I nod but minimize the situation. “I’m sure everything will be fine. This is just a precaution,” I tell Gabe, not wanting to bother him, though secretly, I think that’s exactly what I want. After all, he’s getting me very bothered. And hot. Hot and bothered, that’s me.
Gabe smiles a little, warmth and iciness mixing somehow as he looks at me. It’s like he’s being warm and intimate with me but could still hand out pain to anyone who’s a threat to me. It’s the sexiest look I’ve ever seen on a man’s face.
“I insist. Now, let’s practice some more.”
We try again, and as we keep going, I can’t help but get more and more turned on. It’s intimidating, the power in my hands, and as I try to shoot, my mind keeps flashing to the brief moments of Gabe popping ten rounds in that circle the size of a grapefruit faster than I could believe.
It was terrifying, but also sexy, watching him in total and utter control of the instrument of death in my hands.
“Remember, relax,” Gabe says softly, coming behind me again. He puts his hands on my shoulders and presses them down gently. I hadn’t even realized they’d crept up toward my ears. “You’re thinking about the results and not the process of getting there. And that’s making you tense, throwing you off.”
His voice is almost hypnotic, and as his hands start to knead my neck and shoulders, I feel hormones flood my body. I’m turned into Silly Putty under his thumbs, and in my mind, I wonder if anyone’s ever made me feel such a twin mix of sensations at the same time.
Scared and attracted, turned on and relaxed, worried and comfortable . . . Gabe’s got all of them swirling in my chest, and I feel like there’s not enough oxygen in the room.
“There,” Gabe says in my ear. “Now, just line up the sights. Remember, you’re just shooting a piece of paper . . . and go.”
Ten shots, and I feel like a machine.
Breathe.
Aim.
Squeeze.
Breathe.
Aim.
Squeeze.
Ten times the cycle repeats, and when the paper comes in, there are ten holes in the black rings. “Very nice. Very, very nice,” Gabe praises.
“Thank you,” I reply, grabbing the target.
He takes his turn, hitting all bullseyes again, but I never even look at the target, instead focusing on him. Feet spread wide, hips square, jaw clenched, and eyes narrowed. It’s like an action hero popped off the Hollywood screen, especially when he takes the last shot and turns to me with a boyish grin.
He sets the gun down and glances at the clock on the wall. “Listen, I have to go, but maybe we could get together and do this again? Or dinner? Not at the diner, to be clear.”
He blinks a little faster, the smallest sign of nerves at asking me out, which I guess is understandable since I shot him down last time. I’m not making that mistake again.
I dig in my bag for a pen and grab my successful target sheet, thinking it might be nice to save as a souvenir of my first shots, but instead scribbling my number on the corner and giving the paper to Gabe.
“Here, take this. You really helped me a lot, and I think this shows that.” I smile warmly.
He takes the paper, looking both at the number and the scatter of holes, then back to me. “Thanks. I’ll call you soon.”
He starts to leave but turns back, and the butterflies in my belly flutter, thinking he’s coming back for a kiss. But instead, he tosses me one of his signature panty-melting half-smiles.
“Bye, Bella.”
I bite my lip at the name. I liked it when he wrote it, but hearing him say it is even more of a wow. I wave and then he’s gone.
Saul steps back into my lane behind me, asking politely, “Ready for me to show you how to break it down for cleaning and safe storage?”
I nod, but the excitement of a moment before is gone with Gabe’s exit.
Chapter 9
Gabriel
The morning is downright cold, a quick reminder that here in the Pacific Northwest, autumn comes a lot faster than it does where I was born.
I don’t say where I live, because for the past ten years I can’t say that I’ve had a home.
I tend to stick around the corridor from San Fran to Seattle when I’m not on a contract, in the hopes I’ll find out something about what happened to Jeremy. But even here, I don’t have a home, or even a home base. Just hotels, short-term-lease apartments, and sometimes an AirBnB.
I adjust my hooded sweatshirt as I watch Isabella’s house. It’s not so cold that my fingers are numb or that the windows fog up.
No, the only thing obscuring my vision has been myself. And that has to stop.
Yesterday, I’d been following her, hoping she might do something ‘wrong’ on her day off, something that would explain why I’ve been hired. I’d sat in the gun range parking lot for almost ten minutes, arguing with myself about going inside.
Would she think it was too big of a coincidence and bolt like a rabbit? Or would she be happy to see me?
Ultimately, I’d given in to the curiosity, telling myself that it was possible she’d found out who I am and was getting protection against me. That’s something I’d need to know in my line of work, so I’d gone inside, knowing it was more excuse and less truth but happy to justify it to myself anyway.
And I saw her blossom, the confidence she gained as she quickly learned how to shoot turning me on just as much as the warmth of her body pressed against mine.
She was the sexiest thing I’ve ever had in my arms. From the lean strength of her shoulders to the way her legs spread as she assumed the shooter’s stance, and the biggest turn-on was her willingness to stand up for herself against that sleazebag, Carraby. She’s a powerhouse, that Isabella Turner.
