The Assassin’s Heart

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The Assassin’s Heart Page 8

by Alexis Abbott


  The next morning, Jake gently prods me awake and offers me some freshly-laundered clothes. It takes me a few minutes to come to terms with my strange surroundings.

  I have never spent a night away from my family. Even growing up, I never had sleepovers. Not even with Aubrey, who was next door. If we wanted a sleepover, she stayed at my house.

  So waking up in a musty motel room with a strange man who—oh yeah—is my kidnapper and also a murderer, is a bit of a shock. But I sit up, still wearing the ratty old robe, and the events of the last twenty-four hours come trickling back to me.

  “I got up early to wash and dry your clothes at the motel laundromat,” Jake says. He’s already fully dressed and seemingly refreshed, although the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw beg to differ.

  “Oh. Um. Thank you,” I reply, startled by the strangely considerate gesture. I plod into the bathroom and change back into my old clothes, this time eschewing the cardigan. I come back out and lean against the sink counter, staring at him. Jake has a cup of what looks to be crappy hotel coffee in his hand, sipping at it gingerly.

  “Come with me,” he says, beckoning for me to follow. I raise an eyebrow.

  “Where are we going now?” I ask.

  “Shopping,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

  “Wh—what? Shopping?” I repeat, confused. He nods and opens the door, letting bright sunlight filter in. “What are we shopping for?”

  “New clothes. No offense, but you can’t wear that outfit to the party,” Jake remarks as I reluctantly follow him down to the parking lot. Just like always, he helps me up onto the bike, and he ignores my stammering questions all the way along the highway to the next bigger town, which seems to be a suburb of Pittsburgh—an upscale one.

  I’m still bewildered when he parks the motorbike and leads me into a cutesy shopping district, holding my hand and smiling as though we’re just a happy couple on a road trip. I remember that that’s supposed to be our cover story, and I hastily slap on a smile of my own. We walk into a little boutique of fancy, beautiful, handmade formal gowns and handbags.

  No one would believe that the handsome, young man is my kidnapper. That Mr. Murderer—- Jake—is a murderer. We look far more like a cute, mismatched couple out to go apple picking than a hostage and kidnapper looking for a cover for a murder.

  “What are we doing here?” I hiss into his ear.

  “Go get yourself a dressing room, okay? I’ll bring you some dresses to try on. What size are you?” he asks.

  I blush. “I-I don’t know. Honestly.”

  Jake gives me a look up and down. “I’ll figure it out,” he says, and leaves me to wander into a dressing room, aided by a cheerful attendant who seems to have no idea that the two of us aren’t a happy couple. I stand in front of the mirror, looking at my bedraggled, unbrushed hair and makeup-free face, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Moments later, there’s a knock at the door and I gasp in fear.

  “It’s just me. Try these on,” says Jake, and he heaps several long, glamorous dresses up over the door.

  They are... gorgeous. Nicer than anything I’ve ever owned, and far closer to my forbidden fashion magazines rather than my conservative closet.

  I open my mouth to protest, then think better of it. No use in arguing. This may be a fever dream, but it’s also real life. I pull the dresses into the dressing room and try them on one by one, each time stepping out to show Jake. I have never worn dresses like these before. Plunging necklines. Exposed backs. Spaghetti straps. Strapless. Sequined and sparkly. Slits all the way up to my thigh. I feel so out of place at first, but with every new look, Jake compliments me, his eyes drinking me in as though I might actually be a girl pretty and worthy enough to wear these gowns.

  And even more surprisingly, he seems to be totally genuine about it.

  I suppose to be a contract killer, you also have to be a very good liar.

  Finally, I step out in the last dress: a long, gorgeous black gown with a slit up one leg, thin straps that slip off my shoulders, and an unholy amount of cleavage. Jake stands up, his jaw dropping when he sees me. He looks me up and down slowly, nodding his head and smiling.

  “Yes. This is the one,” he says softly. The attendant claps her hands excitedly and rushes off to the cash register. Jake walks up to me, looking totally in awe. I can feel my cheeks blushing bright pink.

