Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) (10 page)

Smith joined her an instant later, his movements so quiet she was momentarily astounded, because even as the window was closed behind them she didn’t hear a thing. As skilled as he was when he trained her, this was Smith in his element. Focused, strong, skilled – the perfect killer.

The person she wanted to be.

He pointed at her, and then behind him, and she took position so that she followed as he moved forward into the house. It was small, two bedrooms, one bath, and they walked down the hallway towards the open door, where a small light still burned.

Shit
. He’s awake.

Chewing on her bottom lip she waited for Smith to take up position beside the door, and with a nod he gestured towards the interior. He was going to let her go in first.

Tucking the gun behind her back she stepped into the doorframe, and the sudden gasp of the guy in front of her was followed by coughing. The smell she’d caught before had been pot, and the sight of him bent over a bong in front of her only verified it. “Whoa! What the - oh… hey, baby, how did you get in here?”

“Me?” She grinned and aimed the gun at him. “Window was open.”

“Holy shit!” His eyes went wide, and she felt Smith step in behind her. “Take whatever you want, seriously, it’s all yours. Fuck, uh, I might have some cash?”

“We don’t want your money, Christopher Algiro.” Smith’s low voice was a bolster to her confidence, and she flipped the safety off as she watched the guy scramble off the bed.

“Fuck, fuck!” He grabbed at his hair and then held his hands in front of him. “Wait, wait, man, you don’t need to shoot me, I can fix this.”

“It’ll be easier if you just relax,” Smith spoke quietly.

“Listen, you just need to call Mr. Pelletti and tell him I didn’t mean it. First of all, I didn’t know Lisa was his daughter, and second of all I was shit-faced and high. I didn’t -”

“What did you do?” Camille felt her core grow cold, her finger itching to pull the trigger because she felt like she already knew the story before he told it.

“Come
on
, man!” Christopher begged Smith, dropping to his knees, but Smith just tilted his head towards her.

“Don’t talk to me, she’s the one with the gun.”

Christopher’s eyes swung towards her, his voice higher pitched. “Fuck! I didn’t mean to, I mean, I didn’t realize she was really unconscious, you know? I’d been flirting with her, I thought she wanted it!”

“You fucked her,” Camille finished for him and he let out an anguished groan.

“I didn’t mean anything by it! It wasn’t
rape
, you know? It was just, she was – fuck, don’t kill me! Let me talk to Mr. Pelletti!”

“I don’t think he wants to talk to you, Christopher,” she answered, shifting her stance so she was confident in her aim.

“Oh, shit, please,
please
help me. Don’t do this, come on, man.” He stared up into Smith’s face, eyes wide and panicked so that the white showed all the way around. For a moment Camille wondered if that was how Lisa had felt the morning after. Confused, terrified. Waking up to find out that someone had hurt her while she was defenseless.

“I’m not the one you should be begging,” Smith responded, his voice cold as ice.

“I swear, I didn’t mean -”

Camille pulled the trigger once, then again for a head shot, the puffs of air quieter than the weight of his body hitting the floor. She stared for a moment, making sure he went still, and then she flipped the safety on and aimed the gun down. Last breath.
There
. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”

“Seriously?” Smith asked, a surprised laugh tugging his lips into a smirk.

She pointed at the body on the floor with a shrug. “Considering I just earned us a payday I think we can afford dinner.”

“You’re right. Let’s make it back to the car, then we can talk about dinner options.” She caught the eye roll before he turned around, and she realized he had never even drawn his gun. Smith had actually trusted her to go through with it. The recognition made her feel light on the inside, bright and airy, even as they slipped back out the window. His little metal tool flipping the lock back in place, and then they were strolling, hand in hand, back towards the car.

“So?”

“So?” Smith echoed her as he turned the key to start the engine, letting the A/C cool the interior as they idled in the spot.

“Are you really going to fuck with me?” she asked.

A low laugh rumbled out of him. “Alright, you did good. You didn’t hesitate at all.”

“That’s right.” She preened, easing the gun out of the back of her pants, restoring it and the clip to the bag.

“It was your first job, and it’s done.” He turned the car away slowly, turning on the lights once they were facing the opposite direction. “What would you like to eat in celebration?”

“I’m thinking Italian.”

“Really, C?”

She laughed, relaxing back against the seat. “Absolutely. We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. I’ll call Mr. Pelletti on the way.” The look he gave her was a flash of pride, and it reminded her of the flicker of a glance she’d earned the first time he’d put a gun in her hand, and now she’d proven him right.

She could do it.

She could kill.

Chapter Eight

One Year Later

“Dammit Smith!” Camille shouted as she lifted her arms to block another kick, the force of it knocking her off balance and she rolled as she hit the ground, popping up a few feet away.

