Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) (3 page)

With a grudging glance, and another twist of the ache in her empty belly, she dipped her sandwich and then bit into it. The crunch of the bread was music in her ears, and her growling stomach echoed it. Before she knew it, she’d devoured half the sandwich and most of the fries. Just as she was about to grab the second half of the sandwich she noticed his odd expression. “What?” she asked defensively.

“Nothing. Go on, eat.”

Camille rolled her eyes and took another bite, the burst of flavor on her tongue actually registering beyond the joy of real, warm food. This was good, delicious, and it made the man across from her way too tempting to trust.

Hell, he hadn’t even asked for a hand job in the car.

“So, C, are you interested in doing something different?”

“Such as?” She spoke through a mouthful of food, and he seemed vaguely amused.

“I want to teach you some things. See if you have an aptitude for them.”

“A what?” she asked, the word way above her head.

“I want to see if you’re able to learn the things I want to teach.”

She swallowed, setting the last bit of the sandwich back on the plate, ignoring the small pile of napkins he’d set on the table, opting to use her hand instead. “Depends on what kind of shit you want to teach.”

“More of what we tried earlier tonight. A lot more.” Smith tilted his head a little, evaluating her reaction, and she tried her best to stay still, to not give away the frisson of excitement that had rushed through her.

He wanted to teach her to shoot? To do more than shoot?

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. If you’ll teach me to do it like you do, I’m in.”

He laughed low, swirling the ice in his glass. “That will take time. A lot of time.”

“I’ve got time.” And she wasn’t lying, all she had was time. Even though she wanted to go after those bastards one after the other, being able to hit someone with the kind of accuracy he’d displayed would make it a fuck of a lot easier.

“Alright then, finish eating. Then you’ll sleep, and we’ll start tomorrow.”

“Where will I sleep?”

“In a bed.” His answer was infuriatingly short and she rolled her eyes.

“Will you be in it?” Camille pushed the mostly empty plate away from her and grabbed the coke to sip the last dregs from the bottom. Smith waved the waitress over and gestured at her glass.

“No. I won’t.”

“Okay.” She nodded and accepted the fresh glass from the waitress, who cleared the plates and left the paper check on the table. Smith grabbed it before Camille could even glance at the handwritten total scratched across it.

“Wonderful. We can get your things tomorrow from wherever you’ve -”

“I don’t have anything worth getting.” Cutting him off, she shrugged as he tugged his wallet out to lay some cash on the table. It wasn’t really a lie. He had her knife on him somewhere, or in that duffel in his trunk, and that was the only thing she really cared about. The ragged clothes she’d collected, the small collection of plates and utensils she’d stolen from diners like this one? Those she could leave to Thomas and the other boys.

“Then let’s get going.”

Chapter Two

Six Months Later

“Get up.” His voice was rough as Camille brushed at the tears stinging the edges of her eyes, but that was a terrible idea since the heels of her hands were skinned and bloody. “I said get up.”

“Shut the hell up, Smith!” Roaring out her frustration, she shoved herself off the gravel of the rooftop, ignoring the pain in her busted elbow, the blood on her palms, and formed her stance again.

“Make me.” The cocky tilt to his head had her growling and she lunged for him, but he pivoted like a ballet dancer and twisted to deliver a hard kick, which she barely blocked with both forearms. Just as she was recovering to look for a strike, Smith grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her forward, off balance, and sent her face first into the rooftop again.

This time she felt the raw skin scraping at her elbow inside her shirt and she buckled, trying her hardest to suppress a sob of pain through gritted teeth.

“Are you crying, C?” He crouched beside her, his voice completely devoid of sympathy.

“No.”

A hard punch to her ribs sent her flat, and he sighed above her as she mouthed a silent cry feeling the pain spread. Taking a ragged breath, she screamed at him, “FUCK OFF!” Camille hated how her voice broke, hated how he got under her skin worse than anyone on the planet, but hated more just how much she needed this. Clenching her jaw tight she planted her boot on the ground to push herself up, facing him again.

“You think one of your targets will give you a break?” Smith went to sweep her legs but she jumped it, stepping close to land a one-two punch to his midsection. His arms moved to come around her, and she heard his voice in her head,
‘Never let a man get a hold of you.’
Turning and ducking out of his arms she slammed her knee into the back of his and sent him to the ground, with a grunt of effort she kicked him between the shoulder blades and for the first time that night he was on his belly on the fucking rooftop instead of her.

“My targets aren’t going to be fucking ninjas!” She shouted above him, circling him out of his range as he gathered himself and stood. “I’m a hundred times better than I was.”