My brain was torn in half, one side admiring her as a budding marksman and strong person, the other side wanting to pull down the jeans she was wearing, tap her feet a few inches further apart, and fuck her as hard as I could while she bent over the shooting bench.
She makes me want to see if I’m up to the challenge of being worthy of her. I know I’m not, my soul is obviously sullied well beyond what a princess like her deserves, but I want the test anyway.
Even after leaving, I had to go back to my motel room and beat off twice just to give myself enough control to get through the rest of the night.
Which is why I have to get this done quickly. In the gun range, I could feel my self-control slipping, this close to abandoning my mission just to have her at my mercy in another way.
I wanted to bury my nose in the thick flowing locks of her hair, to nibble at her ear and reach around, tugging on her nipples until she creamed all over my cock.
I can’t have that happening.
My phone buzzes, and I see it’s a message from Blackwell.
Five.
The countdown pisses me off. He knows how I work, and the added pressure from him makes me question this whole contract all the more. But I can’t back out.
I’m close, I text back, wishing I could be certain this course of action is warranted. But am I too close to Isabella already? Too blinded to see the ugly truth?
Sure, I’ve used my good looks and personality to get close to targets before. Isabella is different, though. She’s threatening that line where it becomes more than just my attraction to her body.
Watching her at work, it’s painful to see her swallow her pride and do whatever is needed to keep trudging along. I’ve snuck into her classes, lurking in the shadows in back of the lecture hall, smiling to myself as she gets every answer correct.
It was even more painful yesterday, observing as she emerged from her self-imposed shell, blossoming as she gained confidence with her shooting.
I took pleasure in every smile, every twinkle in her eyes, the times I made her laugh. More than her body, that’s what I thought of as I stroked myself last night. Not her ass or her tits or any of that.
I fantasized about her laugh.
I fantasized a
bout being the man who could help her wake up from the hell she’s living in.
I fantasized about being the one to rescue her, to whoosh her away somewhere safe and spoil her rotten with attention and love.
And that’s dangerous. It’s more addictive than any drug her landlord might be on.
With Isabella, I feel pulled in equal and opposite directions at once, and the more I wait, the more I’m ripped in half.
Isabella’s door opens, and she comes out, pulling her backpack over her shoulders. She doesn’t have a heavy load of books today, so she must have gotten some studying done last night. I hope she got some sleep too, poor thing.
Shit. I’m doing it again. Too much, too close. Back that bus up, Gabriel.
She stops, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. She dials, and I’m shocked when my phone starts to ring next to me. I look and see . . . it’s her.
I slouch down, making sure I’m not able to be seen, and pray nobody in the neighborhood honks their horn. “Hello?”
“Hi . . . Gabe? It’s Izzy Turner.”
“Bella,” I reply automatically, before I can even think about it.
She makes a small, happy noise, and I curse myself inside. I let myself call her that the night I left her a note . . . now I’m using it all the time with her. I’ve had to remind myself to not even think of her that way, but it hasn’t sunk in yet.
If anything, it’s made the nickname dig itself deeper into my psyche.
“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I know this is stupid, but you mentioned getting dinner and I’m slammed with late shifts for the next six nights in a row, but I’d like to see you.”
She hums nervously, and I wonder if she’s ever called a guy before. Does she just wait for them to come to her, like woodland creatures seeking out Snow White?
Or is she too busy scraping by to even think about guys?
The thought of her with another guy makes my teeth click together, but she must not hear because she rambles quickly.
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to stop by the diner? I promise you, Henry’s a great cook on more than just the Country Special.”
“I’d like that,” I reply, twisting inside as I know I’m both lying and not lying.
There’s half of me that would like nothing more than to share some food and good conversation with her.
The other half . . . wants to run.
Only the tiniest fraction of a percent of me wants to actually kill her, even if I desperately need the information Blackwell has. And I hate that dark, monstrous part of me.
“Great!” she says chirpily, twisting the knife in my gut a little more. I’m actually making her happy. “Well, I’ve got a break at about nine, or if you want to wait until closing time, come by around ten forty-five.”
“Sounds good. I’ll try to be there at nine for your break and then hang out until you get off, if that’s okay?”
Bella giggles, and I swear she sounds happier than ever. “Okay. See you then. Bye.”
She hangs up, and I curse myself as moments later, I hear the buzzing noise from her scooter pulling away.
I watch her go and then grab my lockpicks. I walk up to her house, intent on doing what I should have done before approaching her.
I’m going to have to come up with something to tell Blackwell, and fast.
I need an excuse, one way or the other. Something that’ll let me do this as I promised I would, or something that breaks my codes and will let me refuse the contract under the already stated terms.
My employers know my rule against innocents, and I’m very thorough in explaining the exit clauses for me and the hiring party. As depraved as it may be, this is a business transaction and I treat it as such.
Blackwell’s no different, but at the same time, he’s the employer I’ve least wanted to piss off. Not only is his reach wide, but his offered reward is the Holy Grail I’ve been searching for. How, then, do I deal with this?
The lock on her back door’s a piece of crap, six seconds to pop, and I open the door onto one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.
