“Is she in trouble?” he asked, as if he could do anything to fix it. Casey was a flower. What would he do if someone threatened her, fling paint in their eyes?
“No. And we’re trying to keep it that way.”
“Thanks, Vin,” he said sincerely, making me feel like an asshole for not telling him the truth. But I hadn’t actually lied to him. Not like I was going to have to lie to Frank about something being wrong with the car. At least with his less than limited knowledge of auto repair I could tell him just about anything, as long as he didn’t ask Casey to corroborate my story. “Do you think she’ll be around through the holidays?”
I winced. Yes, she’d be around. And she’d have quite the Christmas present for him.
Chapter Seven
Bella sat with her perfect cup of coffee, cream and sugar and a dram of whisky, kicking her feet and flicking cigarette ashes onto a coverless paperback novel. She hated books. She hated libraries. It was too fucking quiet. She wanted to scream.
So the lawyer claimed he was innocent. Not fucking likely. But that meant Bella was the villain until proven otherwise. As per fucking usual. She’d been the villain her entire life. Everything was Bella’s fault. If they wanted a villain she’d fucking give them one. She had the dress for it.
She sighed and fluffed her skirt, a Christian Lacroix satin and tulle arrangement of violet and ivory stripes that had set her back forty thousand euros and would never be worn again. But today it was magnificent, like a bride’s bouquet flying through the air. And the shoes! Royal purple suede ankle booties by Vivienne Westwood with six-inch heels and amazing little gold heart clasps.
Fashion calmed Bella. From the moment she saw that stained issue of Vogue discarded outside a hair salon, she had found her drug. Dresses and shoes and belts and hats, even a hint of perfume could bring her peace. Without it her mind was only static, but with the right outfit she could suddenly focus.
The room no longer reeked of dust. She’d spritzed it with a fragrance commissioned from her favorite Parisian perfumery just for this hit. It wasn’t every year you got an assignment for Christmas day, and she’d wanted something special. It smelled spicy, with cinnamon and sandalwood as the heart chords, and a hint of vanilla at the base. With the powerful scent of gunpowder it would smell like the goddess of war, but here in a moldy library it smelled like the bottle had sat too long on the shelf. Like the bullets had rusted in the gun.
She sprayed the perfume down the barrel of her gun, her trigger finger itching to fulfill the potential of her fragrance. Then she remembered that she wouldn’t be killing anyone at all, and hurled the tiny bottle against the bookshelf. It fell to the floor unbroken, and was promptly snatched up by a white rat.
Bella shrieked, leaping onto the side table with her gun in the wrong hand and firing at the little beast. Much to her surprise it barked at her. Another surprise was that Casey was the first to run into the room, followed very closely by Frank, who shoved him right back out.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Frank asked heatedly. Then he did a double take, shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you...do you have scented bullets?”
She breathed deeply. It smelled incredible! Like an orgasm. The rat was still barking. “No, they’re regular bullets.”
“Did you just shoot at my—Vincent’s dog?”
“I thought it was a rat,” she said. “It tried to eat my perfume.”
Frankie snatched the gun out of her hand but here came Casey, approaching Frank quietly from behind in a way that had cost many men their lives. He’d changed into tight brown trousers and a green sweater that might’ve been vintage Versace, with a hideous bright purple hat that looked like a tea cozy. He set his chin on Frank’s shoulder, calmly taking hold of his wrist and making him drop the gun on the sofa. “Kiki’s fine. Just imagine explaining to the vet why she’d swallowed a perfume bottle.”
Frank grumbled, “I would prefer it to explaining that she’d been shot.” He turned around and Casey grinned like everything was right with the world, but did not release him. Bella snickered with amusement. She’d never seen anyone get right up in Frankie’s face like that and live to tell the tale. Even his husband approached him submissively. It helped that Vincent was littler, and had to look up to make eye contact. Casey was very close to being Frank’s height. “That gun scared your mother. Go comfort her.”
