Deadly Deception: A Dark Romance

by J.C. Valentine

  Too? She wants to touch me?

  My body tenses, clenches, and erupts with an internal fire at once. The thought of her hands on my skin, her body against mine, our heat combining as I penetrate her in the most primal ways threatens to undo every restraint I’ve held in place until now.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” I tell her. “You’ve broken the rules. Rules that are in place for a reason, for both of our protection.”

  I force myself to walk past her, approaching the bank of windows overlooking the city below. I can see her reflection in the glass. She’s worried. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

  “That’s exactly what you didn’t do, Brenda. If you had thought, you would have realized that this is never going to happen. You hired a killer to murder your husband. At no point in that story does that arrangement become a romance novel.”

  “I can see you’re upset. But—”

  I round on her in a flash of movement so fast, she flinches. Finally, genuine fear for the dire situation she’s found herself in reflects back at me. I stalk her, giving her a good view of the monster she’s facing.

  “There is no but, Brenda. You have no idea what you’ve done coming here. Did you think showing up at my door was going to impress me? That I was going to, what? Take you into my arms, kiss you, make love to you like your husband never has?” I huff a laugh that infuses her cheeks with more color and damn if she doesn’t look absolutely beautiful. “I’m not a nice guy. I’m the thing of nightmares, Brenda. I’m not nice. I’m not forgiving. I’m the guy that would fuck you against a wall and walk away without looking back while my cum is still dripping down your shaking thighs.” Before her now, I lean in close so she can’t escape my eyes. “That’s if I wanted to fuck you. Right now, the only thing you inspire in me is violence.”

  The lie is easy to tell; I’ve been telling them so long. She doesn’t know that my cock is aching to drive into her, to do to her exactly what I said I would. But I wouldn’t stop at just once. I’d take her on and against every surface in this apartment, leaving marks on every inch of her flawless skin. I’d break her, and that’s what I’m trying to save her from—me.

  Brenda deserves better than I can offer.

  Defeat etches frown lines between her eyebrows and around her mouth. She hasn’t broken eye contact yet, affording me the sight of wetness swelling in her eyes. I’ve struck home, but now it’s time to finish the job.

  “Our deal is canceled, Brenda.”

  The news comes as a total shock to her, though it shouldn’t have. Did she really think she could cross the lines she did and not have it backfire in her face?

  “But why?” she whines, truly confused.

  “You broke the rules. You broke the deal.”

  “But I can leave. We can pretend this never happened.”

  I don’t entertain her pleading, instead taking her again by the arm and steering her toward the door.

  “You don’t have to do this, Cal.”

  “It’s already done. Now get out before I do something you’re going to regret.” I release the locks in quick succession and her panic mounts.

  “I need this, Cal. I need you to do this job. I can’t go another day with that man. I can’t do it. Please! Please don’t do this. Don’t back out on me. I’m sorryyy.” She’s crying in earnest now, making a bigger fool of herself than when she arrived.

  Normally, I don’t have the patience for shows of emotion. I find it repulsive. But on Brenda, it’s oddly becoming. I’m momentarily stunned by the depth of my attraction to this woman, so much so that I stop to stare at her, to drink her in.

  “Please,” she whispers, her voice clogged with the tears that run down her face.

  I bite back the urge to be nice, forgiving, and tell her what we both need to hear. “Sorry, but you did this to yourself.”

  Pulling the door open, I shove Brenda out and close it in her face, ignoring her sobbing pleas through the door as I walk away and pour myself another scotch.

  Twelve

  ~Faith~

  I’m in the second darkest depression of my life. The first being when I reached the bottom of my well of patience and caring for a man I’d vowed to love, honor, and cherish all the days of my life.

  Unlike my feelings for Glenn that have run dry, my ability to cry for myself have not. I’ve come all this way and hit a wall. Cal isn’t going to kill my husband, leaving my entire future up in the air. All of my plans. All of my dreams. Poof! Gone in the blink of an eye, and all because I’ve overplayed my hand.

