It had been a while since she sparred, five years at least. But some things you didn't forget. She started with a kick, which he blocked, and followed with two punches, both slower than she would've liked.
He was taking it easy.
She threw a punch, telegraphed it, so he knew it was coming. He moved out of the way, easily. She caught him with her elbow and jabbed it into his chest hard enough to make a point. Don’t fuck with me.
She followed up the jab with a strike under his chin that snapped his head back. He grabbed her wrist before she could pull back for another strike and yanked her off balance. She went with the flow and barreled into him. Wrong move. Emmet was solid, all muscle. He didn’t budge and grinned at her as if he’d won the match and a point.
I’m not done asshole. She brought her knee up and earned a satisfying grunt through gritted teeth when she connected with his ribs. Next, she angled her hip, stepped between his legs and hip checked him, but he grabbed her thigh and flipped her.
Bailey went flying into a snowbank seven feet deep. The snow broke her fall, still rattled all her bones.
Breath sawing in and out, chest heaving, she climbed free. He was there with a helping hand the last few inches and helped dust the snow out of hair and off her clothes. Damn, snow had slipped beneath her collar and melted down her back.
Emmet eyed her and drew her into him, a strange light in the depths of his black pupils danced. It had been years since she’d had a match, used her training and, damn, it felt good. She’d actually had him the bastard, for a second. Now, they stood locked in an embrace until his hands eased from her body.
"I just proved my point. There is nothing boring about you, Bailey. Nothing." He kissed her slowly, and she lost herself in the feel of his mouth, the taste of his tongue, the graze of his teeth.
“No more humping old men,” he whispered into her mouth.
“Excuse me? Richard was a nice man. We had a relationship. Not a hump.” She licked her lips for another taste of him.
His eyes narrowed a fraction as he tracked her tongue. “Sounds like you miss him?” Emmet growled.
She didn't but also didn't have any animosity for the man. "Like I said, he was a nice guy."
Emmet released her and kept any further opinions to himself. Whatever they’d shared a moment ago was gone, replaced by awkward silence again. She joined him at the table.
“Are you almost finished here?”
He picked up an empty clip and started loading it. “Why?”
“I’m bored.”
He frowned at her.
“Yes. Even after whipping your ass, I’m bored.”
He slammed the clip home into the gun. “I’m not here for your entertainment, Bailey.” Back to Mr. Grim.
Fine. “I’ll go into town by myself then.” She headed for the car inside the barn.
He stepped in front of her, faster than he had before. Faster than he had when they sparred. “You’re not going anywhere. We are not on vacation.” His voice, sharp and low.
“And I’m not a prisoner.” By his scowl, he did not like what she said. “I would like the company. You can protect me while I eat dinner. It’s easier to agree with me than have me annoyed all night.”
His nostrils flared, and his eyes turned flinty. “Don’t try to blackmail me.”
“Who said anything about blackmail?” He released her and continued cleaning the weapon. She lined up next to him. “How much more do you have left?”
He tipped his head at the pieces displayed. “Three more to go.”
Bailey picked up the soft cleaning brush and got to work. “I’ll help, and we go to dinner afterward.” He didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree either. She called that progress.
Two hours later they strolled into a pub off the main thoroughfare. Leather booths, soft lighting, the place smelled of roasted meats and cigars.
They drew some curious stares as Emmet led her to a table in the back, by a large picture window showing the parking lot with a view of their car. She pulled off her coat, hung it on a peg and slid into the booth. Two rings came sliding across the polished tabletop, a round cut diamond engagement ring large enough to make her eyes pop out their sockets paired with a plain gold band. She caught both before they dropped into her lap.
“W-what are these?” She held the radioactive jewelry in her palm.
His mouth twisted into an arrogant grin. “They’re what you think. Put them on.”
Pissed, Bailey shoved the rings onto her finger. “This is not the way I thought my first proposal would go.”
“This isn’t your first proposal. This is pretend.”
