Never Kiss a Bad Boy (2 page)

Anabelle grabbed the fat bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, slapping it into my open palm. Her eyebrows dipped low. “Everything okay?”

I cradled the bottle protectively to my side. “Yeah, we're just celebrating tonight, that's all.”

Her unease shifted into delight, teeth bright in the overhead lamps. “Really! What's the occasion?”

I looked over her head to the door. Kite was pushing through, dressed in jeans and an over-washed green shirt. He'd changed out of his clothes from earlier. “Call it the end of an era,” I said evasively. Ignoring her baffled stare, I approached Kite.

Pulling up short by the door, he looked straight at the Johnny Walker. “Is that for me?”

“Thought you might need it,” I chuckled. Holding it out, I let him take it. The tattoos across his knuckles stood out, stark from how fiercely he choked the neck of the whiskey. “How are you feeling?”

Balancing the bottle on his palm, he gave me a wry smile. “Like you've let me down. This isn't enough alcohol to call this a celebration.”

Laughing, I patted his shoulder and guided him towards a quiet corner. “The night hasn't even started.”

Our bar was big, all dark wood and rich blue booths. It had the right combination of grit and class. New York was full of young people who were burnt out from trying to 'make it.' They wanted to go crazy and lose themselves in drink and noise.

And we gave them the place to do it.

It also sated our love for alcohol, sin, and sex. All sorts of girls came through, and I was eager to taste each one of them.

Kite and I had partied like this since the day we came into money. Could we be blamed for that? After years of struggling and scraping, we suddenly had more cash than we'd ever imagined.

Maybe buying a bar was a little extreme, but we made use of it. It had worked as a front, allowing us to pretend it was the source of our income. It was easy to justify the purchase, but the reality is we'd gotten hooked on the lifestyle and never come back down. Sex and whiskey were just the tip of our sins.

At least we aren't killers any longer.

Well. That wasn't entirely true.

We'd always be killers, that doesn't wash off of you. The only thing that had changed—as of today—was we wouldn't take contracts anymore.

Frank had been our last.

The bottle thunked onto the center of the table. Kite uncapped it, taking a long pull right from the opening. He sighed through his nose, pushing the whiskey to me. Lifting my eyebrows, I nudged it back to him pointedly. Kite took the hint, swallowing another mouthful.

“Good?” I asked.

“Burns like hell,” he chuckled.

“Right. So it's good.” My smile didn't reach my eyes, neither did his. Kite wasn't acting like himself. I knew today would weigh heavily on us both, but I didn't want to think about the why of it.

We'd finally done what we'd promised. Five years of contracts, get the money, and get out. It was never supposed to be long term.

Who wants to be a murderer forever?

Staring at Kite, studying how he twisted the bottle on the table, I was now wondering. I couldn't lie, it had been an exciting life. There were ups and downs, but the ups... the ups made you soar like nothing else.

The buzz you could get from drinking paled when compared to pulling a trigger.

Reaching over, I took the bottle and forced some down my throat. It really did burn.

Wiping my mouth, I said, “Everything is fine.”

He sat up, fingers curling on the edge of the table. “I know that, Jacob. Stop acting like I'm depressed.”

“Stop pouting like a sad puppy,” I countered. Kite narrowed his eyes on me, but there was no threat. Keeping my face emotionless, I forced the whiskey back into his hand. He didn't
have
to take it, I couldn't make his fingers close on the neck... but they did. “I know you, Kite. I know you better than anyone.”

Wrinkling his nose, he shot his eyes away. “Then you know I don't want to get into this.”

“The fact that there
is
a this—”

“Dammit, Jacob!” he snapped, gesturing at me with the bottle. “How can there not be a—fuck, a this, a whatever!” Lowering his tone, he leaned towards me. In the red lamps, those black eyes resembled fresh blood. “It was a big deal. I didn't want it to be, but it was. Imagining that it's over with just makes me feel so...”

When he didn't finish, I linked my hands on the table. “So empty? So stale?”

