Smoke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  A trail of dripping blood follows him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Roma

  I am showing Felicity a side of myself I never wanted her to see. As we drive, clambering down the hill, bumping in the seatbeltless seats, I look out of the corner my eye at her. She stares straight ahead and you wouldn’t know she’s scared except for the way her lips tremble, like she’s just seen a ghost. Or a madman hitman, or a psychopath.

  I think of our sex on the hill—sex! It’s such a damn small word for what we shared. Women have normally been tools for me. Willing tools, make no mistake, but tools all the same. They see me, with my muscles and my killer’s eyes, and they want a piece of me. And I’m more than willing to let them if it means I get a few hours of release. But with Felicity it was much more than that. We weren’t just fucking. It wasn’t just sex. Strange, but I feel like I know her better after what we shared. You’re beginning to sound like a woman, a voice whispers. I ignore it. I don’t care.

  And Bear . . .

  I grip the steering wheel harder, feeling the scabs on my knuckles stretch and tear. Bits of bark and wood cling to my bloodied knuckles like tiny pieces of shrapnel. Bear is back there, burning to death—probably already dead—and I’m driving away from him as fast as this old beat-up can will allow. I think of Bear’s smiling face as he hands me a beer or pats me on the back or laughs without reserve. I think of his strong hands as he reaches toward me with a jab whilst sparring. Bear was the only man I ever knew who I could call Father. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t.

  I want to stop the truck and explain everything to Felicity. But I feel like there’s something between us that wasn’t there before. It isn’t until now, when the air is tinged with awkwardness, that I truly appreciate how easy it’s been with us, how few games we’ve had to play, how we immediately sunk into kindness and affection in a way I never thought was possible outside the movies. I glance across at her. I see her look at me with her bright green eyes, a tiny motion, and then she faces the front mirror again.

  I sigh and we bump ahead in excruciating silence.

  Punching the tree was stupid. It’s the sort of thing a rookie does, losing his cool like that. It’s not the sort of thing a trained killer like me is supposed to do. I’m meant to be ice. I’m meant to be carved from something hard and grisly. I’m supposed to be a blank sheet of rock which nothing can touch. I’ve never lost sleep and I never dreamed I’d lose sleep. I could put a bullet in a man’s head and then sleep like a baby half an hour later. But now . . . Felicity, Bear, all of it, the roiling madness. She has opened up something inside of me and I can’t close it. Years of suppressed rage and sadness pour from me.

  Okay. Just think this thing out. Stop with the emotional bullshit.

  With an effort, I thrust the emotions aside. I can’t get rid of them completely, not like I used to, but I can push them to the periphery of my mind. Mr. Black and the agency, it is clear, are tracking my movements. They’ve been tracking my movements this entire time. There are a few reasons why Mr. Black might do this. Perhaps he doesn’t trust my abilities. I doubt this; I’ve done enough killing for him, but it’s difficult to know when it comes to the shadow-coated Black. Another possibility is that this contract is so important he needed to monitor it. Perhaps his allies—whoever they are—wanted updates about how it was going. Or, and when this idea enters my mind I feel like roaring in rage, Mr. Black knew that Bear was somewhere in this area of France, but didn’t know exactly where. Maybe he thought there was a chance I would sneak off to see him, and when I did—

  Which means he used me as a goddamn pawn to get to Bear. Which means Bear’s death is my fault.

  But if they think they’ll hurt Felicity, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ll kill every fucking man who tries to lay a finger on her.

  “Roma.”

  Felicity’s voice is soft.

  I stop the car just outside the village. A rain-and wind-battered sign reads off the name of the village, a jumble of letters which mean nothing to me. The sun is rising higher and I see a few people leaving their houses wearing bright, colorful flowing dresses and robes. From within the village somebody blows on a trumpet.

  I turn to her, praying not to see shame and resentment in her eyes. There is neither, just confusion.

  “Yes,” I say. My voice is strained.

  Slowly, like a person reaching toward a skittish animal, Felicity moves her hand toward my face. She touches my cheek, strokes my skin, and looks deep into my eyes. Her hand is so soft, too soft for a face as hard as mine.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Everything is going to be okay. We have each other.”

  We have each other. She has no clue how hard that hits me, a buckshot straight into my face. I’ve never had a woman before, not like that. I never imagined I could.

  I reach up and trace her fingers with my hand, caressing them.

  “We have each other,” I repeat, staring into her eyes. And then: “Felicity, don’t be scared of me. You never have to be scared of me.”

  She swallows, and then nods. “I’m not scared of you,” she says. “I trust you.”

  I take her hand, bring it to my lips, kiss her palm. “We’ll find a store and get some supplies, and then we’ll get you Stateside. We’ll get you safe.”

  Another trumpet sounds from within the village.

  “I think there’s a festival or something going on,” Felicity says.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Felicity

  The festival is in full swing by the time we park up on the outskirts of the village. People charge by us dressed in all the colors of the rainbow. Long, flowing fabric which flutters behind them like capes. Roma looks over the roof of the car at me, teeth clenched, but there’s a smile at the corners of his lips. I think what I said to him has calmed him down. I’m glad. I don’t want Roma to be angry. Angry. Consumed with rage is more like it.

