Dark Reasons (Dark Contract #1)

Chapter One

Selena

Y ou should be allowed to murder people.

I know, I know. That seems like a radical concept, but it's one I hold dear. Killing people might seem problematic... and most of the time it is.

Unless you have a good reason.

And I have a very good reason.

"Holy smokes," a voice squeals a few feet behind me, "I love your wig! Who did you buy it from?"

There's a fun-size girl hopping up and down with her hands buried in her thick white sweater covered in Hello Kitty decals. I sweep my fingers through my long pink hair. "It's real."

Her glossy lips drop wide. "You're joking. Talk about being committed to the cosplay. Zero Two, right?"

"Perona," I explain patiently. My attention darts to the far corner of the large room. "From One Piece." There, right by that booth selling Funimation DVDs. It takes everything I have not to sprint in that direction. But the girl is still chatting endlessly. And... god help me, I don't want to be rude. "Sorry, I have something I need to go do."

"Oh! Don't let me keep you!" she gasps, waving her hands around her black space buns. I'm envious; I can never shape those right. "I'll catch you at the costume contest later! Bye bye!" She slips away into the crowd. The convention is packed wall to wall, allowing her to vanish in seconds. I'd have trouble finding her if I tried. I hope the reverse is true.

Now where did he go? I squint at the booth from before. It's pressed against a corner, a coveted position for anyone trying to sell stuff in this mad house. It also means they've got access to an exit door to the hotel hallway.

Three men in matching black tee shirts are handling the long line of con-goers purchasing memorabilia from their favorite anime. They're smiling as they make small talk while running credit cards through the devices plugged into their phones. One of them has shaggy brown hair, a small scar on his left eyebrow. I get in his line.

"Can I get that Funko?" A girl who might be eighteen, barely younger than me, motions at a stack of plastic figurines. Scar-Man grabs it, taking her money, thumbing it with practiced movements.

He darts a look at her, flipping the bills in the small till, folding his fist before offering it to her. "Here's your change."

She goes to grab it. Her smile is big and huge and it's obvious she didn't see that he's screwing her over.

Don't say anything, don't risk it, don't—

"Wait." I step close to the girl, shoulder to shoulder. "Count it out. I think he gave you the wrong amount back." My smile is nice and wide. "Accidentally."

"What? Oh, um," the girl sputters. She quickly counts the money and gasps. "You're right!"

"My bad," Scar Man coughs. The five dollar bill is held like a dagger in her direction. His grin is faker than mine. "Here you go. All the commotion in here, just got a little distracted."

"It's okay," she assures him. Holding her Funko proudly she slips out of the line. It's just me and Scar Man now. He sizes me up, and I tilt my head, waiting for him to speak. It's fun to watch how uncomfortable he's getting as I remain silent.

He wipes his nose. "Looking for anything in particular?"

Nothing in his tight set, rounded jaw says he recognizes me. I'd figured as much; the whole point of my pink hair and coal-rimmed eyes, my tiny hat, my red elbow length cape and striped socks, is to look like a character from a show. Not like Selena Browning, the pale girl with hollowed out eyes and a hundred reasons to scowl.

But I am a little disappointed. Part of me wanted to see his horrified clarity.

I might still get the chance.

"Actually," I drawl out, "I was wondering if you were looking for something."

"What do you mean?"

My teeth bite down lightly on my lower lip. He glances, then back to my eyes. God he's easy. "I have some classic, still in the box, mechas. I don't know how much they're worth, maybe you do?"

The line forming behind me is getting thicker; louder. He peers over my shoulder, his annoyance obvious. "I'm not really looking to buy stock. We've brought enough to offload for this convention."

"I figured," I sigh softly, bracing myself against the counter, ensuring that my arms press on the outsides of my breasts. I'm close enough to see his throat flex when he swallows. "I just don't know who else to sell this stuff to. It's probably junk, I don't know." I lower my voice. "Can I show you?"

His hands settle on the counter; his voice matches my tone. "Uh, sure. Alright. But hurry, there's a ton of people behind you."

"The others can take them," I assure him. Most of my line is dividing off to try and speak to the other guys running the booth. Pulling out some printed photos from my pocket, I show him. "Here are some pictures I took."

He stares at them, unable to keep a poker face. I know what he's thinking—the packaged toys in my photos are mint, classic, rare characters from a 90s era show. Nearly impossible to get, definitely worth several thousand.