“That doesn’t mean much. You couldn’t even hold a gun when I met you.” The moonlight carved his profile out of the darkness, highlighting the slight tilt of his lips. “And you still can’t hold your temper.”

“If you’d let me go on a fucking job with you, if you’d let me fight someone who isn’t a black belt in four hundred -”

“I am
not
a black belt. In anything.”

“What the fuck ever, you know I could kick practically anyone’s ass.” She popped the knuckles on one hand as he shook his head slowly, letting out a deep sigh as he rested his hands on his hips.

“But you still can’t kick
mine
.”

“I just laid you out flat.”

“And then you backed off.” A low rumble came from his chest as he walked towards her, her muscles tensing in preparation. “What did I tell you about pity?”

“You -”

He swung at her, and she could tell he wasn’t pulling his punches this time. Blocking with her forearm she ducked the second swing and lifted her knee just in time to block the kick coming for her stomach. Camille returned the kick, aiming for his knee, but she caught the much more sturdy flesh of his thigh instead. Snagging the back of her ankle he lifted it, trying to throw her backwards, but she let him lift her leg, feeling the muscles stretch and strain, and then she jumped – knee bending and then extending, landing the heel in his grip directly into his chin with a force that snapped his head back.

Smith’s stunned shout made her pause as both her boots met the gravel again and he stumbled backwards. “Again,” he growled through the blood in his mouth and he charged her.

Almost six feet of solid muscle coming straight for her. She’d seen the ridged muscles under his shirt, the strength of his arms, the thick power in his legs that he kept hidden from the world so no one could tell what they were dealing with. But she knew, and in that moment he wasn’t her strange, gun-toting, robot-like version of a killer guardian angel, he was nothing more than an obstacle.

Digging the toes of her shoes into the gravel she rushed him, watching as his body twitched in reaction to her sudden offensive, the meter of his steps off kilter for just a moment – and she threw herself into a slide. Catching one of his legs with hers she sent him tumbling to the ground, but he landed on his shoulder and rolled, coming up in a crouch. Jade eyes flashed at her, and for a moment a flare of what looked like pride crossed his features.

Camille flipped herself back to her feet, and she couldn’t wipe the furious glee from her face. “You said pity is for the weak.”

“That’s right.” He prowled towards her, and she swallowed as his long gait took him in a curving path towards her, forcing her to rotate to keep her eyes on him.

Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

“And that includes me.” Smith was suddenly next to her and she tried to lift an arm to block the flash of movement she saw from the corner of her eye, but in the moment she had dropped her guard to ogle him, he grabbed her by the throat and swept her leg at the same time, slamming her to the ground. All of the air left her lungs in a burst as her head cracked against the gravel, star bursting pain across the back of her skull. “That was amateur, C. Where was your head?”

Thinking about how you look like a fucking male model in jeans and a fucking shirt.

“I thought we were done.” She coughed as she rolled to her side and tried to recover, his voice low and patient as he towered above her.

“You’re better than this. Now, up. Again. I haven’t called an end.”

Camille lay out on the ground for a moment, the frigid sky above New York swollen with gray clouds that captured the light pollution, not a star in sight. Her head was pounding, her forearms felt caked in bruises, she knew her hands were scraped and bleeding, and her elbows probably were too beneath the black shirt. She had been nothing more than a network of bruises and scrapes for months, but in the beginning he’d always given her time to regroup, to breathe – she didn’t get that courtesy anymore.

Smith pulled his leg back to deliver a kick and she rolled to her side, blocking with her arms, before snagging his foot and yanking him with her as she flipped to the other side. She heard him hit the ground and sat up, slamming her elbow into the knee joint. A low hiss of pain was Smith’s only reaction as his other leg came up and over her, wrapping across her neck and shoulders to slam her back to the ground. With a sharp twist to her wrist he broke her hold on his leg and laid back, hyper extending her into an arm bar that made her shout in pain. “FUCK!”

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

“Shit, Smith, my -”

“What. Did. You. Do. Wrong.” His voice was iron, and she couldn’t suppress the tears any longer as the pain spread up to her shoulder. Everything hurt. Everything always hurt.

It’s for a reason. Don’t forget the goal. There are people that have to die.

“I took my eyes off you.”

“Yes. You did. What else?”

“I didn’t get away from you once I had you on the ground.” He stretched her arm a little more, the pain increasing until a high-pitched whine escaped between her teeth.

“And
why
should you always get away?”

“Because I won’t win if I’m not smart.”

Smith muttered something to her right and she craned her head to meet his steady eyes. The bastard was barely breathing hard. “
Because
?”

“Because no matter how fast I am, or how well you train me, a man will always be stronger than I am, and if I let them get me on the ground I might as well kiss my ass goodbye.” Camille kept the pain off her face, counting in her head to distract from it. An old method, but fuck it, it worked.