  He walks around the car and takes me by the hand.

  “Let’s get through this madness and find a store,” he says.

  “Do we have money?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, his blue eyes dark, and I know he’s planning to rob the store. I saw him steal a man’s car, after all. I want to stop him. I don’t want some innocent French shop owner to be the victim of our situation. But the smell of smoke still lingers in my nostrils and I know that we need to get out of here.

  We walk farther into the village. The crowd grows thick. We’re not even on the main street, but there must be at least two-hundred people milling around, screaming in French and dancing from foot to foot. Trumpets blast all around us and children run around giggling. I notice one girl with a flower in her hair, her dress blue and red. She grins up at me, reaches into the folds of her dress, and offers me a flower. I take it and she skips away, giggling. Nobody approaches Roma.

  “What is this?” Roma asks, but I can hear in his voice he’s not expecting an answer. I have no clue, anyway.

  We make our way to the main street, a wide-paved, cobblestoned road lined with shops and stalls. The stalls have covers pulled down and all the shops are unlit and closed, their doors bolted shut. Roma lets out a shaky sigh and we walk into the crowd, searching the stores for an open one. “Might have to break in,” he muses.

  Before I know it, we’re in a large square. A wooden stage has been erected in the center of the square and trumpet players stand upon it, marching up and down, blowing so hard their cheeks turn red. Small children run around them holding long sheets of fabric, painted just as colorfully as everybody’s outfits, making it look as though the trumpet players are lost in a mist of paint.

  Then the crowd turns as one. Roma and I turn with them. A procession of people march up the street. Roma and I watch, bemused, as around three-hundred people march up the center of the street. We’re so confused and stunned by the strangeness of it all that we don’t even notice when another procession approaches from the opposite side. They march like soldier
s, cutting straight through me and Roma. On reflex I let go of his hand. I’m swept to the other side of the street in the mayhem. I look over moving heads, half moving down, half up, but I can’t see Roma. I listen for his voice, but there’s nothing, just the trumpets and the cheering and the giggling. Balloons float up toward the sky, an air rifle is fired, and the balloons explode in a shower of color.

  “Roma!” I call, but my voice is eaten up in the loudness of the festival as though in a vacuum.

  I turn on the spot. He can’t be far from me, but the crowd is dense, packed shoulder to shoulder with people. Wherever I stand, I am brushing up against somebody. I’ll wait for the procession to pass, I think, but it goes on seemingly forever. I watch it for around a minute and then I realize why. The marchers swivel at the end of the street and walk back up. The same on the other side, too. A constant sea of marching legs and bobbing heads.

  Somebody touches my shoulder. I turn, expecting it to be Roma, but even before I face the person, I sense that it’s not. Their touch is too soft. A huge, smiling French woman wearing a billowing dress grins down at me. She shouts something in French and then takes me by the arm and leads me away from the crowd. I try to pull away from her, but she’s so caught up in the frenzy of the festival she doesn’t even notice. My muscles ache and my head whirrs and this woman is much larger than me; I can’t pull myself free.

  She shouts and shouts and pulls me down a side street, down another, and down another until we are in a labyrinth of alleyways. She leads me around the back of a baker’s store. The scent of baked bread drifts up my nose, my belly grumbling. I yank my arm from the woman, wondering: What the hell is this? Where’s Roma? Seriously, what the hell is going on?

  “I’m okay,” I say, trying to pull my arm free. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’m okay.” I wish I knew some French! It seems my backpacking holiday was cut short before I learnt even a single word. I had a phrasebook, but that was lost when the Russian men abducted me.

  “Seriously,” I say, my voice a growl. “I’m okay. Please.”

  Her grip is like a vice and for the first time it occurs to me this woman might not be just another festival partier. She smiles and laughs, but she leads me deep into the alleyway. It’s blocked off, wedged between a cobbler’s store and a pastry shop.

  “Let go,” I breathe, my heart beginning to pound frantically. Why would she lead me here? I realize I’ve made the mistake of assuming the entire smiling crowd has kind intentions. Stupid, but the colors and the music and the festivities got to me.

  Finally, at the end of the alleyway, she releases me. I take a step back, my arm sore from where her hand held me.

  “What’s your problem?” I snap.

  I turn toward the way we came, meaning to get out of these alleyways and find Roma. I imagine how he must be feeling right now. Terrified. He’s got a steely exterior, sure, but I’ve seen underneath it and I know he must be freaking right now.

  I’m no farther than a few steps when two men step out in front of me. They are huge, bouncer-like, wearing tight suits which show their grotesque muscles. Their faces are scarred and their noses are broken. There are two of them, but they look so similar it’s difficult to tell them apart. They’re twins, I realize. They sneer at me with the same superior lips and then laugh with the same coughing laugh.

  I swivel on my heels, looking toward the French woman, but she just smiles at me and shrugs.

  A man steps from beneath the shadow of an eave, reaches into his pocket, and hands the woman a rolled-up bundle of euros. Then he waves her away. He’s tall, bone-thin, wearing a black suit with shimmering obsidian cufflinks.

