Never Kiss a Bad Boy (9 page)

The two men had taken a walk after my story. I was grateful, and wondered if they had done it intentionally. I wanted some space, the memory of the event had brought back the claustrophobia and terror.

I'd spent two days in that closet, too petrified to leave. I'd watched the bodies of my family bleed out and rot, never once making a sound.

I remembered thinking,
If I speak up, the killers will return.

The neighbors who eventually called the police knew that I was missing from the body count. They found me where I'd been huddled, too weak to stand.

Pacing the large apartment, I told myself that I was alive and I
could
move and I
would
move. I would keep breathing until I found the gap-toothed man.

Jacob tapped on the door, cracking it open. He spotted me at the wide window where I'd migrated to. “Kite decided to go take care of some things. Just errands, food for his fridge and such.” Jacob wore his winning smile, and I had to remind myself I was not in a toothpaste commercial. “How about you come up to my place and have a snack?”

Touching my stomach, I nodded. “Thanks. I'm actually pretty hungry.”

My sneakers scuffed over the hallway rug. I observed how quietly Jacob moved, he and Kite were impossibly silent when they wanted to be.

I tried to emulate him, but my steps were still cursed by rubber squeaking.
It's so weird,
I thought to myself.
How fast this went from scary to normal.
The time leading up to my confrontation with Kite—and ultimately Jacob as well—had been torture.

Here I was, the day after, happily following one of the hitmen to his home. If I rationalized it, I suppose I felt... optimistic. I was on a path to getting vengeance. These two, they'd taken my money and had started investigating for me.

But I wasn't fooled.

They weren't my friends. They didn't care about me, though Jacob was so good at acting I struggled to remind myself.

Following him up the stairs, I eyed the hard edges of his broad shoulders. It was possible—too possible—that they were leading me on. But, it'd be a lot of work to go this far just to pretend they were looking for my target. If they were tricking me, I guess I'd find out soon.

The story about Culver being dissolved in acid haunted my memory.
No mistakes, no loose ends.
That was what Kite had been telling me. I understood him, loud and clear.

If they ever got their hands on my incriminating note, they'd be able to safely erase me.

Just like they'd done to Culver.

As long as it's after I get my revenge...

They can do whatever they want to me. I don't care.

I know, I'm crazy—but that had to be obvious by now.

“Here we are,” Jacob said, stepping into a new hallway. The doors all looked the same. I'd never guess who lived behind each one. “Home sweet home.” Turning his key, the entrance swung open.

Kite's apartment had impressed me with the size and the view. Jacob's had all those things, but beyond that, it was
clean
. Hell, it was spotless. He had a home worthy of Martha Stewart.

Like last night, I was forced to shove my preconceptions aside. “It's beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he chuckled. Waving me in, he shut the door and headed towards the wide kitchen. On the counter, a bowl of fresh apples had my mouth filling with saliva. He caught my hungry stare. The corner of his smile became a charming smirk. “Have one, they're delicious.”

The fruit was heavy in my palm, the skin waxy. Taking a bite, I wiped the sweet liquid from my chin. “This is amazing, thank you!”

“It's nothing.” He showed me his back, digging in the fridge. It was one of those models you could splay with two arms. I was a little disappointed when he tugged just the right door open. Why have a giant fridge if you didn't get to show it off?

I had eaten most of the apple when he set a glass of water in front of me. “You're a much better host than Kite,” I said. “Very polite.”

Leaning on the other side of the counter, Jacob seemed pleased. “I like to entertain.”

Now there was a thought: The Contract Killer Fine Dining and Design Show.
I'd watch it,
I mused. He'd get at least two seasons, just because of his good looks.

Eyeing him sideways, judging the shape of his torso in the places his dress shirt stretched across, I figured his body had to be decent, too.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, and even though he spoke softly, his voice stampeded through my brain.

Standing taller, I lifted the apple core. “Wondering where to chuck this,” I said.

Jacob's pretty eyes—I'd never seen such a shade of blue—didn't waver. “Marina, you don't need to lie to me.”

