The Fixer

by Jessica Gadziala

  Right at Aven fucking Armstrong.

  She wasn't what I had been expecting, not that I knew what to expect in the first place.

  She was in her late twenties or very early thirties with long brown hair cut in the way that all women had their hair these days - long and layered to frame the face. And what a face too. Fuck. It was soft and sweet with a stubborn set to her dark brows and a somewhat pouty look to her lips. Her eyes, a deep, deep blue were on the large side, giving her a doe-ish look.

  Pretty.

  She was really fucking pretty.

  That aside, she was pressed back up against her nightstand, knees to chest, one arm raised with a Smith & Wesson® SDVE nine-millimeter in her hand.

  But every goddamn inch of her was shaking so violently that she looked like she was having a seizure.

  My gun lowered, and I held up my free hand. "Not gonna hurt you, Aven," I said, keeping my eyes on her, wanting to make sure she wasn't so freaked that she would shoot me for the fuck of it.

  "You don't look like a cop," she managed through chattering teeth.

  "That's 'cause I'm not. My name is Quin Baird. I'm not a cop, but I'm here to..."

  "Quinton Baird," she repeated in that same awful, terrified tone. "You wouldn't take my case."

  "My receptionist thought I should look in on you. So here I am. Can you maybe put that gun down now?" I asked, putting my own away, holding both hands up toward her.

  She looked down at it, seeming almost shocked to find it in her hands, then scrambled to put the safety back on and tossed it several feet to her side, wrapping her arms around her legs. "He..." she said, shaking her head, her gaze going to the side of me, toward the end of the bed.

  And that was when I let my gaze move around, and I saw it - the source of the blood.

  There was a body on the floor.

  And, holy fuck, was there blood.

  It soaked through the man's clothes and formed a huge red circle on the carpet. She had gotten what seemed like four shots into him.

  It certainly didn't escape my notice that his fucking dick was out either.

  And given that she was in a nightgown, there was a good chance the mother fucker hurt her.

  "Alright," I said, tone calm. Again, in my business, bodies weren't something to freak out about. I'd seen more than most fucking morticians had. "Aven, babe, look at me, alright?" I asked, ducking my head as I moved toward where she was sitting, her head buried against her knees and, judging by the sniffling, crying. "Aven," I repeated, reaching out to touch the side of her leg, making her spring up on a small yelp. "Hey, alright. Not gonna hurt you. I just need you to answer some questions. Just hold it together for five minutes and then you can let it all out, okay?"

  She sniffed hard once, swallowing, and reaching up to scrub the tears off her cheeks. "Okay," she agreed, lifting her chin slightly, determined not to break apart. Given that she had been attacked, and had killed a man, that was impressive.

  "Okay. First, how long ago did this happen?" I asked, waving a hand toward the body.

  She shrugged at that. "It was still dark," she offered, closing her eyes for a second and shaking her head before opening her eyes again. "But not for long. Really early this morning."

  That was good. If it happened hours before, that meant there was pretty much no chance the cops were going to show up suddenly. "Alright. Good. Now, this gun," I said, tapping my fingertip on it. "Where did you get it?"

  "I, ah, when your people said they couldn't help me, I just... went down the street to the, ah..."

  "Henchmen," I supplied, figuring that was the most likely place she could pick one up.

  "Yeah," she agreed, nodding.

  Another good thing. It wasn't registered to her. No one could trace it to her.

  "Do you know his name?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Alright, now this one is important, and I need you to look at me," I said, waiting for her gaze to lift to mine. "Did he rape you?"

  She didn't just flinch; she jumped backward hard enough to make the nightstand slam against the wall.

  "It's alright," I said, trying for soothing, knowing it wasn't a tone my voice did well. "Honey, you have bruises across your throat and a black eye and his coc..."

  "No," she cut me off fiercely, then winced, reaching up and touching her throat.

  Anyone who had ever been choked in their life knew that it wasn't just an external bruise; it was a sore, jagged, swallowed-glass sensation inside too. Like a sore throat times a thousand.

