Page 19 of Hit Man
Naked.
Who does this to a woman he doesn’t know?
Jesus. Seems like something else tumbled toward the rocks below the infinity floor other than that dancer . . . my common sense.
Water. I need water.
I amble over to the table on the wall near the bathroom, pour a Dixie cup full of bottled Evian, and with shaky hands, raise it to my mouth and sip.
“Go home,” the handsome, egotistical ass had said. He might be a killer in bed but the man has no manners along with no shame.
What’s done is done. Forget him,I tell myself, checking the clock before I quickly shower, dress, and brush my teeth.
I put on simple black button-up dress, with squared shoulders and a no-second-glance appeal about it. It’s one of several similar outfits that require little decision-making energy on my part yet convey the message I hope to give off. Something my former male classmates, dressed in their flip-flops, golf shorts, andi drink beerT-shirts—and who’ll likely earn in twelve months a salary for the same job what would take me sixteen—learned about me.
I’m all business.
As I slip on my conservative black loafers, I stare at the red dress still hooked over the painting. Perfect, not a silly cow in sight. I leave the dress hanging there, for after I return with a full stomach and with more energy to cleaning up.
Yeah, I’m going to need it if I’m going to fix that bed.
I scowl and assess the damage. Nothing a hammer, some nails, and a strong desire to avoid acute embarrassment can’t manage. First, I need to deal with my physical state, and do something to stop the room from spinning.
It bothers me that the bungalows don’t have locks on the doors. An odd oversight, especially considering the city we’re living in has one of the highest crime rates in the world. With so many poor, who can blame them?
I hide my purse beneath Zoey’s mattress. There’s money inside, the equivalent of my last two paychecks from The Linguistic Academy. There’s also one credit card for emergencies only. I had a scholarship to Stanford and came out of college debt-free. I’m struggling to keep it that way. Not that our stay here costs us anything, which says a lot about Juan Carlos’s generosity.
Before I leave, I drag the ridiculously expensive brown leather Pullman rolling bag, a graduation present from my parents, over to rest before the door. An uninvited guest will likely break his neck tripping over it. There’s no hiding it so this is the best I can do.
I pop two Advil, wash them down with water, and head out of the bungalow.
In daylight, the immaculately groomed lawn we’d crossed last night seems even larger, like a long, rectangular football field without the white yard lines. The mansion looms in the distance on one side and our bungalow is several yards away on the other. Bushes and trees flank the lawn and run parallel to the pathway. I remove my loafers, deciding to cross the lawn barefoot. A brazen, scandalous act for someone like me, who typically does what’s expected. Or . . . used to. And whenwasthe last time I felt grass beneath my feet?
Live a little more, Aubrey.
The morning is bright and the sun warm, and as I draw closer to the mansion, I’m feeling better. I bear left toward the path—bearing right will take me toward the front of the house, toward the gated driveway entryway.
Once at the edge of the lawn, I stop to slide on my loafers. When I look up, that’s when I see them. Three men in black suits, positioned like silent statues along the path. I keep walking but the closer I move toward the mansion, the more men seem to spread out around the environs.
Goose bumps pebble up on my skin. It’s not just the sight of them but also their manner that sets me on edge.
Unfriendly.
Foreboding.
I pass one of the biggest men standing guard over the double-door entryway that leads into the living room. He gives me the once-over, up and down. I feel my back pull straight. Do I explain I’m a guest? I mean, do I really need to?
Instead, I skirt by him. I make a mental note to ask Renaldo about them. Hopefully, I missed Zoey’s knock earlier and they’re both already enjoying the international breakfast that’s likely to be served in the dining room.
My stomach growls, spurring me on. I knew I was running a risk taking Advil on an empty stomach. I hasten my pace, brushing by another less-than-subtle suited man and hurrying inside a set of French doors. I cross the living room to a long hallway. The dining room is through one of the doors toward the end.
A waiter with a tray passes by and he’s closely followed by a second man.
“ElSeñor Mendoza no estará feliz. Él pidió específicamente creme fraiche,” I hear one of them say. Señor Mendoza . . . and something about crème fraîche. I stop in my tracks, watching as they disappear into a room I just passed and reclose the door behind them.
Do I dare?
I fiddle with the top button on my dress.