“Language,” he muttered as he came at her again. She had barely taken up her stance when he fired a series of blows at her. The first punch she blocked and redirected, delivering a kick to his side when his weight was leaned too far to strike again. His grunt was short, and then his other fist was coming towards her. She ducked, ducked the next punch, and then dropped down and swept his leg out from under him. Smith hit the floor hard, but rolled backwards and was back on his feet in an instant.

“Show off.” She grumbled as she moved, watching him carefully as they circled each other, slowly getting closer, but she kept her hands up. Ready.

“That was good. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He went straight for her face but she leaned back, side-stepping to throw her own punch, which he caught. Smith twisted her wrist, trying to lock her arm against him, but she rolled inward and landed a hard elbow directly into his nose. His stunned shout made her pause for a moment, and he used it, kicking hard behind her knee to buckle her and send her flat on her back with another strike. Pain radiated up her leg, but she breathed through it until it abated. “Giving up so soon?” he taunted.

“You wish.” Twisting, she pushed herself up from the floor and ducked his first attack, countering with a hard hit to his diaphragm. She caught his attempt to grab her, and lifted her leg between them to kick him back. With little air left in his lungs, Smith stumbled back and landed flat on his ass. He coughed from the floor, and she stayed back, having learned that the fight was never over unless he said it was. “Need a break?”

“Ha. A few kills under your belt and you think you’re top dog now?” Smith flipped to his feet, the smirk at his lips one she knew all too well by now. He was about to make it much,
much
harder to put him on the ground.

This will be fun.

“Eleven.
Eleven
kills, Smith. That’s more than a few.”

“Your first two don’t count.” With a lunge he snagged a knife off the coffee table and swung at her, and she jerked backwards to avoid it.

Fuck. He was not playing around tonight.

She paced him, making him follow her around the hotel room so she could get the meter of his steps, measure when he was comfortable taking a swing with the blade. The next time he thrust, she blocked with her forearm, and grabbed his wrist, driving her thumb into the tendons until his grip went slack. With a twist she ripped the knife free from his palm, and threw it. It tumbled end over end, and then buried its tip in the headboard of the bed.

“Yes!” Camille cheered, and then he tackled her, his shoulder slamming into her stomach just before she hit floor and all the air left her lungs. An instant later he was hovering over her, both of her wrists pinned, his weight distributed at the top of her thighs so she couldn’t counter.

“What did you forget?” he panted, his breath brushing over her cheek.

“I forgot to put you on the ground after I disarmed you.” The words were automatic because she was too distracted to consciously respond with his weight on top of her. Smith was barely inches above her, the warm smell of his skin, his sweat, his aftershave, floating in the space between them – and his mouth was so close. Just an inch or so, and she could…

Before she could stop herself she had lifted her face to his, and their lips met. It was a kiss, warm and soft, and he pressed her back to the floor, nibbling at her lip as it continued and there was no stifling the quiet moan that escaped her as they tentatively deepened the kiss. With a brief brush of tongues, Smith suddenly jerked himself back, sitting up on her hips, and then he threw himself backwards. He landed gracelessly a few feet away, and she sat up, staring at him as if she could mentally confirm that it was okay, that she wanted it, but her tongue was tied up in the knots he’d made of it when he’d kissed her back.

“Session is over,” he said and shoved himself off the floor. A moment later he was shut in the bathroom of their hotel room, while she was still sitting, stunned, beside the coffee table.

His touch was a phantom on her skin, his lips a ghostly memory across her own, but she stayed where she was and memorized it. The taste of his lips, the salt of his sweat, the incredible gentleness of his touch combined with all the raw power of his body, of what she knew he was capable of - she had to memorize it because it was probably the last time he'd ever touch her like that.

“
Shit
…” she whispered and pushed herself off the floor, moving over to the door to press her forehead against it. The cool wood felt good on her skin, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if her heart was racing from the fight, the knife, or the kiss.

Probably the kiss.

“Smith?” Rapping her fingernails on the wood she waited, listening for movement. “Don’t make a fucking deal out of it. Come out.”

The sound of the tiny plastic trashcan being nudged across the tile was the only response.

“Look, I’m sorry I fucking kissed you.” She swallowed around the words, because she didn’t mean them. She’d been wanting to kiss him for almost two years, had wanted to feel his skin against hers when they weren’t fighting. A kiss didn’t feel like much to her, but apparently it was everything to Smith.

It’s because you’re tainted and he knows it.

Dirty. Damaged. Unworthy of someone like him.

With a growl Camille slammed her hand on the wood of the door. “Don’t be a little bitch, Smith! If you don’t want me, just fucking say it. Don’t lock yourself in a God damned bathroom!” Rattling the locked doorknob she kicked the wood and walked away. Fuming as she stared across the hotel room.

Just another hotel room.

Another new place in the city.

Another set of double beds.

One more room that served as evidence just in its existence for how much Smith did
not
want her, had
never
wanted her, and never
would
want her. The stinging presence of tears made her blink, and she grabbed the hotel directory and threw it at the door. “Fuck you, Smith. You – dammit, you bastard! If you don’t want me just say it!”