  "Aven, I need you to be..."

  "He didn't rape me," she said, voice quieter, likely because it hurt. "He was... I know he was going to. That's why I had to get to the gun. I had to..." she broke off on a small sob there, closing her eyes tight.

  "You're right," I said, taking a breath.

  Her eyes fluttered open, brows drawn together. "I'm... right?"

  "You're right. He would have raped you. And you're right; you needed to get the gun. And lastly, you were fucking right by picking it up and emptying it into his body."

  I didn't live in some fantasy world where death was always bad, murder was always a crime. That was a fucking fairy tale. Murder often was not only warranted but needed in many situations. A woman attacked in her own bedroom? Fucking needed.

  Fuck, if the government would tell women that shooting a rapist or would-be rapist was a-okay in the eyes of the law, I bet there'd be a lot less fucking rapists out there re-offending.

  "I... killed him," she said, shaking her head, obviously not living in the same ugly world I lived in.

  "Yep," I agreed.

  "I'm going to go to jail," she said, looking past my shoulder as another rogue tear slid down her cheek.

  "No. That's where you're wrong. You're not going to jail."

  "I killed someone," she hissed. "The cops are going to take me in and fingerprint me and question me and put me in a cell and..."

  "Alright. Listen, none of that is going to happen. Because as of five minutes ago, I took on your case."

  See, I didn't do stalkers. Never had, never planned to in the future. But murder? Murder, I handled.

  "But..."

  "No buts," I said, shrugging.

  "I can't pa..."

  Pay.

  Obviously.

  I nodded but cut her off. "I'm not a good man, babe. Don't let this situation fool you. I'm as dirty as they come. But once in a blue fucking moon, I do things just because it's right. This is one of those times. So you don't have to pay me. But you do have to agree to let me handle this."

  "Handle it... how?" she asked.

  "Fix it," I shrugged.

  "Fix it how?" she pressed.

  "In this scenario and from this point on, the less you know, the better. Now I need you to stay right where you are. Don't move," I said, reaching into my pocket for my cell, and calling my office. "Jules, put on Finn," I barked.

  "Finn?" she asked, her tone guarded, having worked with me long enough to know what that meant. And, knowing where I was because she sent me, she knew it was bad. "Quin..."

  "Not her," I cut her off. "Put Finn on," I demanded.

  "What's up, Quin?" Finn's voice picked up, sounding distracted.

  "Full fucking cleanup," I said and listened to him pause.

  "When? Where?"

  "Now. In Navesink Bank. Jules will give you the address. I'm here right now."

  Another pause. "Alright," he agreed, and I could hear him silently ticking off his checklist. "I'll be there in twenty."

  "Who knew about this stalker? I know you told the cops. Boyfriend?"

  "No boyfriend," she said, looking away like it was embarrassing to admit.

  "Family?" I pressed.

  "No."

  "Friends?"

  "I don't really have any that I am that close to."

  "Alright, so I'm to believe that a girl like you lives alone in a shitty area with no man who wants to take care of her, no family that worries about her, a
nd no friends that love her? Come the fuck on, Aven."

  "A girl like me?" she asked, losing a bit of the trauma as a brow raised a bit arrogantly.

  "Yeah, babe, a girl like you."

  "What is a girl like me?"

  "Young, beautiful, seems to have at least half a working brain in there."

  "I'm almost thirty; I'm not that good looking, and I have a fully functioning brain. And yet I am pretty much alone in the world. It's not unheard of."

  "Not that good looking?" I asked, snorting. "That comment just disproved your third point in your argument. Because if you think that shit, I rescind my original comment about half your brain working. It's obviously a fucking fourth."

  She faltered at that, her pretty little mouth opening and closing twice before she shook her head. "Regardless of how attractive I may or may not be, it doesn't change the facts. I don't have a boyfriend or close friends. My family is halfway across the country, and I'm not close with any of them."