“That’s what husbands are for,” Casey said.
Like magic, Vincent walked in to steal the spotlight. “You have scented bullets?” he asked with a hint of jealousy in his tone. He picked up the barking rat and the book she’d shot off the shelf, then put the book down the back of his too-big pants and handed the rodent to Frank. It was a dog, after all. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Casey said. “Everyone’s happy.”
“Do not ever fire that in my house again,” Frankie said without looking at her. If she could’ve reached the gun without having to bend over, she would’ve shot him. It wouldn’t be the first time inconvenience had prevented her from putting a bullet in Frank.
Vincent led him out, winking too obviously at Casey, who promptly turned on the charm and offered her his hand.
“I don’t need your fucking protection,” Bella snarled. If there was one thing she hated more than libraries, it was chivalry.
Casey laughed. “Me, protect you? I was just trying to be considerate of your shoes.”
She sighed in concession and placed her hand in his, letting him guide her to the sofa and back onto the floor. Stilettos were not made for walking on couch cushions. “What’s there to do around here?” she asked, striking a match against the spine of her ashtray book and lighting another cigarette.
“You could take a walk.”
Her face lit up and she gasped, “Frankie has a runway?”
“No,” he said with a grin. “I meant outside.”
“Oh,” she sneered. “I haven’t got the shoes for it.”
“You could borrow some of my mom’s.”
Bella laughed. She’d heard Maggie scream when she shot at the dog. She could only imagine what the woman would say about lending her shoes. Not that they’d fit. She’d do better with a pair of Vincent’s. Casey’s mother was gigantic. The way supermodels used to be, before heroin chic. Statuesque. Tall, with tits. Pretty though, in an American sort of way.
“You could read.”
She looked to her ashtray instead of bothering to officially reject his suggestion.
“You could pose for me!” Casey beamed expectantly.
She paused, waiting for him to continue. He didn't. “Is that it?” she asked. He smiled as if nothing else could possibly be needed. Three options. She would be there for fuck knew how long, and she had three options for entertainment. “Does Frankie at least have a radio?” Bella loved noise. She liked to feel it in her bones.
“Vincent has a television,” he said. Then he pulled out a tiny green electronic device and handed it over. “Here.”
The last music player she’d owned outside of her car was for cassettes, and Frank had thrown it off a roof when she tried listening to it on one of their hits. She’d thrown him off after it but he managed to grab onto a fire escape. Bella fiddled with it for all of two seconds before becoming so frustrated she was ready to feed it to the nearest barking rat.
“You’re like Frank. He’s totally clueless when it comes to electronics,” Casey said with a laugh, demonstrating how the thing worked and helping her pick Iggy & The Stooges for her listening pleasure. Bella could understand why Frank liked having him around. There was something calming about that crooked smile on his face, like the simple joy of being alive left him dumbstruck. Calming and irritating. She turned the volume up until she could no longer hear him and lay back on the sofa.
Bella listened peacefully with her eyes closed, smoking cigarettes that miraculously replenished and lit themselves whenever she held out her hand. Then the music stopped and once again she felt the urge for viole
nce.
She opened her eyes, remembering Casey only as she saw him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the sofa, a nearly empty butane lighter the color of his iPod beside his knee, surrounded by crumpled paper and cigarette ends. He smiled as if, like her, he’d just realized he had company.
He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “You are impossible to draw.”
Bella sat up and snatched a crumpled ball of paper from between his legs. He made a small choking sound which pleased her immensely. She smoothed the paper over her knees, dusting away the ashes that she’d flicked across her grayscale face. It was beautiful, but wrong. Little Isobel from Glasgow, all grown up. It was not Bella. “I need color,” she said as she reviewed another drawing.
“You need volume.” He watched her unfold his artwork like awaiting a jury verdict. “I’m off my game.”
