Viper: A Hitman Romance (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

JESSICA

There's so much roiling within me when I leave the office.  Guilt and pain and love and sorrow.   I need to get away from the memories of Ryker, I need to get away from the daily reminders of what I compromised to protect that man. 

Every bit of evidence that comes into that lab is just another reminder of how I've failed.

Before I leave, I go over to HR so they can debrief me.

They ask me why I'm quitting and I tell them the truth: that since the events of this weekend, I no longer feel like I can properly do my job.

I don't tell them about the man I've come to realize that I love. 

Or about just how far I'll go to protect him.

The man behind the desk tells me that "he's sorry that I feel that way".

On my way out, Jeremy tracks me down one last time.  He tells me that he's sorry to see me go, that I was one of the best evidence analysts on the team.

I tell him thanks. 

I don't tell him about how I fucked over his case so that I could protect a killer.

Honestly, now that it's over, I'm glad to be moving on.

Over the next month, I move from L.A. to San Francisco.  Well, Oakland, actually, since the rents in San Francisco are way above my pay grade. 

It feels good to leave that crime-scene of a duplex behind.  I don't think any amount of scrubbing will take the blood stains out of that kitchen.

I'm closer to Connor at Stanford.  I'm there to help him through his treatment, and he's there to help me with my recovery, even though I can't tell even him the full story about why my life is such a mess.

Eventually, I build a new life for myself.

I find a job.  Which isn't a hard thing to do when you leave the FBI with the glowing reputation as a workaholic. 

I work with the Sea Conservancy, now.  I work in their lab, analyzing sediment and estuary samples and I do my part to make the oceans a cleaner place.

It's a pay cut, but it's rewarding.  And there's a good health plan, too.

Drax doesn't bother me anymore.  I figure he probably heard I left the FBI in tears and got the message.

I go to therapy twice a week. 

It takes a long time before I'm able to close my eyes and not see blood.  It takes even longer before I can sleep without dreaming of Ryker's lips on mine.  But eventually, I manage even that.

For six months, I scrape by.  I work hard and I put together the shattered pieces of my life. 

I even build a bit of a reputation for myself.  Nothing major, but my name is put out there in a few scientific journals for my work in conservation. 

One time, they even mention me in
National Geographic
.  It's just in a short paragraph, talking about up-and-comers in the California environmentalist scene, but I frame the article and it hangs above my desk at work.

I practically give up.  Not just for my health, but for my wallet too.  It's hard to justify drinking when you're swimming in debt.

But tonight's different. 

After months of penny-pinching and pain, we're celebrating.

There's four of us out tonight: me, Connor, and two of my friends from work, Jeff and Ashley.  We're out at a dive bar, The Microphone Lounge, and its karaoke night.

There's a lot to sing for.  Connor's just found out he's in complete remission.

We all sing, and we all drink.  A lot.

I nail a drunken version of Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll".  I belt it out, because I'm feeling like I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Another guy comes up after me. He's a heavyset dude in his forties, with a flannel shirt that's halfway unbuttoned to reveal a hairy and sweaty chest.  He
roars
his way through Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me".  He's running his hands up his chest and his eyes are shut and he's just nailing the 80's hair-metal dance moves.

And I can't stop smiling.

Sugar man finishes his song and everyone is on their feet.  I even whistle at him, and so do about five other women in this packed bar.

Then, cutting through the din of the bar, I hear the first chords to a song I haven't heard in months.

There's no one in front of the microphone and the karaoke DJ is calling out for the Mr. Smith that requested 'Feeling Good' to get their drunk ass up to the stage.

Just like that, I go from happy and loose to totally on edge.

I'm scanning the crowd like a hawk.

"What is it, Jess?" Connor asks.

Jeff reaches over and takes my hand. 

He and I are kind of an item.  If a few dates makes you an item.  It's nothing serious. He's a good guy, and he knows that I'm dealing with some serious shit and he respects my space.  Things are casual, and it'll be a while before I'd even consider him my boyfriend.

"Jessica?  Are you ok?" he says.

I feel the blood draining from my face.  I feel my heart surging into my throat.  But I don't answer them, even though I hear both of them repeating their questions again with more urgency.

I'm looking through the bar, ignoring everything because I'm
hunting
for that man with the smokey voice, the man who turned my life upside down.

I need to know if it's him.

The spot in front of the microphone stays empty, the song ends, and the DJ moves on to the next request.  Two young and very drunk ladies come up to start in on "Don't Stop Believin".

"I need some air," I mutter and my seat nearly falls over because I get up so fast.

"Jessica?  Are you alright?"  Jeff asks again.

"Just leave me alone, ok?"

That sounds harsher than it needs to be, but right now, Jeff's irritating me.  I have one thing on my mind: Ryker Blackwood.

I push my way through the crowd and step out into the cold Bay Area night. 

Behind me, I hear the cheering and the laughing as half the crowd sings along to Journey.  I'm cursing myself for getting so upset, and that some small part of me wanted to see his face in the crowd. 

Ryker Blackwood is gone for good.  It's better that way.  Things are looking up here.  I have a new life, with friends, with healthy family, with a job that makes a difference.

