milo curled at the foot of the bed standing guard, she was out in minutes.

  Ethan found himself just standing there for long moments, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the quilt as though he needed the reassurance that she was alive and whole. Finally, he leaned down to brush a gentle kiss over her lips, then turned to scratch Milo behind the ears.

  “You keep watch. Okay, pal?” He stroked the dog’s head. “You did good today.”

  Milo sighed and laid his head on his paws, his eyes on Honey’s sleeping form.

  Ethan eased the door closed behind him, leaving it open just enough for Milo to be able to get out, then went back downstairs. He dug around in the kitchen until he unearthed a bottle of white vinegar and a box of baking soda, then went to work on the blood that had pooled on the hardwood floors.

  If the son of a bitch had bled on the kitchen tile, Ethan could’ve used bleach, but he didn’t want to wreck the hardwoods. He sopped up as much blood as he could with paper towels, then sprinkled the whole area with baking soda before dipping the scrub brush he’d found in the vinegar and applying some elbow grease.

  It was simple, mindless work, and gave him something to focus on besides the ball of rage and guilt sitting in his gut like a lead weight. She had been threatened and terrorized because of him, she was in pain because of him, there was blood on her fucking floor because of him.

  He’d wanted to break Anthony Damico into little bloody pieces. The urge had been so strong that if Honey hadn’t been sitting on his lap, crying and needing him, he’d have followed through on it and not felt a moment’s guilt or remorse.

  Honey’s face swam into his mind, swollen and bruised, her eyes shadowed with fear. He gritted his teeth and dipped the brush in vinegar again, then attacked another section of blood-stained wood. No, not even the smallest bit of remorse.

  He sighed and sat back on his heels. He knew it was for the best that he’d resisted, though it didn’t feel like it at the moment. He was trying to start a new life, away from killing and all that came with it. Added to that, he’d made a promise to Marco Giordano that he would only kill Damico if it were unavoidable. It was good that he’d been able to keep that promise, good to e
nd his association with the Giordano family on pleasant terms. And he knew in his bones that he’d never have to deal with Anthony Damico again.

  Giordano had given his word on that, and he’d learned through this whole mess just how important keeping his word was to the head of the Giordano family.

  He sincerely hoped Honey didn’t ask him exactly how Marco was going to make sure of that.

  He eyed the floor. The wood had cleaned up with minimum fuss, but he didn’t think the dining room rug would fare as well. The grey on white geometric pattern was spattered and flecked with dark, rusty stains. If it were up to him, he’d throw it out and buy new, but he didn’t know if it was special to Honey. If it was, he’d find her an exact replica or have it cleaned, whichever she wanted.

  It was the least he could do.

  He took his supplies back into the kitchen, emptying the bucket and rinsing out the brush before putting them away. Then, wanting something more to do, he put a pan of milk on the stove.

  Honey had told him while they were waiting for her to be taken back to x-ray that she’d been about to make hot chocolate when Damico had burst in on her. He figured it was the perfect way to pass the time. And if it had cooled by the time she woke, he could heat it up again.

  He was pulling the simmering milk off the stove when a noise at the doorway had him turning. “Hey. I thought you’d sleep longer.”

  She shook her head, her hair swishing around her shoulders with the movement. Her eyes were heavy, the butterfly bandage over the cut on her cheek a bright white against the blooming bruise. Milo trotted in beside her, crossing to his bed and settling in with a sigh. He sent Ethan a look he interpreted as “your turn,” and went to work on his knuckle bone.

  She shuffled into the kitchen to peer into the pan. “If I sleep any more, I won’t sleep at all later. Are you making hot chocolate?”

  “Yep. Want?”

  “Oh, I really do. With lots of mini marshmallows.”

  “Lots, huh?”

  She nodded, then rested her head against his arm. “Lots. Like, just scoop up a big handful and dump them in. And put them in before you pour the hot chocolate, so they get all melty and delicious.”

  He smiled into her sleepy eyes. “You have a lot of very specific requirements for hot chocolate.”

  “Yep.” She smiled up at him. “I’m a picky bitch.”

  He laughed softly as he lowered his mouth to hers. “Lucky for me, I like picky bitches.”

  “Mmmm. I think you mean lucky for me.” She sighed as he nibbled his way across her uninjured cheek to nuzzle her ear. “I wish I felt better because this is starting to get good. But I don’t think I’m up for it.”

  “I can take a rain check,” he told her and eased back to stroke her hair from her face. “Why don’t you grab me a couple of mugs.”

  She moved out of his arms to cross to the cabinet, pulling down a pair of matching cups and adding fat handfuls of mini-marshmallows to each. He poured the hot chocolate, then picked up both mugs and nudged her toward the living room.

  He set them on the coffee table as she curled up in the corner of the couch. “What do you want to do with the rest of the day?”

  “Can’t we just stay here and watch movies?” She curled her feet up under her and reached for the knitted throw over the back of the sofa.

  “Sure, if you want.” He sat beside her, lifting his arm so she could snuggle under it. “I’ll even let you pick the movie again.”

  “That’s what I want to do,” she murmured. “Watch old movies and laugh and cry and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Just for today.”

  She tilted her head back to look at him. “Is that okay?”

  “That’s absolutely okay,” he told her and handed her the remote.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, Ethan woke early and slipped out of bed without waking Honey. The rain had moved on, and the air coming through the open windows smelled fresh and clean. The sky, just beginning to lighten, was clear.