Tiny ripples clawed up my spine.
I keep forgetting who I'm dealing with.
“Why do you think I'm lying?”

His lips formed an immaculate straight line. “You were smiling too much to be thinking about the trash.”

“You shouldn't stare,” I said, dangling the apple. “Guess you're
not
so polite.”

“Believe me.” I felt an itch of warning—a deathly energy—but Jacob's face never changed. “I'm being
very
polite with you. Would you like me to stop?”

There is something so paralyzing about a quiet danger. While Kite had been a million screaming crows and saw-blades, Jacob was a crocodile under the surface of a lake. Even when he'd had a gun aimed at me last night, I'd sensed nothing but his muted patience.

When Jacob let his tiny threat, so stupidly subtle and unexpected, ooze from his smiling lips... I was stunned. The chewed apple fell from my fingers towards the floor.

Jacob's fist closed around it, catching it in midair.

I couldn't blink—I just gaped down at his hand where it hung inches from me, his body partially bent over the counter top. I was... very grateful there was something solid between us. Seeing him move, though, I understood it wouldn't be enough to stop him.

Fuck. A locked door might not be enough.

“You're fast.” The words escaped me in a rush of air.

“I am,” he agreed.

He smelled like aftershave and mint. We were near enough that if he'd had
any
stubble, I could have counted each hair. Instead, I just noticed the tiny lines and plum color under his eyes. “Did... did you have a rough night?” I stuttered.

Pulling away, he shot me a suspicious stare. Opening the trash with his foot, he dropped the mangled fruit inside. “Nice attention to details. Is that how you tracked Kite down?”

I lifted a hand, flexed it. “No, it was his tattoos. I asked around until someone recognized who they belonged to.”

Chuckling, Jacob shook his head. “Of course. He should have worn gloves that day.”

“He shouldn't have gotten distinctive tattoos at all,” I said. Being able to change the topic was giving me back my courage. “I mean, it makes people easier to identify.”

Jacob fiddled with the edges of his sleeves, peeling them upwards. “He got them before we became hitmen.” The thickness of his forearms were exposed, hard grooves of muscle that were bare of any ink.

And now I'm thinking about his body. Thanks, brain—I mean, betrayer.

How could I resist, though? He was showing off and talking in his sinfully rich, salt of the Earth voice about tattoos. Did
he
have tattoos, and were they just hidden from the roaming eye?

My roaming eye, specifically?

He rinsed his apple-stained hand in the sink, then wiped it on a towel. Jacob glanced up, met my stare—and dammit, I turned away.

Heat flooded my cheeks. “Uh, right. Can I ask what his tattoos mean? The whole 'swim' thing?”

“You can ask, but I won't answer.” He sighed, and I forced myself to look at him again. Luckily, he was studying the counter. “Kite and I may have to work with you, Marina... but some things will always be secret.”

Jacob's face was in profile. I spotted the little indent in his chin, the swoop of his nose that said 'I have never once been broken.' Yes, he had as many secrets as Kite.

“You said I paid attention to details,” I stated. “Let me ask you this. Do you think I have what it takes, even after some training, to kill the man I want dead?”

He was still as a pond. When he did move, it was just a tiny ripple; his arms extended, fingers curling. “Give me your hands.”

My blood went on a rampage through my eardrums. “Okay.” I
said
okay, but this did not
feel
okay. Did Jacob have some fucking switch he pressed between 'intriguing charmer' and 'silent murderer?'

When I set my fingers in his, it was a static shock to my heart. Jacob was touching me, lighting my fingerprints on fire.

Powerful, hungry urges crept down between my thighs. I shifted where I stood, rubbing my ankle with one toe. I impressed myself by how cool I kept my tone. “Now what?”

“Just feel,” he whispered.

I was struggling to feel anything over my own pulse. “What am I feeling for?”

His eyebrows crawled up, and so did the corner of his smirk. “Differences. Can you tell why my hands are different than yours?”

I noticed I was staring stupidly into his blue eyes.
Just look at his hands, idiot.

Right. Just look there.