  I have never regretted anything more—my marriage to Glenn excluded.

  So where does this leave me? The question has been swimming in my mind since the moment Cal closed the door in my face, casting me out into the proverbial cold.

  Mindlessly, I push the scrambled eggs around in the pan, an afternoon lunch that is quick and easy and doesn’t take any more brain power than I have to give. I’m was drawing on fumes, at the moment.

  Murder. Without Cal’s help, I just have to return to the drawing board and get it done myself. In fact, it seems the smartest thing to do. Hiring out could get me caught just as easy if not more so than handling the deed myself. And it will cost me less money too.

  Money.

  Now I’m regretting having paid that deposit. I’d demand Cal return every dime, but he wouldn’t, and it isn’t as if I could go to the police and file fraud charges. Even if I tried, Cal would retaliate and kill me.

  It is a cost I’ll have to suck up and move on from.

  Chalk it up to lessons learned.

  The little pep talk helps me to put things back into perspective, even if it is a lie I have to tell myself in order not to freak out.

  I don’t want to do this alone. Having someone, a professional, on my side, carrying out the scary, untrodden path I’m now going to have to venture down has my nerves rubbed raw.

  I’ve never killed anyone before. My past attempts have been as hands-off as I could manage, but my creativity in the craft was lacking now, and the only options I can come up with involve hands-on violence that would get messy.

  I don’t want messy. I want accidental death and dismemberment or a series of unfortunate events, as per the life insurance policy mandate.

  The frying pan could be a good murder weapon. Heavy, compact, easy to wield. I could claim self-defense. But then, who would believe that Glenn, such a nice and helpful guy, would ever raise a hand to a woman, much less his wife? And with no history of violence, it would be a hard sell.

  I’m drawing blanks. This is why I wanted Cal, the professional, to take care of it for me, but he is no longer an option.

  Scraping eggs into a pile on a plate, I serve them up to my husband and hope he chokes on them. It would do me a favor.

  Unfortunately, Glenn’s inhaling act goes off without a hitch, as usual. I could never get that lucky.

  “Why the long face, babe?” Glenn asks absently as he pushes his empty plate away and rises from the counter.

  “Hmm?” I come back to the present and offer a lax smile.

  Glenn has the good grace to appear somewhat concerned as he pulls on a light jacket and steps into his worn tennis shoes. “You don’t seem like yourself today.”

  I shrug. “Oh, you know, just one of those days.”

  He gives me a knowing look, and I know instantly the conclusion he has reached. “Ah. Well, take a load off today and watch some shows.”

  That’s his answer every time he thinks I’m on my period. As if life itself has a pause button that can be pushed whenever I’m not feeling up to functioning. “Sure.”

  Glenn puffs up as if he’s just come up with the cure for hunger. Stepping closer, he pecks me on the cheek and grabs his keys from the top of the microwave beside the side door. “I’ll be back later.”

  It’s Sunday, a day of rest, and he hasn’t offered any explanations. Unlike a caring wife, I don’t care how he is spending his time. I know where he’s going an
yway. Church. Of all places a man like him might go, he spends every Sunday at the church. But not for the holy reasons one might think.

  Glenn goes solely to skim a couple of dollars from the donation plate, then afterward he attends their luncheon for the poor. The families who can’t afford a regular square meal. Glenn clearly affords more than enough.

  Just another reason for my loss of respect in my husband.

  So, as I’ve reasoned before when I found myself in a moment of doubt, I will be doing not only myself a favor, but I’ll be performing a public service by getting rid of him, and when put that way, would any jury convict me?

  Bolstered by that idea, I clean the house while connected to my earpiece for the job I don’t love but makes me the extra cash to spend on life’s little extras that make things bearable. Especially when my Sunday calls are least welcome of any I make during the week. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just as bad or worse than a bloodsucking lawyer.

