“Shit, man, I didn’t know she had a boyfriend -”
“I don’t.”
“She doesn’t.” They both interrupted him, their eyes never even flicking towards the intruder into their space.
“Uh, well, um…”
“You should leave.” Smith gestured at him, expecting him to respond, but Camille grabbed onto the kid’s arm – because that’s what he was, a kid. He looked nineteen, maybe twenty. Hell, his five o’clock shadow looked like peach fuzz.
“He’s not done.”
“Oh, no, I think I am. Sorry, you’re hot and all, but –”
“He’s leaving, C.”
“You planning to make him leave?” she asked, her gaze a steady challenge that he was not going to meet with an audience made up of one very naked idiot.
“No need! Absolutely no need, I’m out.” The guy stood up, cupping himself as he used his free hand to gather his clothes.
“Smith.” Her voice held a note of threat in it, but he just lifted a hand to stop her, waiting for the kid to gather his things. As soon as his arms were full, the idiot awkwardly moved towards the bathroom, which was right next to Smith.
“Hey, man, I just need to -”
“You need to get out,” he growled, grabbing the kid by the back of the neck, wrenching the door open, and shoving him out into the open hallway. The kid stumbled, shouted, dropped half his clothes, and then Smith slammed the door on him.
“This is such bullshit!” Camille shouted, moving onto her knees on the bed.
Naked. Jesus Christ, she’s so naked.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” His temper snapped, his voice instantly matching hers in volume as he flipped open her suitcase with his foot and threw a handful of random clothes at her. “Get dressed, I’m not talking to you like this.”
“Fuck you! You can -”
“C!” He roared at her, and her eyes went wide for a moment before they narrowed. “Put clothes on. Now.”
Muttering threats and curses she dug through the pile of things he’d thrown at her and she started to pull on a mismatched set as he put his back to her, but it was a useless exercise. Her body was seared into his mind now. All those graceful curves, the rosy pink of her nipples, the space between her thighs so delicately obscured by blonde curls. Even in his rage he could feel the tugging weight of his cock as it wanted to come to life – No.
“There! Dressed! Now why the fuck –”
Smith rounded on her. “Do not push me right now, C. Who the hell was he? Do you even know his name? Do you know anything about him?”
“It was Tyler,” she paused, her expression flickering, “or Ryan. Something like that. It doesn’t fucking matter!”
“Of course it matters!” Smith shouted. “You just fucked him!”
“Oh, so now it’s okay for you to curse?”
“Do you know another word for what that was?”
“Sex. It was just sex, Smith. I’m allowed to have sex! I’m not broken, I’m not damaged, it all fucking works!” Camille climbed off the bed, gesturing towards her body as she came around the end to face off with him, her words twisting his stomach into knots. “That was consensual. I wanted to fuck him, he wanted to fuck me – it was just sex.”
“You wanted him?” he asked, a flash of jealous rage making him unsteady. His mind rolled back to the conversation with Bill, to the things they had said to each other in this room earlier in the night, the things he had said to her.
This is my fault.
“He was cute. He was clean. He’s a tourist. From Tennessee or something like that, and yeah, I wanted him, and I would have fucking finished with him if you’d had the decency to wait five more minutes!” She screamed the last bit, and he had to take a deep breath to keep from losing his temper, from going off the deep end with her.
“So that’s what you want?” Smith gestured back at the door. “You want some random guy off the street in your bed?”
“I don’t need you to protect me from random guys!”
“Fine, then I won’t. Want me to go call him back? I’ll see if he’s done getting dressed, I could -”
“Fuck off.” She flipped him off, turning around to slip on her shoes, but that wasn’t going to happen.
“You are not leaving.”
“WHY?” She turned and glared at him, and he opened his mouth to answer but nothing would come out. A hundred answers were vying for space in his vocal chords, and nothing was actually making it through.
I don’t want anyone touching you.
I want to know you’re safe.
I don’t want you to leave.
I want to fix this. Let me fix this.
I can’t imagine you with anyone else.
I want you. I want you. I want you.
Do you still want me or have I ruined everything?
“Because,” Smith answered.
“Because?! Are you fucking kidding me?” She laughed and bent over to tie her shoe.
“Sit down, C.” He was more than effectively blocking her only exit, and she knew it when she turned to face him, her eyes narrowing like she might be thinking of a full on hand-to-hand just to get outside the room. But there were more important things than the drama of their evening to discuss. “Sit. Down.”
With a grumble she backed down and dropped onto the end of her bed, and the smell of sex in the air finally settled on him, ramping up his anger even more – but he pushed it away. There was no room in this part of their conversation for him to be irrationally jealous over Camille choosing to bed some stranger the same night she had kissed him. There were much more important things than the memory of her rolling her hips atop that stranger, those soft sounds escaping her perfect lips.
Damn it all.
“Well?” she asked, her tone still more than argumentative.
“I got a call while I was out.”
“Congratu-fucking-lations. Can I go now?”