His snarky reply was a dose of reality she didn’t need. “Thanks for the reminder. I had forgotten I’m a target because someone wants Hank dead and I’m not in Switzerland on vacation. I’m hiding out with a hitman.”
His reply was thwarted as a waitress came the table. She was blond and petite with a perfect rack and a tight sweater highlighting the pair. “Back so soon?” She batted her eyes at Emmet and gave Bailey the brusque once over. A sister she probably summed up and dismissed as inconsequential.
“Yes. I wanted to bring my wife.”
Her smile withered as Bailey waved at her with the rock on the fourth finger of her left hand. And call her shallow, she did enjoy the moment. “I’ll have a rum and coke, please.”
"Bring me a beer and two menus, thanks." He dismissed her and relaxed into the seat. Facing the front of the establishment, he had a bird's eye view of the pub. His gaze darted about, touching on everyone. He'd kept his coat on, as did many others in the pub. She knew he was armed, but even sitting, she couldn't spot a telltale bulge. To the patrons and herself, Emmet was just a hot guy chillin’, not a man with a body count, a number she suddenly wanted to know.
“You’re really good doing this.” He arched an eyebrow at her, silent encouragement for her to continue. “No one would guess you’re a killer. You sit there seeming like an ordinary guy, but you’re not. Were you always a killer or did Hank train you to be one?” She quipped.
“Always a killer?” He snorted and cocked his head to the side. He clammed up as the waitress returned with their drinks and menus. “No one is born a killer, Bailey.” He tsked after the waitress had left.
Bailey studied the entrees. “Not what I implied, but thanks for the clarification.”
The silence strung out between them. She glanced up to find his eyes locked on her, not the menu, his expression unreadable. “Did you happen to try the food when you were in here? I’m not sure what to order.” Silence. She turned back to the menu. “I guess I’ll stick with what I know.”
The waitress returned. Bailey planted her elbow on the table and dangled her hand and those rings in the air. Yeah, this was all make-believe, but they were the only two in the room who knew it, and she was feeling petty. "I'll have a hamburger and fries."
“Make that two.” Emmet chimed in and handed over the menu.
Bailey did the same and took a long sip of her rum and coke. She ignored the awkward tension between them and focused on the patrons. There were a few couples. Some single guys playing darts and women ogling them. The bartender said goodnight to a guy leaving as he wiped down the bar, and the waitress brought an order out to a table three booths down.
“I told you, I was twelve when we met.”
His voice startled her, but she had enough sense to keep her mouth shut and not interrupt.
“Dayton, Ohio. Stepfather wasn’t a stand-up guy. Got in trouble with the mob. We went on the run.” Short, clipped sentences as if they were dragged out of him. “Hank caught up with us.”
A gasp caught in her throat and she leaned forward. “Hank killed your father?” she whispered.
Emmet nodded once.
Exasperated, she flopped back in the seat. “And you’re his friend? His protégé?” How could he after Hank killed his father?
Emmet's lips pulled back off his teeth, and he snarled, "He
killed the man who beat my mother for years. The man who starved us to the point where I had to dumpster dive outside of restaurants or neither of us would’ve eaten. My mother wouldn’t leave him. Fear kept her from escaping and saving us. He broke her. He almost broke me.”
The waitress interrupted their conversation. “Do you require anything more?” she asked.
Go away. “No. We’re good.” Bailey kept her focus on Emmet, his outburst over, and his stoic mask back in place. An arctic front came off him in waves. Regardless, she couldn’t let this opportunity pass. Finally, they’d had a real conversation. He volunteered something about him, filled in his mysterious backstory, and wanted more. “Don’t stop.” Not now.
“Eat your food, Bailey.” He grunted.
Damn it. She picked up a French fry and shoved it in her mouth. Pushing him wouldn't get him to spill. He'd clam up, and she'd never get the opportunity again.