  The day speeds by, and I entertain all sorts of options to solve my little problem. Maybe I can rent a car and run Glenn down with it, wash it, and return it without anyone the wiser. But a call to the agency returns that I’d need a major credit card on file, so that’s that.

  I then consider the off-chance that I can find a temporary lover, someone intense and prone to violence, sway him to my cause, and in a moment of passion, he could take out the trash and I could throw my hands up in innocence when the police questioned me, citing that I had no idea he was that kind of person, and our affair was simply a mistake that was never supposed to go so far. A murder born of a jealous lover. Hands clean, freedom secured.

  But that seems like a lot of work, time, and patience that I just don’t have.

  Would a push down the stairs leave a mark? Could a coroner pull latent hand or footprints from someone’s back? The idea has promise until I consider the odds of Glenn actually dying from a fall. I’d have to get it exactly right the first time, or the jig would be up.

  Why is murder so hard? How do other murderers get away with it so easily? The simple fact is, they had a combination of lazy police work and good fortune on their side. I have zero faith that I have either of those things.

  Later that night, as I lie there in bed, pretending to sleep, Glenn speaks.

  “I have vacation hours saved up. What do you say we go to the cabin like we used to this weekend?”

  The request is so unexpected, I’m at a loss for words. “I…” What can I say? The idea of spending a weekend with him isn’t attractive. It would be two days of one hundred percent focus on our relationship. How can I fake my feelings in such close quarters with no distractions? As it stands, he understands that our relationship isn’t at its best, hence the ultimatum, but Glenn doesn’t know how much I loathe him. If I have to fake a smile and love and affection, including the physical kind, I know I’ll fail miserably.

  The bed jostles as Glenn rolls onto his side to face me in the dark. “Say yes. I think we need this. It’s only a weekend. Remember how relaxing it was to just sit outside and look out at the water? Listen to the birds sing? The wind in the trees?”

  A fond smile springs to life as I recall those moments. They were some of my favorite in life.

  Glenn must sense the change in me. “It’ll be great. Just you and me and the great outdoors again. What do ya say? We can go this weekend. The weather is supposed to be great, and I can rent a little boat, do some fishing. We can grill lakeside and east s’mores as the sun goes down.”

  I consider all the pros and cons in the silent moments that pass between us and reach the conclusion that, as much as I would love to experience all of those things again, they would be better without him. Everything would be better without him.

  Just as I open my mouth to offer an excuse not to go, Glenn continues.

  “Just think, no work, no nosey neighbors. Just you and me. No one else for miles.”

  No witnesses…

  I turn onto my side, facing my husband, and reach across the small expanse of the bed to grasp his hand in mine. “I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it.”

  Thirteen

  ~Declan~

  I’m in a terrible mood—a killing mood. Have been since Saturday night when my client crossed lines that I refuse to cross.

  Usually, things like that don’t faze me, but I’m fit to be tied. My feathers have been ruffled. I’m seeing red, and no amount of coffee or exercise will stymie it. I nearly took off John’s head this morning when the man located me in the downstairs gym.

  I had been lifting weights, and John, ever the peppy sonofabitch, wouldn’t shut his trap. He yacked on and on about life and work on repeat until I briefly but seriously entertained caving his skull in with a barbell.

  Only a moment of rational thinking prevented the homicide from taking place.

  I don’t need the cops investigating me. Don’t need the jail time. Most certainly don’t need the hassle of having to go underground and start a new life. That is a hurdle I never intend to climb, which is why I’ve always been so careful.

  What is the point in having money and power if I can’t enjoy it?

  Since all of my best efforts haven’t done a thing to improve my mood, I give in and get in the car, start driving without a thought to where I’m going.

  I find myself outside Brenda’s house.

  The unintentional stakeout spans the rest of the day, well into the evening hours, with me ignoring a message from Tony. I can check it later. I haven’t eaten all day. Can’t remember the last time I slept.

