She started to move off of him and he caught her wrist. He realized his mistake as soon as he’d reached out and he immediately released her. “Okay,” he said, having learned from Frank when to drop certain subjects, subjects that terrified him more because of what he couldn’t imagine. “But can we do it without the knife next time?”
She smiled, the threat of there won’t be a next time on her lips. “It’s all yours, pretty boy,” she said, and threw it at his head, severing a two-inch long chunk out of his hair. He left it where it was, unsure whether he was man enough to pull it from the earth, the way the sword in the stone defeated everyone but King Arthur.
Bella got up and looked down at the mud on her knees. She held out her hand in expectation of being given a handkerchief he didn’t have. He sat up, slinking out of his muddy coat and pulled off his shirt, handing it to her with pride. “Does your mother do your laundry?”
“I do my own,” he said, pretending to be annoyed at her teasing. But what she did with it surprised him: scrubbing his come from between her thighs, an action even the grungiest, Kurt Cobain obsessed girls of his past would’ve considered unladylike. The part of his shirt that remained clean was used on her knees, before she handed it back with an immodest thanks. “Any time,” he said in awe, and meant it. He crumpled it into a ball and shoved it into his pants pocket the best it would fit, making a mental note not to let his mother do this particular load of laundry.
Chapter Fourteen
I revved the engine of Bella’s Maserati, flinging myself to the right, veering to the left, pretending like I was zooming around sharp curves. I was supposed to be dismantling her car and preventing her escape in the unlikely event that she had murdered Casey out in the woods, but there was no harm in having a little fun playing racecar first.
Gideon came outside with his cell phone glued to his ear. I could tell that he was shouting, even though I couldn’t hear him over the car. I revved it a few more times and then cut the engine. Now I could hear him.
The first time I’d seen Gideon I was recovering in the hospital, fresh out of a coma. He scared me. Gideon did not have a kind face. Neither did my husband, but I was used to Frank scowling six ways from Sunday. And Gideon yelled. A lot. He was the last person you’d want to meet standing over your recovery bed, but he was the exact person you’d want on your side if you’d just been arrested. Gideon probably never realized the full extent of what he did for Frank by getting him released from that holding cell. But I knew. He saved his life. Frank was terrified of water, but he would gladly don little yellow floaties and matching swim trunks before being locked up again. And if Gideon hadn't helped him, not even Casey could’ve prevented Frank from killing himself.
Getting out of the car, I busied myself disabling the Maserati while pretending not to eavesdrop. It was pointless. I didn’t know who he was talking to, or talking about, and I didn’t speak legalese. He called whoever was on the other end of the cell phone a bunch of mean names that could be summed up with the word moron, and hung up. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. After a moment he asked, “So what’s the verdict?”
I beamed like he’d invited me to the ball, practically clutching my heart with excitement. I was being included! “We’re gonna find out whoever ordered it, and when we do they won’t be ordering so much as drive-thru ever again if you know what I mean.”
He blinked a few times and pursed his lips. “I was actually referring to the Peugeot. Did you get it to work?”
“Oh,” I said dejectedly. “Just for a second.”
“That’s good.” He dismissively turned back to his phone.
I glowered at him, then dropped the hood of Bella’s car with a bang. He nearly jumped right out of his suit, and dropped his phone to the ground. I suppose when you’ve got a price on your head, just about any loud noise sounds like a gunshot. “We are gonna find them.”
“Thank you, Vincent,” he said, sounding a little shaky. He was about to pick up his phone when something behind me caught his eye. I turned around to see Casey emerging from the woods, looking like he was definitely still in one piece. One very happy piece. It was a wise decision on Bella’s part to let him return first. I could only imagine the scene it would cause if she returned without him.
Gideon raised his eyebrows. “Where did you get off to?”
“Um…” Casey scratched the back of his head, obviously trying to think up a location that wasn’t part of Bella’s anatomy. He pulled a leaf out of his hair and quickly flicked it away. Gideon’s cell phone rang and Casey took the opportunity to flee. The back of his coat was covered in mud, and his shirt was hanging out of his back pocket. I wouldn’t have taken Bella for the outdoorsy type but there was no mistaking what they’d been up to.
Unless you were too busy yakking to your colleagues that is. “Of course I have it! Give me a second…” Gideon waved in my general direction and rushed back into the house.
I sat on the Maserati’s hood, still holding the sparkplugs I’d ripped from its insides. Gideon wouldn’t be in such a hurry to disregard me if he knew that I was gonna be the one to save his life. Then he’d really say, “Thank you, Vincent.”
“Get your ass off my car.” Bella sauntered forward, looking happier than Casey had been even while she was threatening me.
I smiled at her and stood up, putting my hands, and her sparkplugs, behind my back.
“What do you have there?”
“Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes at the driver’s side door, still wide open, her keys dangling from the ignition. “What did you do to my fucking car?”
“Nothing,” I said, moving slightly further away. “Frank made me.”
Bella leaned into the open door, flashing the trees her lady parts as she tried to start the car. She yanked her keys out and scowled at me.
“It can be fixed.”
She sighed and tossed her keys back into the car, shutting, not slamming the door. “Fine.”