Showing interest would only encourage him, but no one had ever drawn her before. She felt a bit elegant. And his cunt mother had told her to stay away from him. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I know what started it, just not why it should bother me.” He scratched the back of his head insecurely, displaying a shiny, near black streak of graphite across the side of his hand. It was the exact color of the must-have shade of eye shadow this season.
Bella grabbed his hand. He made that delightful frightened noise again. “What started it?” She picked at the pigment and then released him. “Your mum marrying that lawyer?” Being worth a million pounds dead didn’t speak very highly about his character.
“That lawyer?” Casey laughed incredulously. “No, I’m totally happy for them! I love Gideon. He’s my dad.”
“Frankie let her marry that piece of shite after everything he put you through?” Frankie had told her all about the bastard. Why the fuck was Frank trying to stop her from killing him? Probably to save the prick for himself. That would be just like him.
Casey uncomfortably cleared his throat. “I think you’re talking about my biological father.”
“Well you should’ve fucking said that then!” Bella would never accept blame for misspeaking. She'd been blamed enough in her life. She considered her outburst completely justified by his error.
“Gideon’s my dad, but not…he’s what my father should’ve been,” Casey said, accepting responsibility and obediently explaining what he’d meant. “What all fathers should be. Just not by blood. Do you know what I mean?”
“Aye.” She felt a strange knot in her stomach. She did know what he meant. It made Gideon just like Silva was to her. Her dad, not her father. The first man who truly loved her and took her side over anyone else. “If not Gideon, then what started your…artist problem?”
“My, uh, my real father died. Recently. Well, a couple of months ago.”
If it was recent, it wouldn’t have been Frank. With the stories she’d heard of the man, it was a wonder he’d lived this long when Frankie knew his address. “How did he die?”
“Heart attack.”
“That’s supposedly quite painful,” Bella said. This seemed to have upset Casey. She decided to clarify. “From what I heard, he deserved worse. Frankie said he was a right fucker.”
“He was okay,” Casey said unenthusiastically, as if he was used to defending him to strangers. Then he buoyed right back up again, like he’d been serious for too long. “I think it’s cute that you call him Frankie. You know he hates it, right?”
She smiled devilishly. She knew it. She always had. “Does he?”
“I think your accent is cute, too.”
She groaned, “Here we go again.” Even his flirting was wholesome. If he’d have the fucking balls to come out and ask to shag her senseless she might actually let him. “Whatever you’ve got going through your head, you need to just get rid of it. You’re a nice boy, Casey. You should find a nice girl. Or another nice boy, if that’s still your thing.”
“You’re not as bad as you think you are.”
“Don’t be so sure about that.” She was even worse than she thought she was.
“How did you even get into this business. You seem so…I don’t know, different. I can picture Frank doing it, but,” he paused and laughed again, “you were afraid of a rat.”
“I wasn’t afraid of it,” she growled. “Maybe I was paid to kill it.”
“Pomeranians are quite fashionable, you know.”
Apart from pretty boyfriends, Bella had never believed in living accessories. “I’ll have you know I was always a criminal. And your hat is ugly.”
“It’s warm.” He petted it like it was his living accessory. “I like your dress.”
Bella also liked her dress. She fluffed it again and said, “Thank you.”
“What kind of criminal were you?”
“A thief,” she said proudly.
“What did you steal?”
“Anything I wanted.” They both glanced at her purse, white earbuds sticking out like his iPod had tried unsuccessfully to escape. “It’s habitual.”
He smiled widely. “Am I going to get that back?”
“If you promise to make me some CDs,” she said demurely.
“I can do that,” he said. “Did you steal clothes when you were younger?”
“Never.” Bella wouldn’t dream of stealing clothes. Fashion was sacred to her. Ever since she was little she worshipped the pages of fashion magazines, something she still frequently stole despite its content.
“You didn’t?” he asked in awe.
“Would you steal paint? If you didn’t have any money, and you wanted it so fucking bad you could taste it?”
