1
Kira
"You were hired for your looks, not your opinions."
For a moment I'm speechless, which almost never happens, though in my defense this isn't a time where I can tell someone to shove it. No matter how much I want to.
My usual quick retorts would get me fired. And I need this fucking job.
I have to bite my tongue, in this case hard enough to taste blood, to avoid verbally lashing out at my asshat of a client. I thought Mar did a better job of screening assets.
We're going to have a serious talk about this guy.
He's handsome, I'll give him that, with designer everything and impeccable grooming. He probably has a freaking pedigree sheet or something, if his thick black hair and firm jaw are any indication.
Too bad it's all just shiny gilding around a rotting carcass of terrible personality. Ugh.
After a slow breath to steady myself, I see if I can let off the vice grip I have on my poor abused tongue without throwing verbal knives.
"I was under the impression someone wanted to kill you," I say in a tight voice.
If he gets huffy, it won't phase me, thanks to my time spent around sergeants. Sarge insults are fucking awe-inspiring. I might have a foul mouth, but they are next level.
In fact, compared to most marines, I'm pretty damn tame. Some of them manage to sayfuckevery three words, which is a feat by itself.
See. That wasn't so bad, Kira. Not a single death threat or curse word.
You've got this, I tell myself.
The piece of shit doesn't even answer me, just runs his eyes up and down my body and then looks away. I guess chivalry really is dead amongst the upper classes. Not that I've ever rubbed elbows before this, but I guess I still held out some hopes about human decency.
I curse under my breath when my hand strays over to the dagger at my wrist.
Not allowed, bitch, I chide myself.
Stabbing a client is a great way to no longer be employed. I apparently don't care about that because my hand just keeps on creeping over to it, as I imagine ways I can use it to teach this insolent fucker a few lessons.
Without causing too much damage, of course.
Mar would kill you, the more rational part of my mind points out.
That is a much better deterrent.
I owe her big time for giving me this chance and I can't fuck it up. She's worked hard to build her security business, and I'd never jeopardize that. Not to mention I think she's saved my life a couple more times than I've returned the favor.
I was practically born into the military and without it, I don't know who I am. Working with her feels as close as I can get to still being in the Marines, and I'm clinging to that small lifeline currently keeping my head above the addiction water.
I have a feeling she might want to drop this client after I report in, but for now, I just need to suck it up and get through the night without killing the dickhead.
Tomorrow we can commiserate over the sting of people underestimating us.
He just keeps walking toward the seediest looking warehouse-cum-nightclub possible, completely disregarding my attempts to dissuade him.
Dumbass.
I mean, everyone knows a warehouse party in the middle of a 'hood is sketchy as hell, right? Not that I've ever actually been to one.
I've had far more important things to do with my life.
