Dangerous Lovers

by Becca Vincenza

For a regular con man, stalker, or assassin, she was practically untouchable.

  I wasn’t a regular kind of guy. I was an Escort.

  Still, setting up the perfect way to “meet” someone like her took some creative thinking. I needed an in that wouldn’t raise suspicion or look even slightly contrived.

  I clicked through another link on the computer and then sat back, rubbing my eye with the palm of my hand. This was the part of the job I hated. Research, learning… work. Rarely did I have to actually try hard on a job. Usually my charm, looks, and money got me to the finish line. Usually I could skate on what I saw and could figure out the rest. It was rare I had to do this amount of research on someone whose days were numbered. It really never made sense. Why bother learning the favorite color, food, and movie of someone I would never really know anyway? It was all about time management. It seemed like a more effective use of my time was to charm my way in and finish the job.

  Maybe that’s why the last couple jobs weren’t complete successes, an annoying voice in the back of my mind whispered.

  “I got the job done,” I muttered, arguing with my inner conscience.

  I was still here, after all. And it was abundantly clear that if I’d actually failed a job, I would have been Recalled on the spot. Yes, all the Targets I’ve ever been assigned (I lost count over fifty years ago) were dead. Their souls were gone (I had yet to figure out what exactly G.R. did with them), and most of the bodies had become a collector’s item for Mr. Death himself. But… I hated when there was a but. As of late, a few of the jobs… I wasn’t able to collect the money. Paperwork fell through, was lost, or loopholes were found.

  Maybe you’re getting sloppy, the voice taunted. Maybe you’re losing your charm.

  My growl cut through the silence of the kitchen, a firm denial and warning for that voice to shut the hell up. Something on the screen caught my eye and I leaned forward, scanning the information provided, taking in the list of attendees and the guest speaker. I grinned and slapped my hand down on the file and scattered papers across the tabletop.

  Bingo.

  Research might suck, but it usually paid off. I clicked through a few more links and then picked up my iPhone and made a call.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “Make sure my background is in place. Make sure it’s good. You know who we’re dealing with.”

  “I’ve done my part. When you fail, the only person you will have to blame is yourself,” G.R. said, his voice calm in my ear.

  The fact he was underestimating me made me very, very angry. “You remember that when you’re cutting me a check for ten million dollars.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, well, all your documents and IDs will be there in the morning.”

  I didn’t bother to point out that it took him three days to deliver the documents I usually got mere hours after every assignment. I knew it was on purpose, and so, I purposely acted like I had all the time in the world.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear to end the call and the echo of his smug laughter when he spoke again. Even though his words were muffled, I heard them clear as a bell.

  “Overconfidence isn’t always a good thing. Even if you have the skills for a job—for a fight—it doesn’t mean you’re going to win.” His words touched a part of me that I hadn’t felt in so long I was mildly surprised it was still there. “I would think that you of all people would know this.”

  “Was that a reference to my past?” I asked, amusement clear in my tone. “Only people scared of their present drudge up the past.” I lowered my voice, pulling the phone close to my mouth. “Tell me, G.R., are you scared I’ll prove you wrong?”

  “Death is scared of nothing,” he intoned and hung up the phone. The cut connection rang with finality.

  I stared at the computer screen for long minutes before a slow smile curved my lips. I pushed away from the table and headed for the stairs.

  Death might not be scared of anything, but perhaps this time he should be.

  * * *

  Searing, thick steam rolled through the air, creating a cloudlike effect around me. The humid heat that it carried wrapped around my limbs and turned my tense muscles languid. All the extra energy coiled within me, waiting to be expended, evaporated, leaving me with a feeling that was quite close to relaxed.

  This is exactly why I had a steam shower installed in this house. If I had to spend time in this godforsaken place, then I was going to make myself very comfortable. I knew the next six months of my life were going to be as close to hell as I ever wanted to be, so if there was a chance for me to steal any kind of peace—if even only during my shower—then I was going to take it.

  I leaned back against the stone tiles and closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath of the fog-like vapor. Research? Check. A plan for a first meeting? Check. Background story, IDs, a home, car, and bank accounts all in my name? Check, check, and check. All I had to do now was go buy a brand new tux (if I could even find one in this town) and the biggest kill I’ve ever attempted would begin.

  Energy slammed into me hard and fast, causing my eyes to snap open and my body to shove away from the tiles. I swatted at the steam like I could push it away, and when it didn’t obey, I hit a few buttons on the control panel on the side of the wall.

  Someone was in this house.

  Not only were they not invited, but they’d also just cut short the only enjoyable thing about my day.

  I might not be allowed to kill someone other than a Target, but I could damn sure make them regret they chose this house to creep into.

  I opened the glass door to the stall and stepped out, reaching for a towel and slinging it around my hips as I went. I crept, not making a sound, light on my feet from years of practice. I inhaled, taking in the chaotic energy that buzzed through the house. It was a woman, had to be. A man’s energy was more stable, less all over the place. But a woman… a woman’s energy was exactly like the gender it inhabited: irrational and all over the place.