  "Not close enough to tell them some fuckhead is jerking off all over your windows?" I pressed, not willing to believe that anyone would keep that shit completely to themselves.

  "Not close enough to wish them a Merry Christmas," she said, shaking her head.

  "So no one is going to notice that you suddenly stop talking about a stalker and being paranoid and maybe are a bit off for a while?"

  "No."

  "Coworkers?" I went on.

  She snorted a little at that. "I work at a place with other people, but my job is a bit, ah, solitary."

  "What's your job?"

  To that, her cheeks went the slightest bit pink, and she didn't quite meet my eye. "Technically, I am an esthetician."

  "And somehow I doubt giving someone some spa facial shit is what is making you blush right now," I added, finding myself somewhat charmed by the little pink marks on her cheeks. So few women blushed anymore. I wasn't sure I had ever seen it since high school.

  "I'm a waxer," she supplied, trying not to sound embarrassed by it and failing epically.

  "So you're buried in pussy all day," I asked, not bothering to hold back the grin when her cheeks went from pink to deep red immediately. "Dream fucking job," I added. "Alright, Finn is going to be here in five, and he's going to need your clothes." I stood, moving across the room past the body, making sure not to step in any of the blood that had saturated the carpet in spots as I went to her closet and pulled out a pair of leggings and a tee, coming back out and seeing she was still curled up on the floor beside her bed. "Babe, up," I demanded, making her jerk back like she forgot I was there, and look up at me.

  There was a long second where she stared blankly at me before she rose up. "Okay, I'll just..." she started, pointing toward the door.

  "No." I stepped in front of her, shaking my head. "You need to change right here and leave the nightgown on the floor."

  "This is some evidence thing, right?" She looked at me with her brows drawn together. "I mean... he walked all through my house already. I don't see how..."

  "Let's just say Finn is fucking particular and you need to follow his rules, or he will be out and if he's out, there's no way to clean this up without leaving a trace. He's that good. So you take these. I am going to turn around. And you are going to slip into the new clothes, and leave the nightgown on the floor."

  She let out a huff of breath that was incredibly similar to a sigh but nodded. I turned and heard the whoosh of the dress flying off and hitting the floor as she stood naked behind me.

  I wasn't a saint by any stretch of the word.

  And she was fucking gorgeous.

  So I went ahead and thought about her naked breasts, the dusty nipples hard from the sudden nakedness.

  "Alright," she declared, cutting into what was shaping up to be a nice little fantasy.

  I turned, nodding at her.

  "The bands on your throat and the black eye, is that everything? Do you have scratches anywhere?"

  "Oh, um... I don't..." She shook her head as if clearing it and looked down at herself, then holding out her forearms to me where there were several long, minor scratches. But they had bled, and if they had bled, her blood was under his nails, and he probably transferred some evidence onto her as well.

  "Alright. Here is what is going to happen. Finn is going to show up, and he's going to be brash and no-nonsense, barking questions and expecting honest answers. Which you are going to keep it together and give to him because he is the only way you won't end up in front of a judge over this."

  "Okay."

  "Alright. Then we are going to leave here, go back to my office, and you are going to have your fingernails scraped and cut. Then you are going to take a shower and change into clothes my secretary gives you. I am going to take these," I said, gesturing toward her, "and give them to Finn to get rid of as well."

  "And from there?"

  "From there, we have a lot of shit to discuss." She opened her mouth to question me, but there was the sound of a car door out front. "That'd be Finn." I could hear the van doors opening and closing and the dog barking, and then the footsteps inside the house. "Take a deep breath. And don't get offended by him. He's in work mode."

  Then Finn walked in.

  THREE

  Aven

  I don't know what I had been expecting Quinton Baird to be, or even what I expected a 'fixer' to be, but I guess the best descriptor that came to mind was older. I expected him to be much older, seasoned, world-weary.