Getting laid had obviously improved her mood. I couldn’t help but grin. At least someone was getting action around here.
“What the fuck are you so smug about?”
“What are you so smug about?”
She rolled her eyes. “Aye, I fucked him. What of it?”
“Any good?”
“Aye. Jealous?”
“Ha!” I scoffed. “He’s too young for me.”
“Tart,” Bella laughed. “Keep your mouth shut about this, eh?”
“What’ll you give me for it?”
“You want money? Go ask your fucking husband. Why’s he pretending to be poor anyway?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense to him when it’s not in cash. It’s like putting money into an account makes it cease to exist. And paying bills freaks him out. He thinks one of these days the electric bill’s gonna show up and bankrupt us.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to retire then. He’d have all the cash he wants.”
I looked away. This wasn’t a discussion I would have with my husband, I sure as hell wasn’t about to have it with Bella. I hadn’t wanted to retire. I hadn’t even considered retirement. But that last job, with the boat and then seeing Casey’s painting in the mark’s house, Frank had nearly lost his mind. He wasn’t sleeping, he was barely eating. Then Frank’s real brother showed up and practically killed me, and it completely broke him. He lost faith in himself, and in his ability to handle the job. His ability to protect me. And no amount of arguing would change that.
“He did what he had to do,” I said. If I wasn’t so sad about the situation I might’ve brought up the fact that she wasn’t working very many hits either after she’d gotten hurt.
“What about what you had to do?”
“I had to support him,” I said defensively. “That’s what you do when you love somebody.”
“Listen to you, all fucking serious.” She kissed me on the cheek. Bella loved Frank too. “Come along. I’ll
get my purse.”
Chapter Fifteen
Shopping bags in hand, Bella struck a pose in Casey’s doorway. If she’d known he would be so much fun, and so obedient, she would’ve fucked him seven years ago.
He stood before an easel with a red, white, and blue flag draped over it, oblivious to her presence and her pose. He’d put on a clean shirt that didn’t match her outfit and would have to be changed. There was still mud caked on the back of his pants. Strangely, his socks were solid white, with a hole where his big toe stuck out. She recognized the nail polish. And he claimed he wasn’t a thief.
She tossed her bags on his unmade bed. He turned toward the noise, not to her. If she’d been an intruder that mistake could’ve cost him his life. She shoved him into his easel to get his attention. To punish him for being stupid and helpless. “I’m taking you up on your offer.”
He smiled, that crooked grin that used to annoy her but now made her think of tutus and paint and calm. He had paint in his hair and on his ear. She pulled the clip from her hair and roughly closed it around a handful of his to keep it out of his face. He actually looked quite handsome with it tied back. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to tell them about us?” he asked, unfazed at being primped.
“We’re not telling them about us.” She made herself at home in her new room by striking a match against his belt buckle and lighting a cigarette. Vincent already knew. That was bad enough. And it cost her a thousand euros.
“Oh,” he laughed. “You’re kicking me out.”
“Sorry,” she said remorselessly. “Is that okay?”
He raised one eyebrow like he was contemplating why she bothered asking at all, his goofy face almost serious. “Yeah, it’s okay. Want me to change the sheets?”
“Do the sheets need to be changed?”
“Uh,” he said, and grinned. “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She’d slept on worse. Probably.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked, officially crossing into serious territory.
She scowled, forcing herself not to stub her cigarette out on him. It was none of his business what happened to her, no one's fucking business, and she could fucking handle it. “Don’t ruin this.”
“No, I—” He stopped, doing that thing with his hands that he did when he was nervous, banging his fingers together until he figured out what he was trying to say. He smiled a little and gave her a quick, chaste kiss on the side of the mouth. Then he smiled more before going back to serious. “Is your boyfriend going to hunt me down anywhere on the planet and kill me for sport?”
“Eh?”
“Silva. Frank said—”
“Frankie needs to stop thinking about sex for once in his fucking life. Silva’s not…” She grumbled in frustration. She was trying not to think about Silva. “He’s like your Gideon,” she said, tugging at the flag for something to do. “Is this Tommy Hilfiger?”
“Betsy Ross.”
“You mean Betsey Johnson?”
“It’s just a flag. Not designer.”
She released it, suddenly losing interest. “Was it your father’s?”
“From his coffin.”
“I’ve never been to a funeral. Isn’t that funny? Considering…”
Casey pulled down the flag, draping it around her shoulders from behind. The canvas beneath was another unfinished portrait of her, incomplete and wrong.
She couldn’t imagine him around death. No shadows. Just light. “Did you wear black?”
“Yeah, a suit. Only I forgot to buy shoes so I had to wear a pair of Gideon’s. They were too small.”
“Wearing too small shoes isn’t so bad. As long as they’re pretty. Did you cry?”
“No.” He looked like the concept of grief confused him. “Vincent said that Silva was—”
“He’s fine.”
Casey smiled. “So, is he going to kill me for sport?”
“Silva’s an old man. He doesn’t kill anyone. He has people do it for him. Like me.”
He spun her around to face him and pulled the flag taut against her, pinning her arms at her sides. “Would you kill me for sport?” he challenged.
