“Then what? What do you want?”
“Information,” I reply, my voice as hard as my grip. “You know a guy named Alexei Sokolov? Russian? Word is, he’s in town.”
“Sokolov?” He croaks, blinking in surprise. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”
I squeeze tighter, making sure I have his full attention. I’m hauling him in but that doesn’t mean I can’t get information on the bigger payout I’m after in the process. Alexei has been dodging me for months and I’m close. I’m also fucking sick of theslick bastard slipping away from me. “I need to know where he’s stayin’.”
“Man, I don’t—I don’t know, really. I swear.” He swallows hard and shifts his gaze like he’s expecting Sokolov to walk out and shoot him where he stands.
“Don’t lie to me, Hanes. I’ve got no patience for bullshit.” I slam him again and his skull hits concrete, making a sharp thud.
“Fine, fine!” The words are hoarse and strained as he struggles to use his vocal cords under the pressure. “I’ll tell you! Just let go. You’re crushing my windpipe!”
Easing up a fraction and keeping him firmly pinned, I wait for him to start talking. I let the silence do the threatening for me. Experience has taught me that staying quiet is almost always the best interrogation method. Most people can’t handle the wait, not knowing what’s going to happen next. It’s that uncomfortable feeling of anticipation right before the inevitable pain you know is coming.
“Sokolov’s staying at the old Miller Hotel on Oak Drive.” He wheezes for a few seconds, talking in a rush. “Top floor, penthouse suite. Guy’s skittish as hell though. He’s got a group of armed guards with him at all times. You’re not getting in there, man. No fuckin’ way.”
I process the information, committing every word to memory. This will be easy enough. I’ve dealt with worse situations than a paranoid target before. I have ways of getting around mercs. And scared or not, Sokolov can’t stay inside forever. I have patience and time. I’m willing to wait as long as necessary for him to show his face and fuck up. When he does it’s game over because the bounty on his ass isn’t like the one on Chris. No, the one I have on him is from the underground boards that pay real well. The people he pissed off are Bratva and don’t care if I deliver him alive or dead—or in pieces for that matter.
“You’ve been helpful.” I rifle around in my pocket, digging for zip ties. “Time to go.”
“Wait, wait, wait! Are you gonna kill me?” he sputters.
I pause, tilting my head like I’m debating it. “Nah,” I say finally. “You’re not worth the mess.”
The ties cinch with a loud zip, securing his wrists behind him. Pressing firmly on his shoulder, I push him toward the door and out onto the landing. The metal whines beneath our combined weight, our footsteps clanking on the steel stairs. Checking one more time to make sure no one is lurking outside, I guide him to the rear passenger door of my jeep across the street. He must have resigned to his fate because he doesn’t say another word.
While getting in the front, I notice I don’t have the usual sense of gratification I normally do after I complete a job. Instead, there’s this hollow feeling in my chest, an absence of something or more accurately, someone. My mind drifts to long hair, supple lips, and a full figure. I force those thoughts away. What the hell is wrong with me? That woman is a distraction. One that could get me killed if I’m not careful. She’s a weakness waiting to happen and I can’t afford vulnerability in my line of work. Get it together, Griffin. That’s a dangerous road to start walking down, for me and for her. It’s better to keep moving forward. Straight ahead. No turning back.
~ Seriphina Joseph ~
WAKING UP, I BLINKaway dreams of storm-colored eyes and sharp features. I roll out of bed with a groan. Rubbing my face, I chastise myself for still thinking about a man I’ve talked to once. After the experiences I’ve had with men, I have no interest in having a school-girl crush on one. So what if he looks like a mountain I want to climb? Who cares if I haven’t gotten laid in literally years? He’s a man. And men come with complications, issues, baggage, attitude, and most of all heartache. And I don’t want it. I'm happy living life as a shopkeeper with my battery operated boyfriend to keep me company. It’s quiet and I mind my own business. I have my regulars and my close friends. I don’t need more. I don’t want more. I know I'm lying to myself.
I brush my teeth, my hair, and put on clothes. I pick out a floor length flowy blue maxi dress that hangs over me loosely, with a halter neckline and a low back. It’s the middle of April and the weather is on the warmer side. I have more weight than most and I’m not living to impress anyone. I usually don’t care. Let someone complain about my flabby arms. I happen to like my tattoos. I didn’t spend a fortune on my ink to hide it under clothes because people have issues with a few extra pounds.
I slide on black flip-flops and twist my hair back in a clip at the nape of my neck. I apply simple eyeliner and a clear lip gloss. I’m thirty-five years old and have no desire to do more unless I’m going out. And that rarely happens anymore. I grab a muffin, my phone, and my latest book and head downstairs.
It's sunny this morning compared to the rain from yesterday. I head behind the counter and start the kettles. I eat my muffin while I make sure everything is in place. Going to the door, I unlock it and flip the sign to ‘Open.’ I usually open at 9 a.m. and there’s about forty-five minutes until then. If someone wants to come in early, I don’t mind. I pour a cup of oolong tea and add a bit of honey. Then I sit down and open my book.
The bell above the door jingles. I expect to see my usual customers, the group of early regulars that like to start their day with some tea and gossip in the corner. But instead of the Biddies Gossip Club, there’s someone I’ve never seen before. He’s tall, black hair, with blacker eyes. He has a no-nonsense air about him and a cocky walk. I immediately dislike him. This man is nothing like the one I met in the bookstore yesterday. He exudes an entirely different brand of danger, one that implies you’ll end up with concrete shoes. Griffin’s brand of danger whispers you're going to feel safe while he utterly wrecks you.
He looks around for a beat, taking in the shelves of crystals, the books, the cozy couches, before he turns to me. He definitely doesn’t look like the type that needs healing salves or tarot cards.
“Morning.” His voice is as unpleasant as his face.
“Good morning. Welcome to Moonglow. Is there something I can help you with?”
I try to maintain a neutral, somewhat friendly demeanor but the vibe he gives off makes my skin crawl. Observing me, he takes in my appearance, my dress, and the book on the counter. I work to keep my composure despite both of us knowing he doesn’t belong here. I grip my cup a little tighter.
“Actually, yeah.” He grins. “There is something you can help me with.”
“Alright.” I raise a brow.
“I’m looking for something.” His attention lingers on a shelf of incense. A glint of dark metal peeks out from under his suit jacket. He studies me again, flicking from my face to my tattoos, to my piercings, then back to my eyes.
“I can order things on occasion, if I can find it. Do you want to be more specific?” I school my features. I don’t need him knowing I’ve seen the gun in his waistband. My heart slams against my ribs and my palms are clammy.
“You know.” His tone is nonchalant. “You’re pretty observant.”
