Page 25 of Venomous Games

And I like it.

Contracts are usually booked months in advance. Sometimes I finish one in a day, while others can take up to six months. It all depends on the target and the opportunity. It also depends on how careful I need to be. I don’t kill the same way twice anymore. I learned that lesson after headlines started popping up about the Venom Killer. Once the media gives you a name, the clock starts ticking. Patterns are noticed, and people start paying attention. A girl can’t be too careful.

My heels click steadily against the pavement as I stride down the street. I’d thoroughly checked the area surrounding my apartment building three separate times before I left tonight—windows, cars, shadows, no detectives waiting outside. No one was watching. Still, I took the long way here. Three unnecessary turns and a subway stop. I didn’t need to double back through a crowded block. It’s basically habit and survival.

The reason behind a contract isn’t my business. I never ask. I get a name, a file, and enough information to start the hunt, and that’s it.

Before I make the kill, I study my target. Their routine, their habits, where they go, and who they talk to. I need to know what makes them predictable and why they think they’re safe.

This job has taken two months. Two months of watching the same routine play out, over and over again. Work, drink, home, except on Fridays. On Fridays, he comes here. I watch him disappear through a discreet black door halfway down the block. Most people walking past wouldn’t notice, but I do. Because I know exactly what lies behind that door—an exclusive sex club. Members only, no phones, and plenty of cameras. He stays inside for about two hours every time. And when he comes out, he’s always drunk, always sloppy, and always careless.

It’s perfect. Across the street, I settle into a chair at a small café that never closes. The place smells like burned coffee and sugar. The neon lights buzz softly above the counter. The waitress already knows what I want, but I tell her anyway. “Milkshake,” I say as she approaches. “Extra strawberry and whipped cream.” She nods and disappears.

A few minutes later, a glass is set in front of me, and I check the time. It’s still early. Sliding my AirPods from my pocket, I cue up the audiobook that’s been consuming my week. One AirPod goes in, and I leave the other resting on the table in case the waitress comes back. No need to look antisocial. I’m antisocial enough as it is. I take a slow sip of my milkshake, letting the strawberry flavor settle on my tongue while the narrator’s voice fills my ear. Then, a voice repeats the same line, but it’s not coming from the book. It’s in my other ear, right beside me.

I jump, and he pulls back just in time.

Boston stands there, towering over the table, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

He isn’t.

My stomach tightens, just a fraction.

His expression shows something between amusement and suspicion, like he’s already halfway to figuring something out. His eyes are a little glassy. Too many hours awake, or too many thoughts chasing each other in his head.

My gaze drops automatically to his hip.

Empty.

No gun tonight.

So he’s not working.

When I look back up, those slate-gray eyes are locked on me, unmoving. He’s too close. Close enough that the scent of cedar and something darker invades my lungs, distracting in a way I don’t have time for.

Not tonight.

I’ve planned this. Every step. Every movement. Months of watching, mapping, waiting. I know my target’s routine down to the minute.

And this man is not part of it.

He shouldn’t be here.

Worse, I didn’t hear him approach.

Didn’t feel him.

There was no shift in the air, no instinct prickling at the back of my neck.

Nothing.

That doesn’t happen to me.

So why the fuck is he here?

“And you are?” I turn at the new voice and see two men take a seat across from me while Boston remains standing at the edge of the table. I recognize the speaker not only by his voice but also from the party Carrie made me attend. But I knew who he was before that because he’s been in magazines as the city’s most eligible bachelor. Well, I guess he’s not so single anymore, judging by the ring on his finger.

“Maven James. Nice to meet you.” I offer him my hand, and he glances at Boston before he takes it in his. Squeezing it, he shakes my hand and then lets it drop. The audiobook continues to play in my ear as I hold eye contact with him. I think he expects me to look away. But I don’t.