  “I still don’t understand why we’re buying a dress,” I mumble.

  “So you can wear it to the party tonight. As my wife,” he adds, smiling, his finger running along my jawbone and sending a thrill of something forbidden down to my core. “Don’t worry. It’s all part of the ruse. But honestly… you should own this dress anyway just because it looks like that on you. Charity, I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you are beautiful.”

  Feeling conflicted, I reply weakly, “Actually, no. Not really.”

  “You are full of surprises, but that is the biggest one yet,” Jake remarks. “Your parents must keep you at home all the time.”

  I nod, stunned at his accurate guess.

  “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

  “What a pity,” he muses, looking down at me with genuine affection.

  I change back into my street clothes and we purchase the dress, which turns out to be about as expensive as an entire semester of classes. I’m still gob smacked by the price—and by how effortlessly Jake paid for it—when we get to the next shop.

  This one is a jewelry store. It doesn’t take me long to figure out why we’re here. If I’m supposed to be Jake’s ‘wife’ it only makes sense for me to have a wedding ring. Jake is nothing if not thorough with his murder disguises, I’m learning. We play the part of a happy couple, wandering around hand-in-hand, cooing over pretty gemstones and diamond rings until we find one that truly makes my heart skip a beat. It’s a modest but elegant pink diamond offset with two tiny white diamonds on a rose gold band. The shop assistant takes it out of the case and Jake slides it onto my finger. To our mutual surprise and delight, it’s a perfect fit.

  “It’s like it was made for you,” Jake murmurs, and once more, he sounds... genuine. Like this isn’t just a game to him. As if I’m not the cover for his crime.

  I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep, the mesmerizing shiny diamond, or just good old-fashioned Stockholm Syndrome, but my heart is fluttering as though this is all real. Like we’re really a happy couple picking out a ring together. I keep trying to snap myself out of it, remind myself what kind of situation I’m really in here, but I just can’t shake off the feeling that this is fate. I feel giddy. I feel like I could float away on cloud nine. And Jake is feeling it, too. As the shop girl is wrapping up the ring at the register, Jake pulls me close. With my heart pounding so hard it hurts, he leans in slowly and kisses my lips. Sparks fly. My whole body seems to be on fire. I have never been kissed before, and even in my wildest dreams, I never imagined it could feel this good. Somewhere in the back of my mind, alarm bells are ringing. But right here, right now, in this bizarre little bubble of reality, I feel good. And I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather be.

  It’s crazy.

  It makes no sense at all.

  But Jake’s lips pressed against mine, his hands gripping my waist—it feels right.

  Am I losing my mind?

  Jake

  Her body trembles in my grasp, and the feeling of her delicate lips against mine is so sensitive that I can feel every twitch in her as we kiss.

  I wasn’t expecting her to return it. It was just supposed to be for show, and I couldn’t even dare to hope that it could become something... more.

  Yet she pushes back towards me. Her lips don’t just accept my touch, but they touch back, pushing into mine as her muscles slowly relax in my grasp. I can feel every shift in her body, and I know the difference between a polite gesture and the real thing. Charity is surprised at what I did, but she isn’t faking.

  If s
he is, she’s a better liar than me.

  The soft sound of our kiss breaking is followed by the briefest of stares shared between us, but it hints at so much more than I was ready to handle when I leaned down to kiss her. My hand squeezes her hip a little more firmly, and she doesn’t pull away. We’re both stunned by what we’ve done.

  I can’t deny that it has felt good to spoil the girl a little this afternoon. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it as much as I have, but the simplicity of making her smile makes my heart beat faster. She doesn’t deserve to be caught up in my world, and I know how I feel about her. Maybe it was my sincerity in that kiss that made her step her game up.

  Maybe I’m just seeing things in my head.

  But no, the look in those eyes is genuine. I would know it anywhere.

  Will it be a blessing or a complication for the rest of the night?