  And this lady in particular must be crazy because her energy was practically shoving into me. I’d only felt this kind of forceful, bossy kind of vibe a couple times before.

  Shit.

  It better not be who I thought it was.

  A sadistic smile curved my lips and I crept to the top of the stairs where I paused to listen to the sounds of papers being rustled, heavy breathing, and the erratic pounding of a heart.

  Pulling another deep breath of her energy, I let it expand within me and then I took off, moving at the speed of light—so fast no one would hear or see me until I wanted them to.

  I rushed toward the table where a figure dressed completely in black from head to toe was standing, peering at the screen of my laptop. On my way past, I snapped the lid closed and the force of my speed blew several papers up and away, sending them fluttering to the floor.

  The woman gasped—turning around, her back going up against the edge of the table. Her eyes searched the room for me, but I wasn’t done bouncing around. I went from one end of the room to the other, flipping on and off the lamps, turning on the flat screen hanging above the fireplace, and then hitting a button causing the logs in the hearth to burst into flames.

  The woman pushed away from the table, rushing toward the set of French doors that led outside, but I caught her around the waist before she took three steps and yanked her back so she was firmly against me, pinned between my arms.

  She didn’t miss a beat and stomped down on my bare foot with her stiletto heal, causing me to howl in pain and release her. She ran forward as I recovered, reaching out and grabbing at her, only coming away with the black knit cap she’d stuffed over her head.

  A flash of blond filled my vision before I caught her arm and yanked her back against me once more. Her chest was heaving and her nails dug into my arms, but I ignored it all.

  “Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?” I growled into her ear.

  “How did you move that fast?” She ga
sped.

  Her voice. I knew that voice. It grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. So much for it not being the infuriating girl with a man’s name.

  “You better have a damn good explanation for why I found you in my house, going through my things, George.”

  She stiffened and I felt her retort rise up inside her.

  “Ah—ah—ah,” I sang in her ear. “Now is not the time to piss me off any more than you already have,” I warned.

  Wisely, her mouth snapped shut as I spun her around to face me.

  Chapter Four

  “Cat suit - a close-fitting one-piece garment that covers the torso and the legs and frequently the arms.”

  Frankie

  Once my shift from hell at work was over I drove straight to the closest gas station and filled my arms with enough sugary goodness to get me through the next week, or maybe just tonight, and dumped it all on the counter in front of the cashier who took in my haul with his usual disdain. I ignored him and went to grab some Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke, and Yoo-hoo and added that to my pile.

  At the last minute, I added a pack of pink bubblegum and winked when I got a glare in return.

  Once inside my Jeep Wrangler, I cranked up the heat and tore into a bag of Sour Patch Kids, popping about five into my mouth at once. I enjoyed the way the sour coating on the outside burned my tongue. I backed out of the lot and drove the short drive to my apartment, with the radio too loud and too much candy in my mouth.

  I let myself into my apartment, flipping on the light as I shut the door, and then leaned back against the painted-wood finish and sighed. Peace at last. I wasn’t a loner, I wasn’t a quiet person who enjoyed staying in rather than going out, but after the day I had… it was nice to be alone.

  I took in the Tiffany-blue walls (hey, every girl need’s a little Tiffany’s in her life, even if it is only paint), the cream-colored sofa, mirrored coffee table, and the scattered magazines around the room. It wasn’t much, but it was all mine. I dropped my bag of goodies on the floor beside the couch and shrugged out of my coat as I walked to the wall of posters all hung in vintage frames.

  All the posters were of the same person. The woman I respected, was intrigued by, and yeah, maybe slightly obsessed with: Marilyn Monroe. She died before I was born, but even still her class, beauty, and the way she took life by the horns was still quite evident.

  “Marilyn,” I said to her, “what would you do if there was someone hanging around—someone that you just knew was up to no good?”

  I smiled. She hadn’t answered (if she had, I would probably check myself into a mental ward), but I found my answer anyway.

  “This calls for a good old-fashioned cat burglary.” I spun away from the pictures, grabbed a Dr. Pepper and the rest of my Sour Patch Kids, and went into my bedroom.

  I opened up the closet doors to my very packed, too-small closet and several articles of clothing fell out and buried my feet. I ignored them and started pulling out all the black items I could find.

  A knock on my front door echoed into my room and I began pawing my way out of the closet, tripping on a few items and spilling some of the soda over onto my hand. Now that was just a waste of perfectly good sugar.

  “Come in!” I yelled, giving up trying to break free of the clothes.

  A few seconds later Piper, my best friend, appeared in the doorway. “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Inventory,” I said, sipping the soda and scrutinizing her appearance. She looked tired, but that wasn’t anything new. Going to school, working, and volunteering at a health clinic would do that to anyone. I looked past her lack of energy for something more, for the grief that she seemed to wear like a second skin. It was there, but it wasn’t any worse than before—if anything, it seemed just a little lighter. “What are you doing?”

  She held up a sack. “I brought Chinese.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” I said, holding out my can so she could take it. “Here, take this. I’m about to go ninja style on all these clothes holding me hostage.”