  I’m in a fragile state of mind that needs to be remedied, fast. If I’m not sticking to his routine—a heavily structured routine for good reason—I risk making a critical error that could bring down my entire operation.

  What is holding me back? I promised myself that this was my last job before retirement, and I ended up being the one to cancel it. By all rights, I should be packing my bags and closing up shop, on my way to the airport to start the first and last leg of my journey.

  But here I am, pining away for a reason I’m not willing to put thought to.

  I don’t have weaknesses anymore unless one counts being a perfectionist when it comes to the job.

  Is it the need to kill? To carry out one last hand of justice before I can move on? It’s possible I let myself down, and it’s eating at me.

  Yes, I decide, that is exactly my problem. I need to see this through, or it will hound me until my dying day. I will never enjoy retirement knowing I’ve left loose ends.

  So where does that leave me? Should I contact Brenda and let her know that I’m back on the job? No. That would go against my policy of contact once at onset of the contract and last when it is carried out.

  Brenda may not know that I’ve decided to retake her case, but it isn’t as if she is going to rush out and hire another hitman. It isn’t as if people like me are a dime a dozen. You can’t go to the hardware store and pick one up from the shelf. Like a drug kingpin, I’m unique to the area. There is no room for more like me. Once I leave, someone will undoubtedly fill the gap I leave behind, but until that day comes, I’m it—her only option.

  Of course, she could take matters into her own hands and off her husband herself, but Brenda doesn’t strike me as the killing type. Maybe in a desperate moment, but I don’t foresee any scenario that would lead to that outcome either.

  She needs me. I need this case. The plan is back on.

  Glenn is going to die.

  Fourteen

  ~Faith~

  Packing for a murder is hard. I’m not sure how to prepare for such a thing. Does one need extra clean underwear and socks? Should I take my good blouse, the one I wear for celebrations?

  As I touch the soft, red silk fabric, I toss the thought away.

  I have to be practical. Murder is a dirty job, and I have to get every detail right. We’re going to a cabin. The scenery is rustic, which requires jeans, maybe some shorts or capris, a couple of cute shirts, and t
he fanciest I can get would be a pair of navy-blue canvas tennis shoes I purchased to match most of my outfits.

  This isn’t a celebration. It’s a getaway for a loving couple who are working on their marriage and looking to reconnect, I coach myself.

  No matter how many times I run the mantra through my mind, I can’t fully grasp it, but it is a lie I have to force myself to believe or else no one else will. And I need everyone to believe me to be the grieving widow. I flat out refuse to spend the rest of my days behind bars, and I want every dime of that life insurance policy. Call me greedy, but I’ve earned it, and I’m not going to rest until I get everything I deserve.

  The front door opens downstairs, and I feel a genuine smile slide into place. The last time I was actually happy Glenn was home was years ago, and, ironically, it had been the same day I had decided that I was going to get him out of my life, though I didn’t quite know how at the time.

  “Honey, I’m home!” The jingle of his keys as Glenn tosses them on the table followed by the clomp of his footsteps as he climbs the stairs reaches my ears.

  For once, I don’t feel the need to put on a show.

  Glenn is all smiles as he enters our marital bedroom and approaches, swinging me into his arms and straight into a kiss that is filled with passion and excitement.

  Of course, he is as happy today as I am. We’re just hours away from a truly life-changing weekend, and as repulsive as I usually find my husband, I don’t feel the usual urge to push him away.

  “When do we hit the road?” I ask.

  Glenn steps away and starts stripping out of his sweaty work clothes. “As soon as we’re packed and ready to go. I can’t wait to get there.”

  “Me either. It’s going to be an amazing weekend.”

  Glenn is all smiles as he disappears into the bathroom to shower and change. I don’t even have to try to pretend that I’m walking on clouds. After finishing my task of packing the luggage, I go downstairs to the kitchen to put together a couple of lunches to keep us refreshed while on the road.