“I might have an address for Clinton.” As soon as the words left his lips she seemed to deflate, all the anger leeching out of her like color from a painting. In one breath she had been vibrant, full of anger and passion, and in the next she was cold, empty, small.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
“Still in the greater New York area.”
She dropped her face into her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. For a moment he wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide tears or not. “And it’s him?”
“We should get the documents from my contact tomorrow with a DMV picture, and he’s promised surveillance photos to further confirm, but I believe so.” Smith leaned against the wall on his side of the room. Maybe ten feet separated them, but it felt like miles. Miles full of brackish earth and landmines that he had no idea how to navigate.
“I get to kill him.”
“Of course,” Smith answered and he watched as she toed her shoes off, signaling that she had no plans to run tonight. “If this is him, his last name is Porter, does that sound right?”
“I don’t know.” All of the anger and righteous indignation in her voice from before was gone, she sounded hollow – and he hated it.
“C… I didn’t -”
“Stop.” Raising a hand she moved to sit on the far side of her bed, facing the windows, and he wanted to give her the space, but he couldn’t let the night end like this. Couldn’t let this wound heal over so crooked that nothing would ever be right again.
“Please, listen to me.” He swallowed and took a slow breath. “I have never thought you were broken. I don’t know what you’ve been through, and I have never expected you to tell me, but you are strong. You are probably the strongest person I’ve ever met, man or woman, and at no point have I ever looked at you and thought broken.”
Her shoulders heaved, whether from a sigh or a silent cry he couldn’t tell, but it made him sick all the same.
“I’ve only ever wanted to protect you, to keep you safe.”
“I know, Smith. I get it.” Without facing him she yanked the sheets back on the bed and crawled into it at the edge. She flipped the lamp off on her side, leaving only the bathroom light filling the room and the light from the city sneaking around the blackout curtains.
“C?”
“Good night, Smith.” Her words were final, and they were the ones he knew he had to respect. She was processing, and it didn’t matter if it was the choices she’d made that night or his information that she was thinking over, he wasn’t going to be able to help her.
Turning off the bathroom light he stripped down to his pants in the dark and slid into his bed, facing away from her. Trying to give Camille as much space as she wanted or needed – no matter how different he had imagined the night going.
Chapter Ten
The room was brightly lit when Camille woke up, and she had to flinch away from the sunlight, choosing to bury her head deeper into the pillow instead of facing the day. Facing the fact that the tenderness between her thighs was evidence of her bullshit, stupid, impulsive decision-making. More importantly, she didn’t want to face Smith.
Tyler, or Ryan, or whatever the fuck his name was, had been a poor replacement. She’d only fucked him in this room, in this bed, because she had hoped Smith would find them. It had nothing to do with the guy, with how he had looked, or how he had flirted with her at the bar and bought her a drink. He had been a means to an end.
‘And how did that end turn out for you?’ her mind taunted.
“Son of a bitch…” she grumbled, muttering further curses as she twisted in the sheets. She hadn’t even had the chance to come, and she had been blissfully close when she’d heard the key card in the door. It had sent her adrenaline through the roof to think of Smith finally looking at her, naked. Finally seeing her as someone other than the street kid he’d taken in. Someone sexual, someone worth kissing back, someone worth wanting. Then Tyler/Ryan had rolled them and she’d caught sight of Smith, stunned and staring. For a moment it had been sweet vengeance to see his expression, but then his voice had come back like a knife.
I don’t want you, C.
Those words had driven her out of this room, out of the hotel, and into the arms of the first asshole that had been interested and cute enough to entertain. So seeing Smith with his fucking feathers ruffled had been beautiful, until he’d terrified the guy and then literally thrown him out of the room.
Then he’d shouted at her, lectured her, and finally dropped Clinton’s name into her lap like a proverbial bomb, which was about the only thing he could have done to make her stay after his macho, alpha-male display. Other than kiss her… which was never going to happen.
Fuck.
Smith had found Clinton. Just thinking the name made her stomach ache, flashbacks to the miserable attempt she’d made on Joe Wilson tormenting her, causing a phantom twinge at the scar on her thigh.
“I know you’re awake, C. You should get up and have some breakfast.” Smith’s voice was even, and she peeked out from under the sheet, shielding her eyes against all the bright light. Laid out on the table were stacks of waffles, bacon, eggs, and hash browns. All of the no-no foods that Smith usually cautioned her against, but they made her empty belly growl.
Your body is a weapon, you should keep it honed, healthy, strong.
His voice. Always his voice in her head.
So what the fuck was this? Was he feeling guilty over the mess of the night before? Was this a cholesterol-laden olive branch? Or was she just experiencing wishful-fucking-thinking again?
“Please tell me there’s coffee,” she grumbled, and he tapped his pencil on a carafe she hadn’t noticed towards the back of the table. Throwing back the covers she climbed out of bed and dropped into the chair opposite him to start making herself a cup. Smith, of course, was doing the god-damned-fucking crossword.
“So, I think we should -”
“We don’t need to talk.”