  “Ahem,” comes the clerk’s voice, and we snap back to reality. Charity’s cheeks go bright pink, and she looks away from me, pulling away from my hips ever so subtly. I let her go, turning to the clerk and giving a smile as cool and casual as if the kiss had never happened.

  After seeing the total, I take out cash to pay our tab. I don’t fail to notice Charity’s eyes widening at the sight of the stack of bills I use to pay, and even the cashier is a little surprised by such a show of wealth. I imagine she mostly deals with credit cards, or at least installment payments. But it was all cash that I have been given for preparation for this job. As far as I’m concerned, this is just another one of those expenses.

  Once the bill is settled I smile down at Charity and offer her my arm. She takes it, but she avoids making eye contact with me. I pretend not to notice as I give the cashier a quick, grateful nod as we’re thanked for our business, and I lead her out of the store without another word.

  Several minutes of us walking pass without any further conversation. The sounds of our shoes hitting the ground is all that we hear over the sounds of the street, and the way back to the hotel is just as terse. If I hold a door open, she thanks me briefly with a smile, and if I guide her this way or that to keep her out of the flow of foot traffic, she complies without resistance, but something has changed.

  I steal a glance at her as we make our way through the hotel lobby, and I see that her face is remarkably without expression. She looks forward, and her cheeks are still pink, but she seems too wrapped up in her own thoughts to do more than react to the world around her. What can I say? Nothing in life ever prepared me for a situation where I accidentally share a genuine kiss with a woman who’s supposed to be a small step up from ‘hostage’.

  I can’t let myself get distracted from this job.

  While I do think the money spent on Charity was money well placed, I’m starting to run low on the cash I have for mission prep, and at this point, there is no room for error. I can’t afford that, either in terms of my budget or my success rate. Everything has to go flawlessly... even though I’m tied to an amateur who shows some promise.

  As we get into the elevator and it starts to take us up to our room, I start to wonder if she’s letting the pressure get to her. Maybe this is too much for her to handle. I would be surprised by that, but something is clearly bothering her. It’s almost funny, thinking that of all the things that could break the camel’s back about posing as a hitman’s wife, a genuine kiss would be the one thing to throw her off her game.

  I can’t blame her. Anything can happen, if you aren’t prepared for it.

  But as we step into the room with nothing said between us since I held the door open for her at the jewelry store, I know I can’t let this go unaddressed. The hotel room door closes behind us, and I follow Charity to the bed.

  I decide to take the direct approach. I toss the bags down in a chair, then take Charity by the hips and spin her around. She looks into my eyes in shock for a brief moment before I press my lips into her again, and this time, I hold her there, my hips against hers, nothing to intrude on us.

  In here, we’re not on stage. There’s no one to perform for. There is simple, private, honesty.

  She tenses up. I feel every muscle in her body going stiff, unsure what to do, but she doesn't pull away. Does she fear me even here? Even in this? I squeeze her hips, but she doesn’t relax. Finally, I pull back from her and look down at her searching eyes.

  “There,” I say in a low, husky tone. “Is that what was bothering you?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, but she doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Ever since we touched in the shop,” I say, “you’ve been tense. I can feel it.”

  “You must read me pretty well, for someone who’s only known me a day.”

  I crack a smile.

  “You learn to read people, in my way of life. And you never answered my question.”

  Her eyes look down to the floor for a moment. She’s trying to come up with something. Anything. But she isn’t as practiced a liar as I am, and she already has enough on her mind with everything else going on today.

  “Charity,” I whisper, “I need you to be relaxed if we’re going to pull this off. People who are jumpy make mistakes.”

  “How can I not be jumpy?” she asks, half-smiling at the ridiculousness of my statement. I nod understandingly, but I walk her backward until we’re at the edge of the bed, and I slowly sit her down. “You realize what you’re asking me, right?” she pleads with me and my heart pangs. I don’t want her in this situation any more than she does.

