by J. A. Huss
“You’re going to do something bad, aren’t you?”
I throw up my hands a little at that statement and roll my eyes like a teenager. “I’m an assassin, Harp. You know what I do. I wish I could tell you no, I’m a good guy and I’ve always been a good guy. But I’m not. I’ve never done a good deed in my life. Not really—not for real, because if I was helping someone, then it was to gain a favor or pay a debt. But I want you, us,” I add quickly. “I want us more than anything else in the entire world. The fucking second I recognized you out on the beach watching that ugly sunset, that’s all I can think about. And yeah, having you rubbing up against my cock as you sit in my lap right now—that’s all part of it. But just part. And the sex is not enough.”
“You want things like… marriage? And babies?” she asks with a puzzled look.
“Don’t you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want my sons to be made into soldiers or my daughters turned into trophy wives. And I don’t want to marry some old man who only wants me for sex.”
“I just told you, I want more than sex and I’m not that old. Twenty-eight is not that old.”
“James, how many times do I have to explain this? You are not my promise. My father is using me to make you do things.”
“It’s working.” It’s really fucking working. That bastard can ask me to do anything right now and I’d do it if it meant I could keep her.
“Then I want you to stop. I don’t want you to play his games. Just run away with me. We can go anywhere. A big city where no one has a face. We can start again and forget all about the Company.”
“Please, Harper.” I shoot her a sidelong look. “You cannot be that naive. The Admiral’s daughter and the last assassin. If ever there was a pair begging to be hunted down and killed, it’s us.”
“Then let them try. Let them hunt us. Let them kill Harper and James and then maybe we can live again as other people. As new people.”
“You want to fake our own deaths?” I laugh. “It would never work. They’re not stupid, Harp. They have endless resources, they have satellite surveillance, they own entire towns. If we were stupid enough to run away for real, they’d hunt us down like dogs to make sure we never talked.”
“So it’s hopeless?” She’s got a sad pouty face on and I’m suddenly tired of this depressing conversation. I stand up, cupping her ass to keep her body close to me, and then walk across the room to the hallway closest to the kitchen. There’s a bedroom down here, I think. I walk with her head resting on my shoulder and stop at a door. “Open it,” I say.
She leans down a little, making her still-wet pussy rub against my stomach. The door swings open and presents the master bedroom. I walk her over to the bed and then ease her down gently, straddling her hips as her body settles into the soft down comforter. “Nothing’s hopeless, Harp. But this is an area I forbid you to go. You’re not in charge of finding our future, I am.”
“But what if you need help? I’m not allowed to help?”
“No. And we haven’t properly talked about what happened this morning with that—” Shit, what do I call it?
“Murder?” she finishes with the word I was trying my best to avoid.
I scoot down until my cock is nudging towards her entrance, pushing against her clit. She tries to open her legs, but my knees have her locked together. She whimpers as I thrust the head of my dick into her crease. Her folds are so wet, I have no problem sliding right inside her.
Fuck, she feels so damn good.
I ease out slowly, making her breath all ragged with panting and little moans slipping between her perfect lips. “Harper,” I say as I cup her face once again. “Look at me, Harper.” She opens her eyes, just enough to be legitimately open, but with my next thrust they close again. “If I tell you to stay put, what do you do?”
“Stay where I am,” she answers dutifully.
But I’m not convinced she means it. Hell, she looks like she might come at any second. She’s cunning. And she’s got moves. I need to hammer this home. “Tell me why.”
“What?” She opens her eyes now because I’ve stopped moving inside her. “Jesus, James, I’ll listen, OK?”
“No, that’s not enough. Tell me why you’ll listen.”
“Because you said so.”
I shake my head at her. “Wrong answer. If I tell you to do something and you do it, the reason you do it is because you trust me. You understand?”
“I trust you.”
“Why do you trust me?”
“James—”
I lean down and kiss her softly. “Tell me why,” I whisper into her mouth. “Tell me, Lionfish. Why do you trust me?” My hips grind against her, moving my cock deeper inside her. She buckles her back and moans as her body protests the depth of penetration. I pull back and she groans, thrusting her hips towards me now, asking for more. “You trust me because I love you.”
She opens her eyes and smiles.
“You understand now? You trust me because I would never”—I cup her face harder as my movements inside her gentle—“ever hurt you. Do you understand that? If I tell you to walk through fire, it’s because I know beyond a doubt that you are fireproof. If I tell you to take a bullet, it’s because I know that you are bulletproof. If I tell you to walk away from me, it’s because you know I will come back for you. No matter what I tell you to do, you will do it, and you will be safe because I said so. Because I love you. Because you trust my love.”
I stare at her and she holds the moment with me, but then my pace quickens and the gentle lovemaking becomes more urgent. I can feel her body writhe beneath me, and even though we’ve only had sex a few times, this is her signal. “You will follow orders, soldier,” I say as I unlock her legs from between my knees. I hike her ankles up onto my shoulders and pump hard. She gasps and squeals with each penetration. “Say yes, sir, captain. Say yes, sir.”
She explodes under me, murmuring something close to a, “Yes, sir, I will, yes, sir, I’m yours.”