"Well?" I prod him. "Are they worth anything?"

Exhaling, he gathers himself and stares curiously at me. "What's your name?"

"Polly," I lie. "And you?"

"Sanford." That's the truth. "Where did you say you found these?"

"My grandpa's attic. Why, are they like, special?"

Sanford palms the side of his neck with a lazy shrug. "Nah, probably only fifty bucks."

There—now that's a lie.

"You uh, got them here with you, you said?" he asks as casually as he can. He's dripping with eagerness. Greed looks good on him, more natural than the naive energy he's trying to send out.

"In my hotel room." I point at the exit near us. "We can go right now, it's down that hall."

Standing tall he walks over to one of the booth workers, saying in his ear, "I gotta go do something."

"What the hell? No, we need you," the guy argues.

Sanford backs away with his hands in the air apologetically. "Sorry, but trust me, it's worth it."

"Dude, come on!"

The appeal fails; Sanford is mine. He follows me towards the exit door, the red letters glowing, beckoning, making my heart race. This is going much easier than it should. I'm a perfectionist, a planner, but even I didn't think I'd get him away from his booth without more coaxing.

Yet here we are. Room 7.

"I'm so happy you're willing to buy these off of me," I say, my hand shaking when I tap my key card. The door beeps and swings inward.

"It's no problem," he says, trailing me into the room. "I'm a collector, I can find a buyer for anything."

My voice warbles. "I know you can." I know you fucking can. I know what you do... what you've done. "Over here," I say, crouching on the other side of the single Queen bed. The room is big enough to also fit a tiny desk and a standing lamp. There's one window, the drapes drawn over it, but the room is bright enough. We're on the second floor—behind the curtains is the lovely view of the parking lot. Cheap rooms don't get good views, but they have their purpose.

Sanford sways towards me. His shadow slips over my back; he's bending down, wanting to see what I've got in the small suitcase on the floor. There's sweat on my palms, on my neck, down my back. I didn't know adrenaline had a taste. It's like nickels and lemons.

"You know—" he starts to say. But he shuts up, choking on the sentence. I'm still crouching, but he can see the pistol in my hands. The sight of it turns him into a ghostly statue. If he was less shocked, he could tackle me. It would be enough to stop me.

But he doesn't.

So I win.

"Back up," I tell him, rising to my feet.

Sanford licks his lips rapidly. I didn't tell him to hold up his arms, yet he lifts them to his ears anyway. "What the hell?" he asks warily.

"Shh," I hiss. "Just don't talk. Don't say anything." I need to think. Fuck, I'm actually here. I'm actually doing this. On some level I didn't believe I'd get this far. I'm only realizing this now as I stand in front of Sanford, my forearms cramping from how hard I'm squeezing the gun. I've used it multiple times at the shooting range. I know the weight, the texture, intimately.

Today it feels alien. Like I've never touched a gun before. I keep sliding my thumb along the hilt, then fingering the trigger, searching for it, forgetting where it is. The ringing in my ears makes my body seem light and far away.

Focus... focus...

"Take it easy," he whispers. "Just relax. There's a few hundred in my wallet, grab it, or I can take it out for you myself. Whatever you prefer."

I blink as his words sink in. "You think I'm robbing you?"

"You're not?" he asks, his frown stretching.

"This has nothing to do with money."

"I don't get it. Then why the whole story about bringing me here to sell some merchandise?"

He's not breathing as quick as I am. He's not sweating like me. He's used to getting into trouble... this isn't his first time being held at gunpoint. Sanford Grecko. A man who surrounds himself with scum. I must seem like any other hungry bastard to him.

But I'm not.

I'm different.

I jam the tip of the pistol into his white tee shirt. There are Dragon Ball Z characters on it; I put the gun between Goku's teeth. "You really don't recognize me, do you?"

Sanford cranes his neck back, getting a better look at me. The way he scrutinizes me from top to bottom makes my skin crawl. "No, I've got no clue. What the fuck is going on?" He freezes, eyes narrowing. "If Crater sent you—that's gotta be it. Okay, hey, let's call him and we can work this out."

"Who's Crater?" I nearly scream it. The gun pushes into his ribs so hard he inches a step back; I follow until he's against the wall, which takes no time in the small room. "Look at me. Look real close. My hair is pink now, but imagine it being blonde."

