My cheeks flushed and it had nothing to do with the temperature in my apartment. These moments between us were becoming more frequent—and harder to resist. I put my palm against his chest, my entire hand tingling with excitement from the contact. He felt solid, rock hard, under my hand, and I wondered what his skin would feel like without his T-shirt between us. I pushed him gently away, severing our contact and allowing me enough space to take a decent breath. I couldn’t focus with him so close. And we needed to talk business.
“So,” I said, shaky, “I take it the mark’s a real bastard?”
Tyler took an extra step back, his smile turning almost sad. “You know me,” he said with a sigh, and the sound mirrored my own disappointment. “I don’t take money to kill just any asshole. Only the scum of the earth will do.”
That’s why I worked for Tyler. He shared my disgust for the morally bankrupt, and I could count on him to flush them out of their holes for me. Be it a drug dealer, pimp, or worse, Tyler hated abusers just as much as I did. And each and every one of them abused their victims in one horrible way or another.
Talking business was like a gust of fresh air. It cleared my head, redirected my focus. This job was the only thing keeping me from violating all of my self-imposed rules in regards to Tyler. I’d spent decades polishing my armor, and now was not the time to let it tarnish.
I leaned back against the stove, but still, the distance between us could be closed by an arm’s length. Even the air seemed thinner, as though there wasn’t enough of it to share. Tyler sealed the gap, his eyes trained on my face, drinking in every detail. He reached out, his fingers feather light against my cheek, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Time to take this conversation out of the kitchen. I needed some space, and the current cramped quarters weren’t doing anything for my willpower. I tapped the envelope of money against my palm, paced away from Tyler, and rounded the far end of the polished concrete countertop. I flopped down on the overstuffed chair in the living room that bordered the kitchen. Unfolding the slip of paper, I read the mark’s info with more interest than the situation called for. “I’ll get ahold of you when it’s done,” I said.
Tyler stiffened, his shoulders square. “You can’t keep avoiding this—us—Darian.”
Who says? As far as I was concerned, I could keep avoiding it until the end of time. “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it. Right, Ty? We work well together. And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Why can’t things stay just the way they are?”
“Change is the only constant, Darian.”
He always said my name with care, as if the word were fragile. The sound of it made my chest ache. “We just can’t . . . be together.”
His eyes burned into mine. “Why not?”
Why not, indeed? “It’s not a good idea. Trust me, Ty. I’m not what you need.”
He threw his coat over his shoulders and headed for the elevator. “Why don’t you let me worry about what I need? Be careful tomorrow. I’d hate for you to trip on your boulder-sized pride before you get the job done.”
The elevator whined its way to the ground floor, leaving me alone.
Way to go, I thought. You wanted things to cool down. Looks like you got your wish. He’d forget about his fascination soon enough. It wasn’t really me he wanted. More likely it was the idea of me. The exotic, preternatural creature. Tyler would find someone worthy of his adoration. The thought of his arms around another woman made me want to scream. I sat for a moment, absorbing the quiet and the hollow ache in my chest that only his absence caused. Fuck if I knew why, but the torture of having him near was almost better than the anguish of watching him leave.
Rather than continue to stew in my misery and obsess over emotions best left unrealized, I locked the envelopes—both the seventy-five percent and the remainder of my fee—in a safe tucked behind a false wall. Tyler wouldn’t dare cheat me. I trusted him with my life; the money was a no-brainer.
I unfolded the paper once again and reread the name and address scrawled on it.
Xander Peck, 1573 East Highland Drive
His name rolled off my tongue a couple of times. Not exactly a Tom or Josh or Steve. But I guess Darian wasn’t exactly a Becky, Suzie, or Jennifer either.
Poor bastard. I wondered who Xander Peck had pissed off to deserve a visit from me. Whatever he’d done, it must’ve been pretty bad. People paid through the nose for my services, and I wasn’t exactly listed in the yellow pages. You’d have to have connections, and not the normal kind, to hire a Shaede to mete out your punishments.
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