  And while this man spoke like he had been around the block a time or two, and was maybe a bit jaded as a whole, he wasn't old. While it was hard to tell these kinds of things past the mid-twenties, I would put him somewhere in his late thirties.

  Of all the things I maybe could have pictured him to be, stupidly good-looking wasn't one of them.

  Yet there he was. In my bedroom. Spreading his gorgeous all over.

  He was tall and wide-shouldered, hanging the dark suit he had on perfectly. His tie was pulled, though, like he had been in the getup for too long, and was getting sick of it.

  His body might have been impressive under the material covering it; it was hard to tell aside from clearly having a flat stomach. But his face, oh yeah, that was where the hotness came into play.

  He had a strong jaw with at least two day's worth of stubble, chiseled cheekbones, black lashes surrounding deep brown eyes. His hair was cut somewhere between short and average, black, and a little mussed to match his suit and tie.

  I probably shouldn't have been noticing things like how good-looking he was, given the circumstances. But it was right there in my face almost as soon as he came into the room.

  Maybe my brain was trying to focus on nice things - like his face - instead of ugly things - like the body surrounded by blood at the foot of my bed.

  His voice had something special too. Smooth, but with an odd, gravel-filled edge. It slid over you, blanketing you with comfort, then forced its way in somehow as well.

  And he was here.

  That was maybe the most insane part of it all.

  He was here.

  In my home.

  Telling me he was going to fix my situation.

  After his office told me that my kind of cases were a no-go.

  As I ripped off my nightgown, and dragged on my new clothes, I figured that maybe I was only their kind of case now that I didn't have a stalker anymore; I had a dead man in my bedroom.

  Ugh.

  Even that thought made my empty stomach twist painfully, a wringing sensation that made me wonder if I was about to need to rush to the bathroom to dry-heave to make the urge to vomit go away.

  In the end, though, I held it together.

  I wouldn't pretend that had anything to do with my actual strength. I would be willing to put all that credit right at Quinton Baird's feet. It was thanks to the calm, collected, and mildly commanding tone he used to relay how things stood, how they were going to go, and what was expected of me in the process.

 
; Surprisingly little.

  Which was good, because I was pretty sure I was in shock. It was the only way to explain the odd numbness I was feeling as there were footsteps up my stairs, and then another man entered the room.

  This one looked nothing like Quinton who was clearly the boss of the operation, which was maybe why he dressed to match the part.

  Finn was as tall as Quinton and just as wide across the chest, but he was dressed simply in a black tee, black work pants, and oddly simple black knock-off Chucks. His features weren't quite as chiseled, but had an almost rugged look to them, which was maybe thanks to the full dirty-blond beard that matched his hair that looked in need of a trim.

  A giant black bag was slung over his shoulder, oddly, well, almost as big as he was.

  His eyes, light green, went to his boss for a quick second, giving him a manly chin-jerk, before his eyes moved around the room, taking everything in from the body on the floor - doing so without so much as a flicker in his calm features, leaving me to wonder what the hell these men faced on a daily basis in their line of work - then to the gun on the bed, the splatter of blood on the wall behind the body, then finally, to me. The gaze was cold and assessing, making me feel like he could not only see my black eye, the bruises on my throat, and the scratches on my arms, but also what was underneath my clothes as well.

  "Was she--" he started to ask his boss.

  "No," Quinton cut him off, making Finn nod slightly as he moved over to the bed, dropping his bag down, whatever was inside making it heavy enough to actually depress my mattress.

  "Hope you're not attached to the bedspread, carpet, or drapes," he said, making it sound like he didn't give a good goddamn if my beloved Nonny knitted the blanket, that it was going to get 'taken care of' regardless of my level of attachment.

  "Carpet came stained beyond repair. And the drapes and bedspread came from the ten-and-under store, so..."

  He looked over at me from his position hunched over his bag, taking things out, his lips turned up ever-so-slightly. "So they will go up in flames even better?" he mused, making a completely inappropriate smirk pull at my lips as well.

  "Something like that."