The door popped open and Smith was framed in the doorway by the darkness behind him, sweat making his shirt cling to every inch of perfect muscle. Pants low on his hips, drawing her eyes to all the places she shouldn’t be looking. “Fine. I don’t want you, C.”

It was like he’d stuck the knife between her ribs, puncturing a lung and making it impossible to breathe. For some reason the words had seemed harmless in her head, but coming from Smith’s lips they felt like razorblades. “You - you’re an asshole.”

“No. I just don’t want you. Don’t do that again.” Cold, jade eyes stared at her from the doorway, not quite meeting hers but floating somewhere around the center of her forehead.

Camille huffed out a breath, swallowing the bitter pain. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Smith watched as Camille grabbed her jacket and headed to the door. His body twitched, fighting the urge in his muscles to stop her, that mindless urge to pull her against him so he could kiss her again – do
all kinds
of things with her.

But it was wrong, and so he did nothing.

Did nothing as she looked back at him again, waiting for him to ask her to stop, to stay, and when he kept his mouth closed – she left. The door slammed shut behind her and Smith finally let himself sag against the wall.

“So stupid. So incredibly stupid.” With a groan he looked south at the idiot stick hidden behind his pants that had grown rock hard as she’d kissed him with those soft lips. Her quiet moans had been like poison dripped into his ear, ruining the barriers he’d built up over time so that he would only look at her as a partner. Another killer, and not anything else.

Not his. Not his. Not his.

It had taken too long for him to convince the erection to fade, too long focusing on breathing, and by the time he’d been able to stand up again inside the bathroom she’d already been shouting at him – so he’d said the only thing he could to prevent catastrophe:
I don’t want you.

What a fucking lie.

That’s what Camille would say if she were here, and she would be right. He wanted her, he wanted her
too
much. He looked too much. He stared too much. If he had any talent with art he could draw the exact way she looked when she laughed. Could paint what she looked like when she finished a job and looked to him for his approval. He would do an entire series on the graceful movements of her limbs as they fought. He’d write sonnets about the strength she was able to put behind her blows, the concentration in her gaze as she fired a gun, the dexterity she exhibited in making him work to take her down – leaps and bounds beyond where she’d been when he had found her.

Ignoring his disheveled, sweat-soaked look, he tugged his jacket on and left the room as well. If there were any luck in the universe, Camille would have gone somewhere other than Bill’s to stew in her hatred of him, because he needed a drink.

It was a Tuesday night, which meant there were only a few scattered regulars when Smith wandered to the back of the bar and dropped into his seat.
Albatross Brewing
glowed above his head, and Bill himself walked over with a glass of bourbon and set it down in front of him. “What did she do?”

“You make such assumptions.”

“I can read you by now, Smith. If you wanted anonymity you shouldn’t have picked my bar to be your favorite haunt.” He pushed the glass across the table towards him. “Now, take a drink, and talk.”

Listening to the guy he viewed as one of his only ‘friends’ in the world, even though Bill knew basically nothing about him, he took a drink. The sweet burn of the bourbon wound its way down into his stomach, bursting with a warmth that he needed. It would serve as a balm to the things he’d said to Camille. It would help him rebuild the barriers. “She kissed me.”

“Alright.” Bill shrugged, leaning back in the chair. As Smith stared he waited for the man to say something else, to react, but he stayed stoic.

“You’re not listening, I kissed her. I kissed C.”

“I thought you said
she
kissed
you
?”

“Yes! She did, that’s what I said.” Smith growled under his breath and threw back more of the bourbon than he should have.

“And you kissed her back?” Bill asked, and Smith’s stomach turned. All he could manage was a nod, but Bill just shrugged again. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

“A girl. Right.” His stomach twisted further, and he tried to stifle it by finishing the bourbon.

“Is that the deal? Her age?”

“Yes.” Smith nodded and tilted the empty glass towards himself, disappointed that he’d finished it too fast, but Bill reached forward and pulled it free from his grip.

“How old is she?” He held up a hand. “Wait, before you answer that I’m getting us both bourbon. I think we’re going to need it.”

Smith nodded and watched as the man wandered back behind the bar. He snagged Miranda before she headed towards the tables and nodded at the two guys sitting at the bar before he brought another glass and an entire bottle of bourbon back to the table.

“Really think we’re going to need the bottle?” he asked as Bill took his seat again.

“You tell me,” he muttered as he filled their glasses and nudged a full one in front of Smith.

“I won’t turn it down.”

“Me either. This is the good stuff.” Bill took a drink and Smith mirrored him, letting the silence reign for a moment until the bartender who had been the only constant in his life for years cleared his throat. “So… how old is she, Smith?”

Another draft of bourbon filled his mouth so he wouldn’t curse needlessly, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid this discussion. Hell, he’d apparently come to Bill’s to
have
this conversation. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you -”

“I don’t know. She’s never told me her age.”