Except getting there meant I took a journey over Jacob-Land. The crevice down the side of his Adam's apple, the spread of his chest that the buttons wanted to snap open across, the strong forearms that could capture me and hold me close.

Or kill me.

That should have pushed my fluttering idiocy into the trash with the apple core. Killers should
not be attractive.
Thinking about what Jacob was capable of had my stomach tingling.

He was eyeing me curiously, both patient and eager. If I sliced open his forehead and saw his thoughts, what would they be? What would
mine
be?

He wants me to spot the differences,
I reminded myself.

Clenching my hands, I traced the indents over his palms. I noted how silky his skin was. I imagined him performing any act of brutality in thick gloves that kept him callus free. I trailed the life-line a psychic would comment on, explored the thickness of his thumbs. His hands could be agile, deft, or deadly.

What was I feeling for? Why couldn't I figure out what the difference was between Jacob's hands and...

“There is no difference,” I blurted, stunned. His smile was a real pleasure. “That's what you're trying to show me, right?”

“Correct,” he whispered. He dragged his nails over my wrists and left warmth blooming behind. “There is no difference between our hands.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked, arms still floating in the air.

Jacob tilted his head, and I wondered, as he bent close to me, if he'd taste as minty as he smelled. “It means anyone can become a killer, Marina. And if anyone can kill, anyone can get away with it. That means you, too.”

I didn't utter a word. I didn't tell him how good that made me feel... or how scared.

Jacob said some things would always be secret.

He was right.

He was also a towering being of carved strength and hypnotizing eyes. My hands still hovered, like they were lost without him holding them. My foggy head was full of ridiculous thoughts. Bizarre thoughts.

I've seen Kite's bedroom, what does Jacob's look like?

A languid grin passed over him. There was tension in how he looked from my eyes, to my lips, and unless I was no where near as observant as he'd claimed, my breasts. Why was I so excited? This man had held me at gunpoint!

Was it that bad that he made my thighs squeeze and my heart swell?
It is,
said my brain.
Shut the fuck up,
said my did-you-know-I-was-still-here-pussy.

Jacob parted his lips. I saw the hint of his teeth. “Marina,” he said, my name a question on his tongue.

What could I answer with?

I leaned forward over the counter. My nostrils flared with his scent. If endorphins were needles, they threaded through my body and sewed away my logic.

I wanted to kiss a killer.

The knock on the door kept that from happening.

Jacob wrenched away, but he did it with such grace I had to question what I'd seen. Was he scowling? God, I was dizzy. “Coming,” he called loudly.

Before he got there, Kite pushed his way inside. He had a tray in his hands, three paper cups. “Hey,” he said, glancing over us both.

All my blood vessels were screaming. I faked a smile, then ducked my head and gulped my water. “Hey! Uh, how was the trip?” I mumbled.

Carrying the tray over, he offered it to Jacob, who took a cup. “It was fine.
Mom
over here gave me a list, and I completed it.”

Jacob rolled his eyes, sipping from the container. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Not a problem,” Kite chuckled. Approaching me, he set the tray down and pointed at it. “Here, help yourself.”

I was already waving it away. “No no, I don't drink—”

“Coffee. I know.” He turned the cup, showing my name scribbled on the side by some random barista. “It's hot chocolate.”

Taking the hot drink, I sniffed the opening.
He remembered?
I scrutinized Kite, noting his pleased as punch smile. He probably thought he was being cute, but it was a reminder for me.

This man noticed everything I did.

Blowing on the opening, I took a small sip. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” He scooped up the other coffee, facing Jacob as he did. “So, boss. What's the plan?”

Jacob tossed the cardboard tray into his garbage. From my angle, I glimpsed my apple core. “Well,” he sighed. “I thought I'd do a little research. See what the internet spits back at me about Frank Montego and his past.”

Kite went to speak, but I cut him off. “Don't bother. I tried that already.” Both of their sets of eyes—one light pair, the other pure shadows—fixed on me. I didn't bend under their intensity. “A reminder, I was searching for information about Frank from the day I learned his name. Online, there's nothing about him. Nothing useful, anyway.”