“I’m not a thief,” he reminded her.
“Would you steal food if you were starving?”
He shrugged. “Hypothetically, yeah, I guess.”
“Then would you steal paint?”
“No. It would be too important.” Casey was the first person who got it. Frankie had no problem stealing books when he wasn’t neurotically abstaining and she imagined Vincent would steal as big of a television as he could carry, as often as he could find one unguarded. But Casey understood her.
“There you are then.” She smoothed out another drawing. This one was even better, or had been before he’d smashed it to the size of his cigarette lighter. “What about you? Do you have a criminal record?”
“Expunged.”
She leaned forward, eager for information. “You?”
“My father was supposed to pay for alimony and child support, but he never did. My mom used to work sixty hours a week at this diner just to make ends meet, and every day on her way to work she’d pass this billboard advertising the Marines. The few, the proud. That’s what he was. A Marine. So she’d see this first thing in the morning, and it would piss her off, and then she’d have to spend the rest of her day being nice to assholes just to get a five percent tip. I got a can of green spray paint and I gave the Marine a Mohawk to cheer her up.”
“Rebel,” she teased.
“That’s not the best part. My father saw it and knew where my mom worked, so he figured I had been the one to deface the billboard. He turned me in.”
If it were any of Bella's brothers pulling that shite they would've wished to get turned in to the police. They'd be lucky to get an ambulance. Bella never would've got caught. “Your father did?”
“Yeah. He turned me in and they ordered me to pay a fine and do community service. The community service was actually pretty fun. I met some really interesting people. But there was no way we could pay a fine, and my mom told the judge that. So after everything, the judge orders my father to pay it, which he did, and to pay what he owed her, which he didn’t. But soon after that we met Frank, and then everything got better.”
It was a good thing the prick was dead. After that story, Bella may have paid him a visit. She loved Mohawks. And she fucking hated bad parents. “Your father didn’t like you very much.”
“He was ashamed of me. I can’t blame him, to be honest.”
; Her parents had been ashamed of her as well, as if she wasn’t just like them. The entire Moncrief family was full of good for nothing thieves. “There is nothing wrong with you, Casey.”
“I know that. But compared to him, and what he wanted of me, there was no way I’d ever meet his expectations. He used to call me his daughter in front of his friends. And the thing is, it never did bother me. I’d wear tutus when I went to stay at his house for the weekend, and as much as I liked—still like—wearing feminine things, I have to wonder whether I would’ve done it if it hadn’t annoyed him so much.”
She sighed in content. “I adore tutus.” She owned thirty of them.
“Yeah, they’re great,” he laughed. “It was hard seeing his side of the family at the funeral though. His mom was a mess.”
Bella found herself tempted to tell the truth for possibly the first time in her life, to get it out in the open that she was there to kill his dad. A man to him as Silva was to her. But she didn’t. Criminal record, if you could call it that, notwithstanding, Casey was an innocent. More than that, she didn’t want him to start treating her like the rest of his family: the cause of all their problems from the moment she walked in the room. “Facing your own mortality is bound to upset you. It’s no wonder you weren’t feeling like yourself.”
“I guess. But the good news is that it’s back. Well, mostly anyway.”
It was back because of her. She had inspired him. “Do you want to paint me?” She liked the way he looked at her. She wanted to see herself through his eyes. “I’ll take my clothes off.”
He got an expression like someone had pinched his bum. Then he laughed and flushed a little. “I don’t have any paint.”
She bristled slightly as if he were rejecting her. No one rejected Bella. “Are you going to tell me they don’t sell paint in France?”
“They do!” he said as if he’d only just remembered. “Of course they do! I just don’t have any here. Now. I can get some!”
“All right, then.” She handed him her car keys. Imagining him behind the wheel gave her a thrill she hadn’t felt since she stopped performing rapid fire hits like they were going out of style. “I want it back in one piece.”
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 7