She leaned toward him for a kiss and said sweetly, “I’d kill you for money,” then bit down on his lip and pulled.
A creak on the hallway stairs forced them apart and they stood facing the painting side by side, the flag gripped loosely in his hand trailing on the floor between them. Casey did his best not to smile, which wasn’t very good at all. No one entered. This wouldn’t do. They had to get out of there.
“Alan said there was a bed and breakfast down the road,” Casey said, reading her mind like a good boy.
“Thank fuck.” She grabbed him by the belt and tried pulling him toward the door but he only went a few steps.
“Frank said you’re not supposed to leave. What if someone sees you?”
She bristled as she remembered that Frankie told Vincent to take the metal bits out of her car. Frankie had to know that whoever wanted Gideon dead wasn’t waiting around France until Christmas for her to finish him off. Why the fuck couldn’t he see that and let her get on with her life? Preferably in a proper city with proper boutiques. “So I’ll wear a disguise. We can walk to the main road and hitchhike.”
“What if they ask where I’m going? I can’t lie.”
“You’d better fucking learn. If I have to ruin my shoes, the least you can do is lie.”
“Why don’t you just wear the ones that are already ruined?”
She shuddered at his fashion faux pas. “Get out of my room. I can’t look at you right now.”
He laughed and playfully toyed with her skirt. “Come on, Bella.”
She slapped away his hand and growled, “Fuck it, I’ll kill you for free.”
Casey stupidly put his hands up, which allowed her to elbow him in the stomach. Even when he cringed in pain he kept smiling. She pulled him close to her by the hair and quickly kissed him, then remembered what he’d said about her shoes and shoved him away before she was really tempted to murder him.
He draped the flag back around her, once again leaving his midsection exposed, closer than before. How could Frankie stand it? Casey didn’t even realize how vulnerable he was. Too innocent to be told why she was really there. Shagging the woman sent to kill his dad. If anyone threatened Silva’s life, she’d kill them before they could think twice. It made her livid.
Bella irritably shrugged the flag away. She ought to tell him the truth, just to show him how cruelly the world worked. To hurt him so he’d fucking learn.
“Are all assassins this moody?” he teased.
“Only when we have to deal with civilians.”
He lowered his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. His hand was pink from where she’d struck him. “My father used to call me that. A civilian. Like it was a bad word.”
“It is a bad fucking word.”
“Are you going to tell me that you were born knowing how to shoot a gun?”
Bella smiled to herself. The first time she fired a gun was in Silva’s office. It was the day they met. She shot a painting. “Do you know who Degas is?”
“Of course,” he said, affronted.
She lifted a few bags from the bed and shoved him onto it. “I want to tell you a story, artist-boy. When I was fifteen, I went to Prague with my boyfriends to break into a rich man’s house.”
“Boyfriends?” He leaned forward like a girl eager for gossip instead of a potentially jealous lover.
“Aye. Three. Alfie and Roy, who were brothers, and Deaglan.” Deaglan hadn’t technically been her boyfriend anymore. Not after he found out his ex was knocked up and he fucked off back to Ireland to make an honest woman out of her. Bella had been knocked up as well but she never fucking told him. She just beat the hell out of him for leaving her and got rid of it at the first opportunity. She could've saved herself the trouble. His wife and daughter would be blown up in a car bomb six months later.
“R
oy met a man in prison who told him about this great score. The four of us went all the way to the Czech Republic for the job. That’s how huge it was supposed to be. We stole a van and drove to the gate, and Alfie gave me a gun. Then the fucking idiots went to break in the front door. I went for the window. Good thing too, because those dogs Frankie has downstairs would all be rats compared to the dogs they let loose on Silva’s property.”
Casey laughed so hard he fell back over. “You met Silva breaking into his house?”
“I climbed into his window. He called the dogs off, and even left it open for me. Then he says ‘It’s not every day a princess storms the castle’.” She paused and smiled. “I told him to shut the fuck up, and I aimed my gun at him. And he just looks at me, all calm-like, and asks if I even know how to use it. Well I didn’t know how to fucking use it, but I wasn’t going to tell him that, so I pointed it at the painted ballerina’s head and—”
“You shot a Degas?” he gasped, clearly more offended at the moral of her story than he’d been at having his knowledge of the painter questioned. “Bella!”
“Aye, I shot it. A good shot. And then the guards brought in my boyfriends, and Silva told me to shoot them too.”
“Did you?” Casey asked. His concern seemed minimal compared to his reaction over the painting. There was hope for him yet.
“I would have, but Alfie only gave me one bullet! One fucking bullet! I beat him with the gun until one of the guards armed me properly. Then I shot him. And Roy too.”
“What about the third guy? Deaglan.”
“He was all right, he was just stupid.” If it had been up to her, Deaglan would’ve never been invited in the first place. Alfie asked him to come, insisting that Bella was too little to carry anything expensive. But he loved her, and until he’d gone and fucked everything up, she had begun to love him back. “We let Deaglan live. And then Silva bought me nice clothes and gave me a job and became my dad. He still has the painting in his office. Frankie’ll tell you. I didn’t even know who Degas was.”
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 11