  “Hello, Felicity,” he says. The French woman jogs out of the alleyway, giving me a wide berth. The twins grunt and let her pass. “My name is Mr. Black, and I would like to have a conversation with you.”

  My mind spins. I’ve heard that name before, I’m sure.

  Bear!

  He said it, when he had the gun pointed at Roma: Maybe Mr. Black sent you to finish the old bear off, aye?

  I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But Mr. Black must be Roma’s employer. Why would Roma’s employer trap me like this?

  The man lets out a laugh. More of a giggle. He looks like a gangly teenager who’s grown too fast, except for his eyes, which are as black as his name and give away nothing.

  “It seems I’ve surprised you.” He grins.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Roma

  Goddamn it!

  I’m thrown to the opposite side of the street by the sheer mass of the crowd. I make to step forward, but the marching men and women form a wall. Each time I make to pass through it, I’m met with another marcher, their legs moving like soldiers on parade. I grit my teeth and make to push through the crowd. It’s mean, sure, but I’d be a hell of a lot more than mean to get to Felicity. But I don’t make it to the crowd. I feel a hand on my shoulder, a huge, paw-like hand. Bear? I think.

  That’s what does it, that split-second of hesitation.

  I turn and the man—not Bear—punches me directly in the nose. The people around me are so caught up in their festival they don’t even notice. Blood sprays from my nose, down my shirt, and the man hits me again. I stumble backward and then weave aside, feeling the man’s fist clip my ear. If that landed, I think numbly, I’d be out cold.

  I look up at the man. One of Mr. Black’s cronies. He’s burly and tall with thick trunk-like arms. His face is burnt away at one side, the flesh raw and red. Mr. Black, I know, likes to recruit from hardcore mercenary organizations for his personal agents. These are the kind of men who’ve been to war for most of their lives and now go on with the killing and fighting on behalf of the rich and corrupt. These are real killers, like me.

  He lunges forward. I step back, dodging his strike, lean to the side, aim, and hook him with all my power across the jaw.

  “Uh,” he grunts, shaking his head.

  A hit like that . . . it should’ve floored him.

  Still, I think I can take him. No matter how tough a bastard you are, get hit in the face enough times and eventually you’ll fall. He strikes at me twice, uppercuts, and I step left and then right, weaving out of his range. He grunts again and throws a hook at me which would snap my neck if it landed. I know Mr. Black must’ve told him to take me alive, otherwise a silenced pistol would’ve been pressed into the back of my head and I wouldn’t have known anything about it, but this man doesn’t seem to care.

  “Heard a lot about you!” the man roars over the crowd. “You don’t seem so tough.”

  “Are we fighting or talking?” I growl.

  He grins, a grin that says: Ah, finally, a worthy opponent. And then lunges at me again.

  I let the full force of his weight charge me—and then step aside and reverse-elbow him in the back of the neck. He tumbles forward, headfirst, into the feet of the crowd. I don’t wait to see what he does next.

  I push past him, straight through the center of the marchers, ignoring their cries of protest. When I’m on the other side, I roar: “Felicity!” Then I listen, listen with ears trained through years of the life, but I hear nothing.

  “Where the fuck you think you’re going?” From my left.

  I turn. “Over here, asshole.” To my right.

  I step back, hit something.

  “What’s the phrase? Oh, yeah, you’re surrounded, motherfucker.”

  Before I can respond, three war-hardened killers lay into me, fists and feet pommeling.

  They smash into my face, my arms, my legs, my belly—wherever their strikes land. My nose explodes and a thousand cuts and bruises bloom with fiery pain all over me.

  The crowd finally sees what’s happening and screams.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Felicity

  “I want to talk to you about your new best friend, Roma,” Mr. Black says, his smile that of a snake’s, gums flashing. “I would offer you a seat but . . .” He waves a hand over the alleyway. �
�This isn’t exactly five-star accommodation.”

  “You’re Roma’s employer,” I say. “I’ve heard your name. If you’re Roma’s employer, then why would you—”

  “Oh silly, sweet princess.” He giggles again. I feel like wormy hands have just trailed over my body. He rubs his hands together as a man does before beginning a fine meal. His black eyes move up and down my body. He licks his lips. He is repulsive, I think, as the twins snigger behind me.

  “Let me first tell you who I am.” He looks at me with a quick snap of the head. It’s a teacher’s gaze, trained on a student, a gaze that says: Don’t you dare interrupt me! I swallow. Despite his thinness, his gaunt face, his bony cheeks, his effeminate gestures, there is something dreadful about this man. “My name is Mr. Black. I have no first name and the second is a lie. But it suits me well. Mr. Black. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?” I immediately get the sense that this man enjoys the sound of his own voice. “Yes, a certain ring, lovely-sounding, soft on the ears. When I was very young, I learnt something exceptionally important about people. They are astoundingly easy to manipulate. I was bullied, of course, as all young geniuses are. That was before I took a Polaroid photograph of one of the bully’s mothers sleeping. I was worshipped after that.