He shakes his head quickly. "Sorry, I don't know you! Maybe if you took off the costume?"

"Oh, you'd like that. Is that what you said to her? Take off the costume?"

"I really don't have any idea what the hell you're on about! I swear!"

"You sound angry," I snarl. "You don't get to sound angry! I'm the one who's angry! If you don't remember me, then what about Valoria?"

Amazingly he grows more pale. "You're Valoria's friend?"

"My name is Selena! And yeah, I'm her best fucking friend." I was. I was. I was.

"You were there with her at the comic shop," he says in wonder.

I chuckle sourly. "Now you remember."

"Look, Valoria agreed to everything—"

"Shut up!" I screech. "You sold my friend's nude videos. You ruined her fucking life."

"You've got it all wrong, she was okay with the gig."

"How can you say she was okay with anything? You blackmailed her!" I shout in his face. "You're beyond sick. People like you... people like you..." Nausea swims up my chest. I'm both hot and cold, and my body doesn't know how to process anything.

His voice is a gentle scratch that moves up my brain stem. "Think this through, alright? Just think. You don't have to kill me. If you're after an apology... or... or like, I don't know, restitution... I can pay you. Hell, I can pay her more. A bonus check. Whatever you guys want."

At first, I think he's laughing. That's because I don't recognize my own voice. "You really come back to money every time," I giggle. "That's all you care about. How much did you make off of her videos, huh? How many twisted perverts paid to view her on your stream?"

For the first time, Sanford looks afraid. The last of his doubt that I'll pull the trigger has faded away.

"I went with Valoria to her first big meet and greet. She was excited to see her new fans, thrilled to finally break into the voice acting industry," I seethe.

Sanford was one of those "fans."

I hadn't suspected a thing when he gave her his card, told her to come to his studio for a recording session. "You told her you'd take her to the next level," I breathe heavily. "She trusted you."

He doesn't reply. He's focused on the gun, on my pretty pink nail curled around the trigger.

He has to pay for what he did. That's what matters. I have to remember why I'm here.

I want to kill him. This monster deserves to be a rotting corpse left alone on a hotel carpet. If I plug him with bullets, he can't hurt anyone else. I just have to do it. I have to.

Why am I hesitating?

"Wait." His chin wobbles. "Wait wait. I'm not the one to blame here." Disgust turns my vision red, but he plows on before I can scream. "My boss asked me to get those videos."

I lower the nose of my gun an inch. "What boss?"

Sanford pulls in a breath so big his stomach nudges my pistol. "Caruso Oakley. He runs an entire conglomerate that makes big money on selling E-girl style porn."

"You're trying to shift the blame," I growl.

"Listen! Yeah, I scouted your friend, but if he hadn't offered me fifty grand I wouldn't have shown up to that shitty comic shop."

I'm reeling with this new info. All this time, when I pictured getting revenge, it was Sanford's face I saw. There's someone else involved in Valoria's death.

The window slams open. A man, who might as well be a gargoyle with how he's perched on the ledge, his whole body and most of his face shrouded in a black hooded jacket, stares at me. "You're really fucking up my day, you know that?" he mutters. His tone is gritty from anger, like pebbles thrown around in ocean waves.

"Who are you?" I blurt. I start to train the gun on him out of impulse. It's not just the fact this man appeared in the window, he's exuding enough danger my brain is jolting into overdrive. Sanford is closer to me, but he's nowhere near as worrying as whoever this guy is.

The black-dressed man leaps at me. I stagger back, bumping the edge of the bed. That's all he needs to give me a push—I lose the rest of my balance. With a gasp I land hard on the mattress, and as I go, he squeezes his long fingers around my right wrist. The pain is sharp, brief; he yanks my gun out of my grip.

Panting heavily, I sit up on my elbows, preparing to fight for my life. Except the man isn't facing my way anymore. I get the feeling he's finished with me; one nudge and he decided I was neutralized. I'd be insulted, but I'm too stunned by what he does next.

My gun vanishes into his pocket, then he squares off with Sanford. Sanford blinks as he tries to make sense of this new turn of events. There's clarity in his yellowish eyes when he stares at the man before him. Clarity I wanted for myself.

The new guy slips something from his sleeve. I don't know what it is, not at first. Not until Sanford's throat becomes a beaded red line. Blood dribbles down; he chokes, grasping at his neck, falling to the floor.

I didn't kill him.

But he's dead anyway.