“He moved us from Dayton to Colorado, to a town not bigger than this one after my mother overdosed. If that wasn’t bad enough, without my mother to beat he started on me.” Hands fisted, head buried in his chest, he was a dichotomy of strong man vs broken child, and her heart ached for that child as she strained to hear each word and contain her horror.
“He alternated the beating with the molestation.”
“Emmet, I-I…” What she wanted to say got tangled up between her brain and her mouth.
"Then Hank showed up and put a bullet between his eyes at the dinner table. I had a front-row seat from my place on the floor. That's where I took my meals when there was a meal."
The French fry rolled in her stomach. It took everything she had not to gag while Emmet took a bite of his burger, chewed, swallowed, then wiped his mouth. “Hank saw me there. Pointed his gun at me. He weighed whether to kill me. I was a witness, after all. I don’t hold a grudge that he needed to think about it.”
Appalled, she gasped. She squeezed her hands together in her lap to keep from reaching for him, and hissed, “He pointed his gun at you? You, who was clearly a victim?”
Head bowed, shoulders curled in, lost in memories she forced him to dredge up, he was that battered child again. Then his chin lifted and his flat gaze reached across the distance between them. “Yeah. And then he lowered it. And helped me up. And took me out of that place.”
As he should have. As any decent human being should have. Didn’t mean he deserved the adulation Emmet had draped him in. “He got you the therapy you needed?” Maybe Hank wasn’t the complete monster she’d believed. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities.
Emmet snorted. “Therapy? I got all the therapy I needed learning how to fire an AK-47.”
Bailey forced herself to breathe instead of cry for the image of little Emmet, hungry, treated like an animal, abused, training to be a mini-hitman instead of a little boy. He’d take it as pity, not empathy, and would hate her for it. “So, he visited you in foster care? They allowed that?” she murmured.
“I never went to foster care. Hank took me in. Got me tutors. Made sure I had an education. Academic and trade.”
Bailey’s heart twisted inside her chest. “A-and he never told you he had a daughter?”
His head sliced from side to side. “No. I didn’t know you existed.”
It wasn’t anything she hadn’t already known, but God, it still hurt. She thought her father hated children, that’s why he didn’t love her. Turned out he hated her. Just her. He had no problem loving a child. He had a problem loving her. What a revelation to have at age twenty-five.
She wasn’t jealous. What she felt was way past jealousy. She mourned because deep in a corner of her heart, she held onto a kernel of hope that Hank had a good reason for how he treated her. Loving her was something he wasn’t capable of doing because a part of him was missing. It was a physical thing he couldn’t control.
Excuses. All of it was an excuse for a father who would never give her what she needed, his love.
And on top of it all, in a strange twist of fate, if she had been a part of Hank’s life, raised as his daughter, and if he had brought Emmet home, their relationship would be completely different. Funny how fate worked.
“Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room.” She didn’t wait for permission to grab her purse, slide out of the booth, and rush past him to the bathrooms at the rear of the building. Once inside, she slammed into the handicapped stall and pressed herself into the corner by the sink.
She thought she was okay with this, okay with Hank parenting Emmet, being a father to someone other than her, his biological child. On a purely non-emotional level, she was okay with it. There was more than enough love to go around. People were capable of loving more than one person. Loving more than one child.
People were. Hank wasn’t.
He had enough love for a little boy. Not a little girl. The minute kernel of hope the Daddy’s girl buried deep inside her secretly held onto, died. And it was about damn time.
Bailey climbed to her feet. She avoided the mirror until she’d splashed cold water on her face. Then avoided it again when she saw her swollen eyes and red face. Her makeup was ruined. She reached into her purse for her repair kit and brushed against her Samsung. She pulled it out and hit power. While it powered up, she did a quick fix up on the makeup—foundation, fresh mascara, a dab of eyeshadow, and some lipstick. “Never let them see you sweat” applied to more than a brand of deodorant.