  Then I winced at my word choice. Good one, Frankie, remind her all about the time she was kidnapped at gunpoint and thrown in a trunk and held hostage by a killer. A killer who walked into the DMV today like he wasn’t a criminal.

  I snuck a peak at her to see if what I said caused some horrible flashback, but she was grinning, no doubt wondering how I was going to escape my closet.

  I began kicking at the shirts and pants, but all that did was wind them further around my feet. I took a step forward and toppled over, right into the giant pile of black that I’d made. I squealed, landing face first, and pushed myself up onto hands and knees and proceeded to crawl out of the mess. On my way, I found the knit black cap I’d been searching for.

  “Score!” I exclaimed and paused to pull it over my head.

  “What’s with all the black?” Piper asked as we left the mess behind and went into my galley-style kitchen.

  “Guess I’m feeling moody,” I said non-committedly. I still wasn’t sure what I should tell her about today.

  “What happened in here?!” Piper exclaimed, staring at the explosion that was my counters. Bowls, spatulas, and several appliances with awry cords cluttered the countertop. Cupcake liners were scattered about and there were multicolored sprinkles making a rainbow in the sink.

  “I did some baking last night,” I said. “I was hoping the maid would come by today while I was at work. Good help is so hard to find these days.” I sighed.

  “You don’t have a maid, Frankie.”

  “Shh! Don’t ruin my fantasy.”

  “Well, where are the cupcakes?” Piper asked, snooping through the cupboards.

  “I threw them away.”

  “That’s a crime against sugar!” she said and then gasped.

  I laughed. “Actually, the crime was the way they tasted.”

  “Everything you make tastes great. You’re just too hard on yourself.”

  “Yeah, well, when there’s a place like the Iced Princess to compare yourself to, standards are high.”

  Piper made a tsking sound as she pulled out the Chinese from her bag. I grabbed some plates and we loaded up on noodles, veggies, and chicken. We ate in silence at the tiny table on the far end of the kitchen for a few minutes before I brought up the hard stuff.

  “So how ya doing?” I asked.

  She knew it wasn’t a general question. She set down her fork and looked at me. “Better, I think. I still miss him. It helps, you know, knowing that he’s not somewhere suffering.”

  I nodded. Piper fell in love with a Death Escort, a guy who worked for the Grim Reaper, and was assigned the job of killing her. But in the end he couldn’t kill her, and it cost him his life. He somehow got a message to her that he wasn’t suffering in death, but he was still dead. And she was alive, but left to deal with everything that happened alone.

  I wasn’t sure if I should tell her who I saw today or not. I thought she had a right to know that Charming was here, but I also didn’t want to disrupt any kind of healing she was doing.

  “Out with it,” Piper said, cutting into my mental ping-pong.

  “With what?” I asked, batting my eyes at her.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “That won’t work on me. I know you are far from innocent.”

  I pushed away from the table and went to the living room to grab my bag of stash, stopping at the fridge to put away the Yoo-hoo and Cherry Coke. Then I grabbed a pack of Junior Mints from the back and carried them back to the table.

  This conversation required chocolate.

  “I saw Charming today.” I didn’t bother beating around the bush. It wouldn’t make the news any less hard.

  Her fork clattered against her plate and her skin paled a little. “Where?”

  “He came into the DMV. He was registering his car in this state.”

  “He’s staying here?” she whispered.

  “I don’t really know. Seems that way.”


  She nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”

  My eyes about fell out of my head. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say about the guy who stuffed you in a trunk and tried to kill you?”

  “What else am I gonna say, Frank?” She pushed away from the table and stood. “That I hate him? That I blame him for Dex’s death? That we should call the cops and have him arrested?” She sank back down in the chair and looked at me. “What’s the point? We can’t fight him. We can’t fight the Grim Reaper. I’m tired. I just want to move on.”

  I pushed the Junior Mints toward her. “Have some candy.”

  She snorted. But she picked up the box and dug out a piece. “You got his address, didn’t you?” she asked me quietly.

  I helped myself to a piece of minty goodness. “Yep.”

  She moved fast, faster than I expected, her hand shooting out to grab my wrist, and she pinned me with serious brown eyes. “Stay away from him, Frankie. Promise me.”

  How did a girl get around making promises she had no intention of keeping?

  I used my free hand to shove a couple more candies in my mouth. “It’s not polite to speak with a full mouth,” I mumbled.

  “I’m serious. These people… they live by their own rules. I almost died. Dex did die. Going around them, it’s like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline. Stay away from them before you become death’s next Target.”

  “Piper,” I protested, but she shook her head vehemently and squeezed my wrist.

  “Promise me, Frankie. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you too.”

  She looked down at where she held me and let go like I burned her skin.

  “What did you see?” I asked, watching her face. Piper had this ability to see visions of the future. All she had to do was touch someone.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’d like to keep it that way.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had enough visions to last me a lifetime.”

  “Come on,” I said, abandoning my plate and grabbing up the box of candy. “Let’s go watch something completely trashy on TV. I’m sure there’s some reality show on that will make us feel better about ourselves.”