  Moving quietly, he quickly dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, then dug around for a stray slip of paper to write on. He wanted a run on the beach, wanted to clear his head before he met with David and Seth later this morning, but he didn’t want to wake her.

  It had taken a long time for her to fall asleep the night before, every little sound making her jerk in his arms. He knew it was normal for her to be edgy after what had happened but knowing that didn’t make it any easier for him to watch.

  Even now, as she slept, she didn’t look peaceful. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her fingers clenched on the edge of the blankets. The bruises on her cheek had bloomed overnight, spreading nearly to her jaw and turning her eye black. She’d refused a second pain pill last night, protesting that she didn’t want to feel loopy or out of it. He hated seeing her in pain, but he understood her need to feel in control after everything that had happened.

  He unearthed a small notebook and a pen from the nightstand, jotted a quick note, and propped it on the pillow. He debated waking her to tell her where he was going, but decided to let her sleep. Hopefully, the added rest would help her start to move past the horror and ugliness of the day before.

  He brushed a soft kiss against her hair and turned to go, stepping over the dog. Milo had spent the night sprawled next to Honey’s side of the bed, and he lay there still, his head on his paws as he watched Ethan.

  “Hey, boy.” Ethan crouched to stroke the soft fur. “You want to stay here, or you want to hit the beach with me?”

  At the word ‘beach’ Milo’s tail began to thump, but he merely lifted his head to look at the figure on the bed.

  “Yeah, I don’t blame you.” Ethan continued to stroke the wide head. “Tell you what. Why don’t you hop on up there, keep her company for me while I’m gone? You want to do that?”

  The dog scrambled to his feet, following Ethan around to the empty side of the bed. He leapt up with surprising agility and stretched out to lay his head on the empty pillow with a gusty sigh.

  “Don’t get used to it, pal. That’s my spot, and I’m keeping it.” Amused, Ethan slid a hand between pillow and dog to retrieve the note he’d written, which was now hopelessly wrinkled and damp with drool. He wedged it between the pillows and gave Milo a last pat.

  He made his way downstairs, picking up Honey’s spare house key from the table next to the front door as he slipped his feet into his sandals. She’d insisted he lock the doors before they went up to bed, and while he was happy to have her paying more attention to her personal safety, he hated the look in her eyes as she’d stood at the base of the stairs, hands clenched together, and she watched him secure the house.

  He locked the door behind him, using the key to turn the deadbolt as well as the lock on the doorknob, then tied the key to the drawstring on his shorts before jogging down the stairs.

  The walk to the beach was quiet. It was Sunday morning, and too early for even the church crowd to be up and about. He kicked off his shoes by the beach steps, as had become his habit, and set off down the sand at a punishing pace.

  Though the morning air was cool enough to have goosebumps raising along his bare arms, his skin was soon coated with sweat. He bore down, pushing himself hard until he was all but sprinting, the rage he’d been holding onto rising to the surface. He hadn’t been able to do anything with it the night before. Anthony Damico was out of his reach, and taking care of Honey had been his priority. She’d needed him, his care and comfort, so he’d tamped down on the helpless fury, shoving it aside to give her what she needed.

  Now it boiled up and over, a nasty mix of anger, frustration, and bone-chilling fear. He didn’t think he’d ever known fear like that before, but when he’d heard her scream, heard the shot ring out as he was still racing to get to her, his blood had simply turned to ice.

  When he’d seen her, lying bruised and bloody on the floor, the fear had morphed into rage, and he knew if he hadn’t been so focused on making sure she
was okay, he would have taken Damico apart with his bare hands.

  A part of him would always regret that he hadn’t.

  A quick check of his surroundings revealed that he’d gone further than he’d planned, so he turned around and headed back at a slightly easier pace.

  He knew Damico was likely already dead. Marco Giordano was a man who put the good of the family ahead of his personal feelings, and as much as he might have sympathized with Damico’s anger over his uncle’s death, as well as his need for revenge, he couldn’t and wouldn’t allow such a vendetta to put the family in danger.

  Added to that, Damico had ignored a direct order from Marco himself when he’d come after Ethan. And Ethan knew neither of those things would be allowed to pass unpunished.

  In his quest to avenge his uncle, Anthony Damico had signed his own death warrant.

  Ethan slowed his pace to a walk, gazing out at the water. He was half tempted to take a dip, knowing the water would be bracing. It would clear his mind, wake him up, and maybe help purge the last of the rage, but he resisted. A check of his phone showed he’d already been gone longer than he’d planned, and he wanted to be back before Honey woke.

  At the beach stairs, he scooped up his shoes, turned to take one last look at the water, then headed home.

  HONEY OPENED HER eyes on a sigh, then burst out laughing. She’d felt the warmth beside her and had expected to see Ethan lying next to her. She thought if he was still sleeping, she might kiss him awake and see if she could cash in that rain check. He’d been so sweet, so worried about her last night. Scared he might hurt her, he’d been tender and gentle, somehow instinctively knowing that she’d needed the quiet comfort.

  Now, she needed something else.

  But that delightful little bubble burst when she opened her eyes and saw Milo snoring—and drooling—on the pillow beside her.

  Her laughter startled him, and he came awake with a snuffling snort that made her laugh harder. He gave her his doggie grin, tongue lolling out to spread drool on the sheets, and he dug his feet in the covers to scoot himself closer.