So why am I crying?  Why do I want to see the man who's very presence in my life put that all at risk?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

RYKER

I've been keeping tabs on Jessica for weeks now. 

I thought I left her behind, I thought I'd started a new life, but all of a sudden her name is popping up all over in magazines and my heart reminds me that she never really left.

I still think about her; I still remember the way she smells; I still remember the way she tastes; I still remember her goofy grin as she pulled that cucumber-gun on me and shot her way into my heart.

I've kept my distance.  Because I care.  Because I know she needs her space.

I know I've hurt her.

Then, I find there's a big wave surfing competition, just twenty minutes south of San Francisco at Mavericks Beach, and it's the perfect pretext to come visit her.

So I watch the waves.  I didn't surf — despite six months of practice in the Keys, I'm going to need months more before I can handle that kind of surf. 

Then, I come here.

I follow her.

And I have everything set up tonight to step back into her life and let her know just how much she means to me.

Because I'm tired of depriving myself of a woman that I know means so much to me.  A woman that's changed my life.

Then, I see her at that table.  I see that she's moved on.  I see how happy she is.

For the first time in my life, I hesitate.  I can't pull the trigger on my song.  I can't step back into her life.

And so, here I am in the parking lot, pacing and feeling like a fool.  I know I should leave, but I can't pull the trigger on that, either.

Then,
she
comes out.  And she starts sobbing.  And it just does something to me.  It hits me deeper than any bullet and I'm coming out of the shadows and standing there in the light of the street lamp.

"
You
," she says.  Her voice is like an accusation.  "What are you doing here?"

There's so much pain in her voice, like she's watching her world fall to pieces around her again, and I realize in that moment how fragile she is.

I know I should keep my distance, I know she's hurt, but I just can't stay away.  My arms are around her before I know it.

My shirt is wet with her tears.

"Why are you here, Ryker?" she asks again.

I pull a deep breath.  I've rehearsed what I want to say so many times, but, now that I'm around her, I don't remember a single goddamn word.

"I couldn't stay away, Jessica.  I tried, but I had to see you."

She looks up at me, and says, "but what about your new life?  And what about my new life?  I have something here, Ryker.  I'm building something. 
Why did you come back?
"

I breathe and my body shakes with holding back the pain I feel inside.  The way she looks at me, desperate, hoping, yet angry and so hurt, it shatters me.

"
Why?
"  She repeats.

And I open myself up.

"Because every day I think about you.  Because every night I dream about you.  Because my life feels half-empty without you in it.  Because I love you."

I've spent the better part of a decade being a professional killer, cold and distant, putting any emotions into the background while I plot twelve steps ahead of my targets.  And even retired, I'm probably the coldest and most-calculated surfer in Key Largo.

But there's something about this woman that just
fucking jolts
my heart back to life.

"Jessica, my life is going to be one bleak, sunshine-filled hell if I don't have you in it."

"Sounds about right for Florida," she mumbles.

I laugh.

It feels so fucking good to laugh.

"True," I reply.  "Honestly, Jessica, I want you in my life.  I need you."

She looks up at me with eyes glossy from tears.  "What about Drax?  He still wants us dead, you know."

I shake my head.  "No, he doesn't."

Which isn't
entirely
the truth.  He probably still wants the two of us dead, but, after the two separate hitmen I took out in my first month in Key Largo, Drax and his money became
persona non grata
in the community of hired killers.  I even mailed their trigger fingers back to him, just to make sure he understood the message.  Despite his pride, Michael Drax is a smart man, and he knows when to cut his losses.

"How do you know?" she asks.

"I'll give you three guesses," I say.

She shakes her head.  "No.  You know what, the less we talk about that, the better."

I don't blame her.  Dealing with the aftermath was not the funnest point in my life.

"So, what do you do now?" she asks.

"Surf, mostly."

She laughs.  It's a bit ragged, probably because she's still on the verge of crying.  But it sounds so good to hear.

"You?  Surf?" she says, disbelieving.

I nod.  "Yeah.  I teach SCUBA sometimes to tourists.  So?"

"You don't exactly seem like the surfing type."

"I'm really not," I admit.  "But I figure, maybe in a few years, I can really fit into the community.  It'll take a lot of work, but, if I try real hard, I'll get a really killer tan, I'll stop cutting my hair, and say 'dude' a lot."

She shoves me playfully.  "Now you're just being an ass."

I smile.  "How would you know? 
You're
not a surfer.  You don't know what it's like to hang eleven."

She arches an eyebrow.  "Hang eleven?  What the hell is that?"

"Taking hanging ten to the next level.  Without clothes."

"Are you serious?"

"You're not a real surfer until you've done it.  We're a wild group, Jessica.  A bunch of rebels."

"What about sunburn?  Or jellyfish?"

I shrug.  "I live a dangerous life.  Those risks come with the territory."

I turn and gesture to my car, the same old Jag from six months ago.  For all the other things I gave up from my old life, I couldn't give up that car.  Too many good memories.  Like Jessica threatening to fill it with vomit in protest of fast food.

"Let's take a ride."

The thrill that runs through me when she opens the door and sits down in the passenger seat next to me, is indescribable.  It's the thrill of a new dawn, a new day, a chance for life to turn out as I want it.