And that’s all my cock needs. I come inside her, spilling my seed into her, hoping against hope that we are creating a future together. Creating more than just me, more than just her. Making us. It’s every kind of love I’ve ever felt. It’s a gushing of emotion. It’s a promise and a conclusion at the same time. This chorus of long, satisfying moans wipes away all the blood years, all the contracts, and all my sins. It cleanses me in a way the desert never could. It doesn’t dry me out, it fills me up.
If death is a deal, then love is a promise.
“You fill me up,” I growl, biting into the soft flesh of her neck until her back buckles and her fingernails claw into my back. “You fill me up and make me realize—”
“Realize what?” she breathlessly prods when I don’t finish. Our hearts are still racing, pounding against each other, feeding off each other as they pump life through our veins. Pump life back into us. Take us away from the past and towards the future.
I don’t even know how to convey what it is I’m trying to say, but words just pour out of my mouth like water. “You take away the dark emptiness, Harper. You take away all the years of indifference and dissociation and right now”—I cup her face again—“right now, this is more real than anything I’ve felt in years. Maybe ever. This feels like something new. Something apart from what I was and a way forward into what I can be. This feels like hope, baby.”
She stares up at me, her expression solemn, her eyes searching, her brow worried. “I’m afraid to hope, James. I’m afraid to hope because I just think hope is a trap. Hope makes you want things that won’t come. Hope breaks your heart.”
“Not my brand of hope, Harper. This isn’t about luck, baby. This isn’t about circumstances or fate or coincidence. It’s about construction. Building, from the bottom up. It’s layer upon layer of secrets and debt. It’s level after level of subtle calculation and overt completion.”
She tisks her tongue as I collapse on top of her, and then pushes on my body
until I fall off to the side and wrap her in my arms. “All those words are meaningless unless I know what you’re doing. And you’re not telling me anything specific. And you know I’m not on any kind of birth control, right?”
My eyes get heavy from the perfect combination of exhaustion and satisfaction. “Jesus Christ, woman. You did not hear a word I said. Just fucking trust me already.” I lean in and kiss her, this time with tongue and lingering, and we exchange breaths like lovers.
I’m all talked out. Completely wiped out. But just before we drift off I feel her gentle touch as she moves my unruly hair away from my forehead. And then the press of her sweet lips as she whispers into my ear. “I trust you, Six. But you need to trust me too.”
Chapter Twenty-One - James
“…you need to trust me too,” she whispers. I don’t answer. I can’t answer and besides, we’re too tired to talk about it now.
The house is still cool enough to want her close, so I pull her towards me and place her head on my chest and just enjoy the moment. Things can change pretty quick in my line of work, so the moment is all you have.
She falls asleep before me so I just lie here, twisting her long hair up in my fingers. For a guy who has no boundaries, no rules, and no oversight until after the fact, I’ve played it pretty straight with the Company since I took my number. I do what I’m told. I get the orders and I fulfill the contract. Death is my job. And even though most of the people who received my brand of justice over the years were walking scum and I had no regrets—hell, not even a slight hesitation—none of those killings were personal.
Death is just a job.
A contract is nothing but business.
And I’ve always been on board with the business. But I’m tired of the job. I’m tired of the killing. I’m tired of being flown into places with no knowledge of anything other than my target. I’m tired of making nice with locals, and sometimes the targets themselves, just to get the lie of the land before I blow the whole place apart. Figuratively, you know. I don’t often blow whole places up.
But I have.
I’m tired of making friends, getting people to trust me, and then backstabbing them. How many disappointed looks have I seen over the years? Too many to count.
But Tet, the inner James starts up, did they haunt you? Did you care?
Nope.
Not even once.
I should be haunted by the dead, or at the very least, have a little bit of self-doubt over whether or not what I do is for the greater good. But I don’t. And it’s not because I’m a believer. No, I’m not much of a believer at all. The Company can preach that sermon to me all they want. I will nod and say yes, sir to their face, but I have a built-in bulldozer and its only job is to clear away the shit they’re selling and leave my conscious clean and level.
It’s because unlike Tony, I was trained right. I might be ready to shrug off the dissociation right now, but separating myself from reality got me through.
Why should I have remorse? Does a cashier have remorse for taking people’s money in exchange for goods? It’s just a fucking job.
Harper moans and pulls away from me, the heat of our combined bodies too much, even though the thick adobe walls keep this place pretty comfortable. I let her have her space. She deserves to rest. It’s been a long fucked-up day and it’s not over yet.
I get up and start the shower in the en suite bathroom. Merc’s place is not bad at all. And even though the outside is the shell of an old jail, the inside is clean, cool, and modern. I don’t know how much time he actually spends here, but it looks to be more than just an occasional squat house. He won’t be interrupting our visit though. He’s got his hands full with a personal job.
This place has plenty of feminine touches that tell me he’s had women here, maybe even living here with him at times, but I know for a fact there’s no fucking woman calling this place home right now. Merc has a… checkered past when it comes to keeping girlfriends alive. I’m not saying he kills them. I’m just saying they often meet an untimely end. He admitted this to me himself back when we first met. I dropped that subject quick and he never brought it up again. And I didn’t get the impression he was avoiding it either, he just lost interest.