I knew the row of mill houses was in a sad state of disrepair, but from the outside, it seemed like Bella’s was one of the better ones. But from my kitchen vantage point, I can see it’s a fucking miracle this thing is still standing.
The hardwood floor carries the ghosts of seventy or more years of use. The once-warm stain is worn nearly white where generations of people have walked paths.
The walls are faded, old wallpaper that’s so thin I can almost see the plaster and lathe behind it. Whatever color and design it was when it was hung has turned into a washed-out pale brown, with blobs that probably used to be flowers.
The furniture is vintage ‘70s, a tweed couch with wooden arms and a stained Formica two-seater dinette table.
Everything I see is the same. Old, patched, barely above homeless levels.
But I can see the effort she puts into her home. The spotless countertops, the sheet carefully tucked around the couch cushions to make it less scratchy, and the scent of lemons in the air. It’s not much, but she cares for it.
Hate her? How could I hate her? How can I declare her evil?
It makes me want to cry.
Her life’s a bad joke, a broken-down house even worse than I expected, a job that works her to the point of exhaustion, and dreams she will likely never reach at the pace she’s going. But still, she doesn’t give up.
I look around and start to get even more pissed at Russell. How could anyone want to hit up anyone for money for this place?
I’d be doing her a favor if I just burned this whole place down.
I continue exploring, going into what has to be Bella’s bedroom.
She doesn’t have a bed frame, just a mattress on the floor, but her blankets are spread out neatly and the single pillow is centered and standing up against the wall where a headboard would be. A series of photographs stuck to the mirror with yellowed tape catches my eye.
The mirror is huge but obviously cracked through the middle, or else it would most likely have been pawned or sold long ago to keep the bills paid.
It doesn’t take me long to identify Bella in the photographs. Her hair and eyes are still the same stunning rich dark wood color they are now, and I idly wonder how many hearts she broke in school. Quite a few, I suspect.
The oldest photos are of her in much better environs, an upper-middle-class looking house if my estimation is right, Bella between a man and a woman, with a boy in the background. The woman’s obviously her mother, she’s got the same cheeks and lean bone structure, but the man’s got Bella’s hair.
“Her father,” I whisper in wonder. I touch the picture of the boy, who’s got freckles and is smiling widely. “And brother.”
Underneath the photo is a slightly newer one, this time Bella in elementary school with a woman who’s not just lean but positively gaunt.
It was taken in this house, although things looked a lot better twenty years ago than they do today. The woman is Bella’s aunt, her mother’s sister, if my research was correct. The woman looks worn out and exhausted by life, though judging by Bella’s age, the picture was taken a whole decade before she died.
I swallow and look down to see a cheap jewelry box, probably empty, but something inspires me to lift the lid. There’s a tiny little ballerina inside, but it doesn’t turn, either because it hasn’t been wound in a long time or, more likely, the mechanism’s broken.
More interesting, though, is the small folded piece of newspaper, slightly yellowed with age but carefully preserved, nonetheless. Feeling like the world’s most depraved thief, I pinch it between two fingers, fishing it out and unfolding it carefully.
Local Family Killed in Tragic Plane Crash
The story’s short and rather sad, telling the story of Oliver Turner, his wife, Sarah, and their only son, Roy. Oliver, a successful businessman, was also an avid private aviator and had decided to take his wife and son on
a fun little jaunt over San Juan Island to catch the orca that you could see off the coast there.
Unfortunately for them . . . they never returned. Their daughter, young five-year-old Isabella Turner, was the only surviving member of the Turner family because she’d been left behind with a babysitter, according to my intel.
The story finishes with Bella being mentioned almost as a footnote, just a line saying she would live with her aunt.
I carefully fold the paper back up, tears once again threatening me. She’s already been through so much, and I feel like a cold-blooded bastard for even accepting this contract. But how could I have known?
Her life hasn’t just been a tragedy. It’s been a comedy, not the ha-ha kind but the sad, gut-wrenching, sob-inducing kind, where the universe laughs at you while it smacks you around again.
I know the feeling, but I suspect I’ve barely scratched the level of shit that Bella’s had to endure.
I put the newspaper clipping back, leaving her room to check out the rest of the house. There’s one other bedroom, and when I open the door, I’m floored by what I see.
It’s . . . a painting.
On the wall itself.
The soul poured into what I see makes my stomach clench with emotion. A painting of an airplane soaring over the ocean, the sun gleaming off the silver wings . . . and an island.
There’s so much sadness in each brush stroke, the painting done in what looks like poster paint, or maybe house paint. It doesn’t really matter. It’s the emotions wrapped into every inch of the painting that makes it stunning.
The second pillow that belongs on her bed is sitting in the middle of the room, like she sits in here with the painting a lot. That strikes me as important, the way she takes a few moments for herself in the midst of her busy life. To grieve, to remember, to wish for a different life?
Not really knowing why, I reach out to the painting, wanting to touch the memorial that Bella’s painted to her family, but before I can, a yowl from the depths of hell itself rips through the room, and a screaming ball of blackness leaps from the closet next to the painting.
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