She swiped her thumb across the screen and almost shouted. Her phone had connected to the Wi-Fi in the building. Still couldn’t make a call, but she didn’t need to, not for Google Hangouts. She hadn’t used the app in a while, but it was always available whenever she opened her Gmail account, which was her primary account. She logged in and only had to wait a few seconds for access. Her mail came up first. Next, her folders and finally, Google Hangouts. The only person in the contact list was Daisy.
Hey girl. I’m alive. I’ve finally taken your advice and hooked up with a hottie. I’m enjoying the Alps. Having lots of fun. I’ll be back in town in a week.
Hopefully.
And I’ll tell you all about it. Miss you. Love you. TTYL.
She turned the phone off, dumped it in her purse and straightened her clothes. She left the bathroom with her emotions intact. With Emmet’s back to her, he didn’t see her approach. Which was a good thing since he was on the phone.
And she had a good idea who was on the other end.
Chapter Thirteen
Emmet didn’t stop her, and he didn’t watch her go. He gave her the privacy she needed to recover. Hell, he needed to recover from the pain carved into her face.
Damn you, Hank! Why? Why did you do this? The need to smash something, anything, everything, fired his blood. Been a while since he’d felt this kind of uncontrolled violence, at least fifteen years. Rage killed in his profession. Only those with clear heads survived. To protect Bailey, he needed his head clear. Crystal clear.
He grabbed his beer, drained the glass, and returned with a slam to the tabletop.
“Everything satisfactory?” The waitress returned. “Your wife, she’s upset?” she asked with false concern.
“I’ll worry about my wife. You worry about bringing me a fresh beer.” She flounced away.
My wife. Never had he ever thought those two words would fall out of his mouth. Worse, the horror he should feel wasn’t there. He wasn’t the marrying kind. Had no desire to be tied down and neutered by one woman. Hell, he alternated between bouts of celibacy when he couldn’t stand the human race and sexual feasts when human touch was all he craved.
Before laying eyes on Bailey, he’d been between both states. It had been months since he’d shared more than a handshake with a woman and years since anyone had piqued his interest longer than a weekend. What was it about her? When had loyalty to Hank flipped into…
Fuck! He had to get his head out of his ass and his dick out of Bailey. Treat her as a client until after Rogers took a cement swim, then… What? What
then?
His phone vibrated before he came up with an answer. Only one person had the number. He yanked it out of his pocket and braced.
“Report,” Hank demanded.
Emmet bit back his sharp reply because this was Hank, the man he respected, the man he owed, the man who’d never asked anything of him, until now. “The house is secured. Cameras inside and outside the property. No activity noted.” He glanced around the room to see if anyone was paying undue attention to him and his conversation. “I take it there’s nothing new on Rogers since you didn’t lead with that.”
“No. We’re reevaluating the situation.”
It wasn’t like Hank to be evasive. “Reevaluating it how?”
"The Philippines was a setup."
“No surprise there, but as always, you survived.”
“I believe that was the intention. A quick death will not appease his need for vengeance. That’s why I’ve come to a decision.”
There was that tone, the one that didn’t allow for discussion, not that discussion was ever allowed when Hank made a decision. The fact that he even uttered the sentence and hadn’t issued a command spoke volumes of his current situation. Emmet got the sense he wasn’t gonna like Hank’s decision. “Yeah, what’s that?”
The waitress returned with another drink. Beer wasn’t gonna cut it. He needed something stronger for this conversation. He stopped her departure and mouthed vodka, no ice. Two booths down, someone laughed loudly.
“Where are you?” Hank snapped.
“Bar in the village.”
“Is that what you call protecting her? Parading around town?” Hank growled, sounding very much like an overprotective parent. A little late in Emmet's opinion.
"I am protecting her, and there's no parading. She's not a prisoner, and I'm not going to treat her like one."
Hank sighed heavily, totally uncharacteristic for him. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”
What the hell did that mean? The best for whom?
Silence echoed from the other side of the phone. Emmet gripped his phone certain Hank’s next words would irrevocably alter his world. “We’re going to use her to draw him out.”
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 9