“That’s right.” He released her and rolled backwards to get to his feet. “
Now
we’re done.”

“Fine.” She slowly pulled her arm in, not rushing the strained tendons and muscles, but at least the mid-30s temps of January would dull the ache soon enough.

“I don’t matter, C. No one matters but you. You have to get that through your head.”

“Right. No friends. No family. I know the spiel. Having people you care about just gives people power over you.” Camille sat up, and he stared down at her, his expression placid even though his cheeks were flushed from their sparring session, and a smear of blood marred the corner of his mouth.

“I’m included in that, C.”

“Oh, trust me, I don’t give a
shit
about you.”
Liar liar.

“Good, then you’re one step closer.” He offered his hand, but she refused to take it. Forcing herself off the ground with what counted as her good arm for the moment.

“To what?”

“To being ready.”

“Fuck you, Smith.” Camille stomped towards her bag, and she heard him sigh heavily behind her. When he muttered under his breath again she rounded on him. “You
know
I’m fucking ready. You know I am.”

“You’re not ready yet.”

“You keep saying that!” She growled and shoved her hands into her white blonde hair, ruining the ponytail, clenching her fists at the roots as if she could hold her rage in check through physical means. “When am I going to be ready? Huh? I knocked out two clips into the target at 12 yards yesterday. Center mass. I run five miles a fucking day. I can put your ninja-ass on the ground, even if you do it to me ten times more often. You said -”

“I
said
you would be ready when I told you that you were.” Smith brushed her off, and headed towards his own bag by the rooftop door.

“I’m ready now.”

“No. You’re not.” He tugged a towel from his bag and mopped his face with it, pressing it to the corner of his mouth. “Your temper is still your biggest weakness, C. You let it blind you, distract you. When you’re after a target it doesn’t matter if you hate them or feel nothing for them. It doesn’t matter if they get a good hit in, it doesn’t matter if you embarrass yourself and fall flat on your ass. All that matters at the end is who is dead, and who is alive.”

Dammit.

“I’m going to Bill’s.” Yanking her hoodie out of the backpack she pulled it over her head before the sweat cooling on her skin made her start shivering.

“Bill isn’t going to serve you.” The soft laughter in his voice made her blood boil, but she shut her mouth tight so she didn’t prove him right about her temper.

Again.

“Whatever, Smith.” Camille grabbed her knife and tucked it into the pouch at the front of her hoodie before zipping the pack shut and swinging it onto her aching shoulder.

“You know I have to leave in the morning.”

“Right. Another job you won’t take me on.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed the handle to the door, but Smith slammed his hand on the metal and held it closed.

“It’s almost midnight. Just come down to the room -”

“No.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she stared at it, monitoring the rest of his controlled expression for any other tells, any other sign of emotion from him, but after a moment even his jaw relaxed. “Fine, I’ll wait up for you.”

“No need.” Pulling hard on the door she cracked it open and Smith stepped back and released it, letting her into the stairwell. Camille hated that a part of her wanted him to come after her, wanted him to do something more than just stare at her, but as the door creaked shut behind her she knew he wouldn’t.

Her misguided infatuation with Smith was painfully one-sided, but she’d grown used to it. Too many months of the man making sure they had two beds in every hotel they moved to. Changing locations every two weeks like clockwork. Making sure she ate, slept, worked out, trained. Stayed focused, so she could walk his path
some day
. Whenever he decided she was
ready
.

Smith killed people for a living. He was a hired gun, a hitman, an assassin. He wasn’t shy about it, and as far as she could tell he’d never lied to her. If he didn’t want to answer her, he simply didn’t. But he had told her little things about himself, when they were in a hotel with only the TV to fill the space, or when they were out to dinner. Little tidbits here and there. Favorite foods, places he’d been, pet peeves, movies he enjoyed, tiny things that filled in the pieces of an ever more complicated picture of him.

On the other hand, Camille lied to him constantly. And they both knew it. Sometimes he called her on it, sometimes his mouth would just twitch, and he would change the subject. The only question he continuously asked, and she continuously avoided, was why she’d stumbled into Bill’s bar for a gun those many months before.

Joe Wilson
.

The name was like bile in the back of her throat even though she hadn’t actually spoken it aloud. His face flashed inside her mind like a nightmare, and she slammed her sore knuckles into the wall as she turned the last flight of stairs.

Yeah, she needed a drink. For the sore muscles, for the memories threatening to surface even as she started to sing in her head to drown them out, and to distract her from the vision of Smith walking across the rooftop like some physically perfect specter of death.