He actually flinched, a smile slow to grow. “Yeah. Of course you know what I mean. I'm acting like this is all about me, but it's the same for you, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I said flatly. “It's the same for me. Kite, it's okay to admit it. Thinking that it's all done... it's weird, but it's for the best. We'll be living the high life until we're too old to get our dicks hard enough to take advantage of it.”

His laugh took him by surprise. Kite couldn't resist copying my grin. “I'll never be that old,” he snorted. “Speaking of which, this place better get busy tonight.” Another gulp of whiskey, and when the bottle came down, Kite looked the way he normally did. That dark humor, those knowing eyes and sharp smile.

Yes. This was better.

“It's Friday night in downtown New York,” I said. “When has it
not
gotten busy in here?”

Chuckling, he jumped from his seat and brushed back his short, copper hair. “Fair point. If all else fails,” he said, pointing at Anabelle. “I'll just wet my appetite in familiar waters.”

Rolling my eyes, I reclined. “She's seen you take hundreds of girls into the backroom, I don't get why she puts up with you.”

“Because I'm good with my hands.” Winking, Kite looked over my head. Turning, I saw what he did; a crowd was forming, eager half-dressed women who were here to enjoy themselves. “I'm ready to have some fun.”

I knew what 'fun' meant. Enough substances in your brain or pussy on your cock, and you could forget about the dark pain, tortured cries, and twisted memories.

At least, for a little while.

Marina

––––––––

I
couldn't stop shaking.

From the outside, my sweating face and sour-milk skin would have looked like fear. That was normal, right? When you were standing there, watching a man who seconds ago had been alive and was now solidly dead on the grass... you got scared.

But I wasn't.

I was trembling with
excitement.

This dead man—a man I'd followed for over a week and had learned was named Frankie the Razor—was going to be the first man I'd ever killed. The start of my revenge.

And now, this monster was lying stiff on the ground.

I didn't understand how this had happened.

The tip of my toe touched something; the remains of a fallen hot dog. Around me, people were screaming. My ears heard it, the mayhem, but I was still in shock. The ruckus came at me from years away, not affecting me while I stood near the body.

He wasn't breathing, I thought he'd stopped before he hit the ground. Was that possible?

It had all gone down so fast. I'd been following Frankie, keeping my distance because that was what you
did
, if all the crime shows were to be believed. He was here to watch the marathon, I'd thought. Or maybe he was just strolling in the park. I couldn't know what was normal for him.

The sun was still shining, the beautiful day contrasting with the murder scene. I saw the blood, it was seeping from his shirt in a giant ripple. Some had begun pooling on the grass.

A hand shoved me, paramedics shouting for everyone to move. They crouched, examining Frankie and touching him with their hands and gear. They could have known just looking at his wide, glassy eyes. The man was dead.

And I'd seen it happen.

The guy in the grey coat.
I hadn't spotted him until he'd bumped into Frank. The figure had materialized from no where. Then came the tip of the gun, knuckles that had been bone white and covered with tattoos.

In my moment of pure amazement, I'd actually read them.
Swim. His tattoos said 'swim' across his hand.

The Starter had shot his pistol. I hadn't heard the other gun, just a few feet away from me. No one had. But unlike everyone else, I hadn't looked away.

I was the only witness to a murder.

The crowd was swarming, shoving to get close, cameras flashing photos of the grizzly corpse. Police were threading through, waving folks to retreat and asking if anyone had seen what had gone down.

Lifting my chin, I pushed the chocolate brown hair from my eyes. In this city, cops and I were not friends. Not any longer.

Ducking my eyes, I turned on my heel. My steps were fast, though I had no clue where I was going.

That man with the tattoos.

His sharp jaw, fine eyebrows and thunderstorm pupils entered my brain.
Who was he?
I wondered, burying my hands in my pockets in spite of the heat. Someone as efficient as that, he had to be experienced. Had Frankie betrayed him, angered him? Was there a motive to the killing?

My world was a wreck. Revenge, it was all I'd had on my mind since I'd seen Frankie's scraggly mug.

He hadn't recognized me, but he couldn't have. I'd been a six year old hiding in a closet on that fateful day, and the police had taken care not to plaster my face all over the news while they investigated the slaughter of my parents and older sister.

