Page 99 of Hit Man
Mine.
And just like that, I forget I should be furious at her.
I fucking want her. I want up inside her. I want her body flush against mine. I want her crying out my name and laughing with pleasure. I want her . . . happy.
“I’ll get your money back.”
Her attention shifts back to me. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“But what about them?” She gestures . . . at the cartel members . . . seeing straight past their violent facade and deeper into the depths of an oh-so real struggle for survival. Like she’s looking into the soul of me.
She continues on, missing the stunned expressions on their faces. Sympathy isn’t something these men are used to. “How could my boss do that to them? People in need of a kind hand, not some goddamn crook’s—”
“That’s right,” someone shouts.
“There arependejoslike your boss all around the world. Biggerpendejos, even.” I pause, my words sinking into my own thick skull. Yeah, biggerpendejosare my specialty . . . biggerpendejoslike Mendoza who are waiting for me. “Let’s get going.”
What am I going to do with her?
Aside from what I plan to dotoher, as soon as possible.
I slide my knife back into its place, scoop up my bag, and cross the dirt floor to where she stiffly stands. I take her hand in mine, and without another word, lead her outside to my bike.
“Why are you in Neza Chalco? And why are you dressed like one of them?” I hear her murmur.
I stop and kick a rock by my bike. Watch it bounce into the scrap-metal siding with a loud bing.
She’s too good for the likes of me. A hit man. A lone wolf, still.
“Because this is who I am,” I softly reply. “The root of all I’ll ever be.”
29
Aubrey
My world flashes by me as I hang on tightly to Diego as he navigates the Harley along the dirt roadways. We pass kids playing soccer and old women who turn their heads as we drive by. We move past the makeshift houses that’ve become long-term residences. So many. Too many they’ve become one enormous blur. We exit Neza Chalco, yet it’s hard to shake the social injustice of it all. I won’t give up on my dreams. I won’t be another person who turns the other cheek. I’ve got to undo the wrong predators like Maxwell have done.
But how?
Nothing makes sense. My roommate’s abandonment, the trigger-happy billionaire who evidently places bounties on people’s heads, even the leather-clad stranger, my lover, who has a knife tucked into his jacket the size of my forearm.
He parks in front of a small corner café.
I sit, straddling his bike, as I watch him intently.
His abrupt manner. The harsh lines in his face.
My lover. My handsome, passionate, badass lover. Yet I understand so little about him. What is clear is he’s furious . . . with me.
He waves at me to follow him. I have to hurry to do so, following his long strides as he marches me down an alleyway wedged between the café and a furniture boutique that’s as wide as two arm spans. I chase after him, working my way around stray bureaus, buffets, and an occasional box until he abruptly halts before a coffee table blocking our path through the alley. He kicks at a leg, curses, and runs his fingers through his hair. He points to the coffee table and gestures for me to sit.
All that pent-up energy.
I stand, unsure and unsettled.
He sits instead, raising his head and trapping my attention in an intense glare.
