Chapter 7 Fink
Fink
What was he doing? Fink never took hostages. What would he do with her? Fucking her again wasn’t a good idea. He shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Damn. He’d lost his brain somehow.
This was supposed to be quick. Now he had to figure out what to do with this strange woman who acted like she’d won the lottery.
There had to be something wrong with her. Stealing a glance in her direction, he noted her insanely wide and beautiful smile as she sat beside him. She was happy.
About what?
Was she dancing in her seat? The music wasn’t even on.
Had he accidentally stumbled upon a psychopath who enjoyed killing?
Then again, how could he criticize her for that? Wasn’t he the happiest after the light left someone’s eyes? Yes, but he was, admittedly, a fucked-up individual. The odds of his running into another screwed-up soul were slim as hell.
He uncurled and re-curled his fingers around the steering wheel as he maneuvered his way through the streets, obeying every speed limit, stop sign, and traffic light so as not to draw unnecessary attention to themselves. However, when they stopped at a cross street, a thought occurred to him.
She worked in the building. When the police came to investigate the murder, they’d ask to speak to everyone who had been in the office that night. Obviously, they’d want to talk to her.
How had he fucked up this badly?
Closing his eyes, he cursed under his breath.
“What?” she asked.
Damn. She was too attentive for her own good.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
He couldn’t take her back to his setup. If she went missing unexpectedly, that would draw too much attention. She had to be around for the cops to question her. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave her alone. She was a stranger to him. She could fuck things up worse than he already had.
“Not far,” she offered before giving him an address.
“Just tell me when to turn,” he said.
He wasn’t about to input her address into any device that could be tracked back to him. All those satellite navigation apps complied with the police. He should sever any connection between him and her.
This was why he worked alone. Partners were unpredictable. No matter how well they were known, they would always save themselves. He really stepped in it this time.
A migraine pulsed behind his right eye. This was the worst possible move he could’ve made. What was it about her that made him lose his head? Was it the fact that she jumped right into the moment and finished his kill?
Maybe.
Perhaps it was how gleefully she acted afterward. She practically did cartwheels as the man bled out on the floor. Normal people didn’t do that. Not that he was an authority on normal. He wasn’t even remotely close to it.
The amazing sex could’ve been the reason for her joy. He’d never fucked immediately after a contract before. Orgasming after a kill was an endorphin rush he’d never expected.
He should research that again but not with her. A hooker, maybe, but no repeat performances. Having ties to anyone was a liability. It was dangerous for him and the other person. He couldn’t do it.
Mentally, he shook off those thoughts. This wasn’t the time or place to be considering the next opportunity he’d get to bang with blood on him. That was a problem for another day. Right now, he had to sort out what the hell he would do with the woman in the cheap red wig.
“Right there.” She pointed to a small garden apartment complex.
He turned into the lot.
“Did you want a round two?” she asked.
Yes. Absolutely, but no. He couldn’t do that. Going at it again was a bad idea. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Fink was supposed to be a professional.
When he shifted his focus toward her, she waggled her eyebrows.
What was wrong with this woman?
“I’m not against the idea,” she said as he pulled into an unmarked parking spot near a dumpster.
He wasn’t either, but he couldn’t think of a more inopportune situation to get his freak on. He had far too much to work out.
“If we do, will you keep the makeup on?” she asked.
He cocked his head to the side. Did she have a kink? Was that what was going on here? Had he run into a clown freak? If so, he was intrigued.
“It’s kind of hot.” She reached for him.
Leaning back, he barely felt her fingertips skim his cheek before he was out of reach. This was so unfamiliar to him. He rarely allowed anyone to lay a hand on him. Intimacy wasn’t his thing.
She held her hands up, palms toward him. “Sorry.”
“Let’s go,” he said as he opened the door.
With a nod, she did the same.
As he waited for her, he scanned the front of the building. Were there any cameras? Dammit. If he’d left her to take the fall, he wouldn’t have had to deal with this. Then again, he couldn’t trust her not to rat him out. He didn’t know her.
This, while inconvenient, was the best course of action. He had to stick with her until the heat died down. Either that or kill her.
The idea soured in his brain the moment it crossed his mind.
Lifting his arm as she approached, he offered her a cozy place to tuck in. Even though he couldn’t see them, that didn’t mean there weren’t cameras. He had to put on a show. They had to look like two people who were into each other after meeting at a Halloween office party.
Wearing an adorable smile, she snuggled up against him as he draped an arm over her shoulders.
“Lead the way.” He gestured with his free hand.
Together they walked down the sidewalk to the third apartment from the end—107. He made a mental note as she stuck her key in the lock and opened the door. Deadbolt and door lock. Definitely amateur hour there.
Stepping inside, he surveyed the small living room with a sectional couch, large ottoman, and flat-screen television on the opposite wall. On either side of the TV, there were bookcases filled to the brim. A bejeweled tiara sat on one shelf beside a 3-D printed dragon.
Tchotchkes decorated her shelves, keeping her books company.
He nodded as he got a better picture of the woman who had helped him murder Grant.
Beyond the small living area was a high-top table with a small hallway to the left and a doorway to the right.
Glancing around, he noted one full bathroom and bedroom.
The entry led to a small galley kitchen.
It was a tiny space, but sufficient for one person. She’d decorated it with small, brightly colored paintings, a college degree declaring she had a bachelor of arts in psychology, and some other knickknacks. There was nothing special or alarming about her home.
“Did you want to see the bedroom?” she asked.
Shaking his head, he dropped onto the couch and rested his throbbing head in his hands. “No.”
“Oh.” There was quite a bit of disappointment in that one syllable.
He’d screwed up enough tonight. He had to concentrate and sort all this out. Which meant his blood flow had to remain going to his brain and not his little head.
Slowly, cautiously even, she sat down beside him, but not too close. She rested her hands on her knees. Her gaze bored into him.
“Did you lock the door?” he asked.
Quickly, she sprang to her feet and skittered around the ottoman. After several clicks and the slide of the chain lock, he nodded, satisfied they had secured the apartment as well as it could be.
Staring ahead at his own reflection on the television, he caught her in his peripheral vision. She brought her hand up and nibbled on her thumb. For the first time, she seemed anxious. All her jovialness had left.
“I’m trying to think,” he said, hoping to head off her inevitable questions.
She nodded and gingerly lowered herself onto the ottoman before him.
“I didn’t exactly plan…” His voice trailed off as his gaze shifted toward her. “For you.”