  “I do,” I say calmly, and I bring a big, rough hand to her knee, squeezing it and moving it slowly up her thigh. Our eyes are locked, and she seems to be almost trying to read my mind to see if I’m really about to do this. “But I have ways of making you relax.”

  Her cheeks burn a brighter red, and she looks down at my hand. Her hand twitches, and I know she was about to put it over mine. I stop, still reading her face.

  “You can tell me no,” I say clearly, and she turns to meet my gaze. She might not be an experienced liar, but she is good at masking her emotions when she wants to. She looks confused, but there is so much more in those deep eyes that escapes me. “But if you don’t, I will do what I want to you.”

  The only change on her face is the growing red in her cheeks and I slowly push her onto her back. She hesitates for a moment, as if she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Almost unconsciously, she slides her shoes off, but her eyes are on my pants, watching the growing bulge between my legs.

  “No,” I say, reaching out and tilting her chin up so that she can face me. “We don’t have time for that. Only my mouth.”

  She looks confused for a moment as I push her further back onto the bed, coming after her inch by inch. “Me... to you?” she asks, pointing from her mouth to my cock, and I shake my head, chuckling.

  “That wouldn’t help you relax much now, would it?”

  She looks like she’s holding something back, but her face is filled with anticipation and wonder. I can’t help but imagine that she has never had this done to her before.

  I suspected that she wanted this, even hoped she did. I think she’s so surprised at the fact that it’s happening that she isn’t even sure how to respond. But we don’t have time to think, only act.

  If she didn’t want this, I’d simply do a shot of whisky with her, but I have her attention now.

  She doesn’t resist as I push her back and run my hands up her bare thighs, bunching her skirt up above her waist and revealing her underwear within.

  There’s so much wrong with this. I am her captor. She knows what I’m capable of. She ran from me, and she’s only cooperating now because...why, exactly? I can’t help but wonder if the kiss we shared in the store has something to do with how she’s acting now. She watches me carefully, propped up on her elbows as I glare at the thin fabric separating me from her pussy, almost curious to see what I’m going to do next.

  It would be wrong of me not to oblige her.

  I reach in and pull her panties aside
just enough to expose her pussy, and I see the faintest hints of glistening wetness in her swollen folds. I smile, feeling self-satisfied. I was right. The moment we shared earlier set her thoughts in motion. I didn’t take her for the type, but something in her seems to like our time together. Maybe Charity will have a few surprises in store for me yet.

  But first, I need to give her hers.

  I reach up and grab her hips as I move forward on the bed, feeling her eyes watching me with more anticipation by the moment. She wants this, but she isn’t sure how to proceed. Could this truly be her first time getting touched by a man’s mouth, or is she just being cautious around me. Either is possible. She knows what I’m capable of. She knows what my body can do, when I use it to do harm. She is sheltered. Her mannerisms and her clothes tell me that much. But a sheltered person isn’t immune to the kinds of thoughts that make even experienced people blush.

  I push her skirt up further and breathe in the scent of her needy, ready pussy. It fills my body with energy and drive. I crave her and everything she has between her legs. I want to hear the sound of her voice, to help coax out all that desire I sense she has bound up inside her.

  My rough hands run up and down her exposed inner thighs, savoring the feeling of them as I watch her body, seeing her chest rise and fall. We’re both clothed, and I suspect Charity isn’t even thinking about the possibility of taking her shirt off. That almost makes this more enticing. Neither of us left the hotel room today expecting this. Hell, we didn’t even sleep, we’ve been so suspicious of each other.

  This is one way of burying the hatchet, I suppose.

  I couldn’t be more pleased.

  Clutching her hip in one hand and holding her panties aside with the other, I lean in and let my tongue stroke over her pussy in a quick, soft motion. She gasps immediately as if touched by fire, and I feel her try to close her legs, but I hold them open. Still, I raise my eyes to hers and give her a cocky smile.

  “Are you sure you want this?” I ask.

  She looks down at me, breathing hard, but the desire on her face is written as clearly as words in a diary. “Yes,” she says, “I…I want it. I want you.”

 

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