He gave her an odd look before he started speaking again, “I was going to say we should review the packet my associate sent me about Clinton, but if you’d rather climb back in bed until you’re in a better mood, feel free.” Smith’s eyes stayed on her for a second, and then he looked back to the crossword, silent. A moment later he was scratching out the letters to some answer, keeping his mind sharp while Camille’s was turning itself inside out searching for the right words to repair the damage she had done the night before.
Unfortunately, there was nothing helpful. Just a fucked up mix of embarrassment, a twist of shame, and a mess of anger that was aimed in too many directions.
“Is it him?” she asked.
“You tell me, C.” Smith laid his pencil down and pulled a few sheets of paper out of a FedEx envelope. The moment he handed them to her she had to stiffen her muscles to keep from knocking her chair over in her sudden urge to move, to get away from the face printed in black and white. It was him. Clinton.
Apparently, Clinton Porter.
The one that had liked to bring them little gifts before he did what he wanted. As if a soda, or a candy bar, could buy him out of his crimes like an indulgence to the old church. “That’s him.”
Camille wasn’t sure what she looked like, but there was no mistaking the flash of rage that passed over Smith’s face when she confirmed it. No matter what fucked up shit they did to each other, or said to each other, he had saved her from the streets, he had taught her to defend herself, and he had taught her how to kill. The right way. The smart way. Whether or not he wanted her the way she wanted him seemed suddenly small by comparison.
“No one’s going to pay us for this job, Smith.”
“This is about cleaning your slate. It’s not about the money.” He lifted his coffee and took a drink, swallowing slowly. “How do you want him to die?”
Lifting her gaze she met his eyes and held them, wishing she could see into him the way he always seemed to be able to see inside her. “I kind of hope he cries, begs, dies sobbing.”
“We can make sure that happens.” Smith’s cold response, and his steady gaze, eased some of the tension inside her. He could be terrifying when he was in work mode. When he was the guy that made people naturally walk around him – as if he took up more room than he actually did. He was death in a beautiful package, and for some unknown reason he put up with all of her shit.
“Thanks,” she muttered, even though she wanted to apologize for the night before. For rubbing his face in her sexuality as some kind of twisted fuck you just because he didn’t want her. Sure, she had wanted to know if she could do it, wanted to know if she could have sex just to have sex. No one forcing her, no one paying her – and she’d gotten her answer.
Yes. She could.
Even though it had left her all the more empty, and with even more distance between her and Smith.
You are so fucking pathetic, Camille. Accept the rejection and move the fuck on.
“So, what’s the next step?”
He chuckled, spearing a waffle to drag it onto a plate. “You tell me.”
“We go and observe. See what his patterns are.”
“I’ve got someone doing that for us, we should have the info in a few days. But, yes, then we’ll go and verify for ourselves.” Bacon, eggs, hash browns, and enough salt to kill someone. Apparently Smith was throwing all of his food rules out the window this morning. “What will we do next?”
“Make plans. A primary, a secondary, and a back-up. Taking into account location, times of day, the people who could be around, etcetera.” Tentatively, she tugged her plate closer to her side of the table and went for the hash browns before Smith finished them all.
“Don’t etcetera me, C. Be specific. This is your job.” It was his teacher-voice, the one he employed whenever she said something dumb, or fucked up in a session.
“Fine. We’ll identify locations that will work for the best time of day we determine based on his schedule. Then we’ll look for the people who could be around, identify how to av
oid them at best, and kill them if shit goes south. Decide whether we leave the body, or call a clean-up crew. Choose rendezvous points, and back-up rendezvous points if we get separated.” Camille dragged more food onto her plate, her hunger gnawing at her stomach now that she was planning and not just dwelling on the past, on the memories of Clinton’s breath on her cheek. “Once we’ve made choices, based on the circumstances, we’ll decide how we want to do it. Quick and quiet, or slow and messy.”
“Good. Which are you hoping for?”
“For him? I don’t care. I just want to know he’s dead, I want to be the one to pull the trigger. The crying and begging is just a bonus.” She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth to halt her tongue before she over shared with Smith. He already knew more about her past than he needed to – he didn’t need the details. Didn’t need to know how Clinton had whispered strangely sweet things to her as he’d moved inside her. Called her beautiful, told her he wanted her to feel good. Where Joe had been all violence and pain, Clinton had been presents and sweet nothings – all to smother his own guilt. Bastard.
“He will die, C. They’ll all die.” Smith dropped the tines of his fork into his waffle, spearing it against the plate. “And then you’ll be free. Free to do whatever you want. Work wherever you want.”
And what if I want to work with you?
The question froze in her mouth, stymied by a mouthful of food that conveniently kept her from embarrassing herself further.
He doesn’t want you, Camille.
Let it go. Don’t be pathetic.
At least you know you can have sex if you want it. You’re not broken.
Or, at least, you’re putting yourself back together piece by piece.
“That’s the plan, isn’t it, Smith?”
“What do you mean?” He lifted his eyes to hers again.
“Kill them all.” So you can be rid of me without feeling guilty about it.
“Of course.” He nodded and snuck another bite of food as his eyes wandered back to the crossword puzzle. “None of them are getting away with what they’ve done, C.”
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