Sasha is half right about Merc. He’s not the right guy to take care of her. But she could do worse. She could get me as her adopted caregiver, for instance. As bad as Merc is, I’m worse. I definitely would not have left her alone out on the Colorado prairie. But not for altruistic reasons. I’d have put her ass to work. She’s not at a professional level, not even close. But she’s competent. And that makes her an asset.
If she can be trusted. And I’m not sure she can.
I wash my hair real fast, then finish up and wrap a towel around me and put my dirty jeans back on. I have no idea if Harper thought to pack me clothes, but I’m not about to go fish through the Hummer to find out. I leave the shirt off since it’s warming up in here, and go looking for the AC.
I find the modern thermostat in the living room near the kitchen, and turn the temperature down and then make my way to the kitchen to check the food supply. And this kitchen he has, damn. He must cook or something, because the six-burner stove and the French-door fridge are telling me he knows his way around a frying pan.
Inside the fridge is a selection of bottled water, some OJ, two bottles of wine, six beers, all with different labels, and some condiments.
How thoughtful of him to leave us drinks.
I smile at that as I grab a beer, fish the new phone out of my jeans pocket, and kick back on the couch as I play the message again.
“That was not in the plan.”
No, none of this was in the fucking plan as far as I can tell. If it was, I never got the fucking memo. I blame it on the blackout. I bring up the keypad and dial my secretary. She picks up on the second ring. “Law offices of Poslow, Poslow, and Twifter. This is Janet, how can I help you?”
“Janet, Poslow Senior here. Do I have any messages?”
“Yes, sir, you got a call this morning from Mr. Twifter. No message, just wanted to know if you checked in. And Poslow Junior called as well. He left a contact number.”
“Give it.” I key the number in as she talks, then give her a polite, “Thank you,” and hang up so I can press send again. I let out a long breath as I listen to it ring.
Merc picks up on the second ring too. I love consistency. “Jasus fucking Christ, where the hell have you been?”
“Traveling. You think I have hidden wormholes I can pop in and out of to get places or what?”
“Yeah, well, Twifter is not happy, asshole.”
“Twifter can kiss my ass. None of that shit this morning was me. But anyway, we’re here. Thanks for the beer.” I take a swig and let out a long, “Ahhh,” trying to piss off Merc, but that’s when I see the Smurf watching me from the jail cell up on the foyer terrace. “Call you later,” I say, and then I press end on the phone. “What the fuck you doing up there?”
“Who the hell were you talking to?” she snarls back.
“Merc.” I hold up my beer and give her a pretend cheers.
“Obviously that phone call was Merc. Before Merc, who the hell were you talking to?”
“My secretary.” She stares at me and then gets up and walks to the jail cell door. That little shit was sleeping up in that jail cell. What a freak. “Why? I ask her. “You got a problem with me making calls?”
She walks towards the steps and stops at the top. She’s all sweaty and flushed from the heat, and her hair is still wet from her earlier shower. The scratches from the thorn run-in this morning are still there, but now that the dried blood has been properly washed away, they are not so bad. She looks better and worse all at the same time. She looks unstable.
“When you make a call to an associate from a phone that’s supposedly not secure, a phone that had some cryptic message you tried to blame on me, then yeah. I have a big fucking problem.”
“Watch your fucking mout
h around me, kid. Or I’ll smack the shit out of it.”
She reaches behind her and pulls out a gun and points it at me. “Is that right?”
“You better shoot me right the fuck now. Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you just for pointing that weapon at me.”
She reevaluates her target and decides on a spot above my head. Smurfette is clever. “Who were you talking to?”
I eye the diameter of the chamber on her weapon and guesstimate .40. “You sure you can handle that thing? It’s got a nice kick to it. And if you miss me, I won’t miss you.”
“I don’t miss. And I’ve been shooting this Glock for a while now. So I’ll happily take my chances. Now, who were you talking to?”
“I already told you. My secretary, checking for messages. And Merc, returning a call.”
“You were checking in. Who’s running this operation?”
“I thought you knew?”
She thinks about this for a few seconds. Gives it some consideration before she answers. “I know who I’m working for. I know who sent you to get me. And I don’t think we’re on the same side anymore.”
“That’s too bad then,” I tell her with a shrug of my shoulders. “I was just beginning to like you. I was starting to hope I wouldn’t have to kill you.”
“Funny,” she says with a coolness that sends a chill up my arm. “I was thinking the same thing.”
My guffaw echoes off the ceiling and I have a genuine moment of amusement. “Looks like we’re at an impasse, then.”
She stays silent, but her hard stare never wavers.
“So let’s make a deal.”
“I don’t make deals with terrorists.”
Another laugh bursts forth. “Kid, even the American government cuts deals with the terrorists these days. So dismount the high horse and listen.”
She waves her hand at me, like I need her personal invitation to keep talking. I ignore her bravado because she’s earned it at the moment, and start picking my way through the minefield. “You have a measurable objective? Or just doing recon?”