Finding Frankie had given me purpose, even if it was a vicious one. I knew nothing about how to kill, but I'd planned to end Frank's life.

It wasn't so simple, though.

It had taken sixteen years to come across one of the two assholes who were to blame for ruining my happiness. I needed Frankie alive so he could tell me where to find his accomplice.

In my memory—my nightmares—I recalled the other man as being gigantic, muscular. Dead eyes that held nothing, and a terrible smile that was missing a tooth. But I had no name, nothing of use.

I'd needed Frankie to lead me to him. Now, it was too late.

I need to find him,
I realized. The 'swim' tattooed man who'd moved like a panther. He'd murdered Frankie so effortlessly, he
had
to know something about the guy.

Stomping down the busy sidewalk in the city, the sirens of cop cars in my ears, I knew what I would do.

No matter how long it could take... I would find the assassin from the park. I'd scour the whole city if I had to. Someone would have to know who he was.

Swim—as I'd begun dubbing him—would be found in time.

I'd waited sixteen years to claim revenge.

I could wait a little longer.

****

T
he news stations wouldn't shut up about the murder.

That was good, honestly. I listened to every station, flipped channels in my apartment and scrounged the internet. Newspapers piled up and covered everything. It only took a few days before they said the word that would turn my heart into a propeller.

Hitman.

The kill had been too precise, too fast. The burn from the gun barrel on Frankie's skin revealed it was a close up attack. The cops said they were sure of it.

They also revealed that he was part of a notorious mafia family—the Montegos. Frankie had enemies, and his enemies had money. Someone had organized a hit on him.

“Holy shit,” I said to myself. Sitting up on my couch, shoving aside paper stacks, I grabbed a notebook. There were too many things crowding into my skull. I wanted to write them down so I could make a plan.

Tapping my chin, I scraped my brain for every sliver of detail about the man. Reddish hair, I'd seen it burning in the sun around his scalp like a halo. He'd looked young, maybe my age. Light skin, pretty tall—taller than Frankie—and those onyx eyes.

He had a bluetooth device on his ear
, I suddenly recalled.

I didn't recognize the model, I'd never bothered buying one of those things; I lived a pretty simple life. For cash, I helped out with online data entry for hospitals. The money I'd inherited from my father's burned business had dwindled over the years. The leftovers, all fifteen grand of it, were sitting in my bank.

Thinking about the money forced painful memories to bubble up. My neck hurt from how hard I shook my head.
Stop, not now,
I told myself.
Focus on this. Think about the bad shit later.

Turning the page, I chewed my pen.
If he had a bluetooth phone, maybe he was talking to someone. Does that mean he doesn't work alone?

Write down everything, Marina.

Every detail.

On a fresh piece of paper, I drew the man's tattooed knuckles. This was what I would show people. It would be the easiest way to identify the guy I was looking for.

I'd gathered as much information as I could. With nothing else on my side but determination, and a dash of hope, I began my hunt.

I would find my hitman.

****

Eight Months Later

––––––––

L
icking my lips, I reached up to take the paper back from the inked shopkeeper behind the counter. “I'm sorry, say that again?” I asked.

“I said those look like Kite's knuckles. Yeah, I remember the time he and I got wasted. I challenged him to a bloody knuckles contest.” Snorting, the bald man folded his arms. “It was a stupid as hell decision. Guy didn't back down, tore me up. Like I said, stupid of me.”

A vibrating tremor inched up from my knees to my lungs.
Kite. His name is Kite.
“Do you know where I can find him?”

Shrugging into his ears, the guy pointed out the door. “Well, him and his friend Jacob own a bar down on Northline. The Corner Velvet, ever hear of it?”

I hadn't. “No,” I said quickly. “Can you give me the address?” I tried to soften my excitement.

Suspicion filled the man's face. “Sure thing.” Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed a scrap of paper and scratched out the information. If he was curious about my intentions, he never asked. He simply gave me the address and waved me off, perhaps deciding that if I had any plans for Kite, he didn't want to get involved.