“Fuck.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You want to fuck?”
“No, you creep! It’s fuck, not feck. What information? Why am I here?”
He dismissed my correction with a blink. “It’ll be painless, I assure you.” His accent, faint though it was, made the words roll seamlessly together and I had to focus unless I missed something. “Who wants you dead, lass?”
“Dead?” That jelly in my knees made me wobble and I grabbed at the brass spindled footboard. “What are you talking about?”
“That car outside the hotel? That wasn’t random, and it wasn’t an accident. Someone has put a hit out on you, Emery, and they want you dead badly enough to pay two of us to ensure it gets done. Who did you piss off?”
“That’s ridiculous.” The words were automatic, but inside everything was screaming. I knew exactly who wanted to kill me. I’d thought leaving the army would take care of it, assure him that I was no threat. I’d thought moving back to Virginia would reinforce the idea that I was putting everything in my rear view. As much as it killed me to keep my mouth shut, to swallow my own festering shame and my rage at Michael’s death…I’d done exactly what I’d been told to do. I’d thought that would be the end of it, but I’d been wrong.
“Is it?” His tone was bland but disbelieving.
“Yes! I don’t believe you.” My hands were trembling. Before Brodie’s sharp eyes could see my tell, I grabbed my wrist to rub. The ritual soothed me, centered me. “Where is my phone? I need to call Shiloh.”
“I ditched your phone, Emery. And you should believe me. I don’t make a habit of lying.”
I laughed. “That’s hilarious, Brodie. You’re very obviously a liar. You’ve lulled my friends into thinking you’re this knight in shining armor, but that’s a pretty fiction, isn’t it, Brodie?” I huffed out a breath filled with disgust. “Or is Brodie even your name?”
Brodie pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “My name is Brodie. And you need to believe me because I’m a cleaner for the East Coast Irish, and I was contracted to kill you several days ago.”
Except for the crackle of flame, thick silence filled the room, and I stared at him as though doing so would change his words. Time stretched between us, a taut presence in the small room. Tangible.
“Stop.” The word was an exhalation on his lips, and I clung to it, searching for meaning.
“What?”
He motioned to where I held and rubbed at my wrist. “Stop doing that to yourself. You’re going to draw blood if you keep on.”
I found myself obeying, rubbing my palms along my hips and then re-crossing them over my chest. “Who hired you?”
He lifted his hand to rub tiredly at the back of his neck. “I’m just a cleaner. I do what I’m told. My boss doesn’t hand out details like that.”
I nodded. “So, you kill people? That’s your job?” The question emerged sharper than I intended, but I was hashtag sorrynotsorry.
“I kill vermin,” he said, an answering sharpness in his tone. “It’s part of the life.” He was talking about mob life, I knew. I’d heard the rumors about Twiggy’s father being part of the Irish mob growing up, knew Brodie was Twiggy’s family. He’d seemed so…normal, though.
“It’s a shitty part.”
“Every contract up to this point has been someone deserving. A runner, a pedo. A wife beater.”
“You’re mighty defensive.” It was almost as if he cared about my opinion. Acting casually, I walked over to the door next to the fireplace and peered into the next room. It was a living area, open to a small kitchen on one side and a dining area near the front. There was a door to the outside, and two large bay windows on the front wall. When I looked back at Brodie, he hadn’t moved. Leaning against the doorjamb, I eyed him with genuine curiosity. “What gives you the right to be both judge and executioner?”
Something flickered in his eyes, but it was gone in a breath. Just the firelight, I decided, dancing across his face. I continued.
“If you were given instructions to kill me, who was driving the car back home?”
“I don’t kill women and children, and my boss could tell I was…having trouble. He sent someone to pick up my slack.”
I swallowed. “Your crisis of conscience didn’t last too long.”
One shoulder lifted in a shrug, the gesture too graceful for a man his size. “Carson likes to play with his food. I figured the least I could do was keep myself in the boss’s good graces and give you a painless out.”
“Then why didn’t you?” I bit my lip and asked the question I really wanted an answer for. “Why didn’t you kill me like I asked you to?”
His face was stone, and I knew the reply before his lips formed the words. “I decided I needed more information. What’s a girl like you doing with a hit on her? What did you do to deserve—”
“You mean you needed me to justify it for you.” After a second’s thought, he inclined his head toward me. “And what were you going to if my sins didn’t qualify me for your brand of mercy, Brodie? What then?”
“I hadn’t thought that —”
I didn’t give him a chance to finish his thought. Pushing off the doorjamb, I ran.
