Chapter 1 #2
Despite needing to get out of here, I spend the next few hours discovering Nice and snapping enough pics for my blog.
I moonlight as a travel blogger, and though it’s the fakest shit I’ve ever dared to post, my eager followers can’t seem to get enough.
Over the past few years, I’ve gained half a million followers, each one of them desperate to know where my travels will take me.
I suppose it’s not entirely fake. I actually visit the places I blog about, giving recommendations for little cafés or secluded beaches I find along the way, but I more than exaggerate my trips.
This three-hour stop in the South of France will be described as a two-week stay in the beautiful town of Nice.
I might even allude to a summer fling during my stay. They’ll eat that shit right up.
Moonlighting as a travel influencer has been a godsend.
It means I can travel freely across the globe without question.
My neighbors don’t bat an eyelash when I leave at a moment’s notice.
My posts bring in a nice chunk of spare change, and if I were to ever hang up my assassin’s blade, I’ll have a nice career to fall back on that will ensure I get to keep traveling the world.
After snagging a few pictures of local cafés and hidden gems, I make my way to the beach and snap a few photos of the shore. I get the shells in the sand, the full view of the coastline, and even a few selfies, before finally deciding it’s time to haul ass out of here.
Almost fourteen hours later, I’m completely wrecked as I drive into the underground parking of my apartment complex.
I love France, which is why I’m always so quick to accept contracts over there, but it’s not until I’m actually boarding a flight that I remember just how far away it is.
Totally worth it, though. Plus, the million-dollar check that’ll land in my account once I confirm completion of the job is the sweet red cherry on top.
Driving through the parking structure, I turn the corner and go down the ramp to the lower level, heading toward my designated space—304. As I turn the final corner, I come to a dead stop.
“What the actual fuck?”
The parking lot is filled with concrete pillars that support the complex, and between every pillar there are two spaces, separated by a single white line. My number, 304, is painted at the top of my space, and next to my space—surprise, surprise—is the parking space for apartment 305.
The only issue is that a sleek, blacked-out Audi RS7 is currently parked in the very center of the whole space, no regard for the white line that separates the two spaces, and the absolute rage that pounds through my veins is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Is it irrational? Potentially. But there’s nothing more sacred than a woman’s parking space. You don’t fuck with that. Ever.
The overwhelming need to slash tires pounds through my veins, but instead, I drive deeper into the complex. Mrs. Macy in 410 doesn’t drive anymore, so she has a permanently vacant space, and I effortlessly back my black Urus into the space before grabbing my things.
Locking my car, I wander over to the Audi RS7 to investigate, all while my hand itches for the blade hidden in the side of my boot.
It would be so easy. Just a quick flick of my wrist and these tires would be done for.
But then it’ll take even longer for the asshole to be able to move the car, and I’ll be stuck in 410 for ages.
Not that it really matters. 410 is a great space.
It’s easy to get in and out of and closer to the internal elevator than any other spot.
But it’s not my spot, and call me crazy, but I’ve become very attached to my spot.
I don’t have many things in life. I don’t get to keep friends. I don’t keep pets or even have family. But what I do have is my apartment, Spikezilla, and that parking space, and I’ll be damned if someone tries to take that from me.
Keep your cool, Kiara. It’s just a parking space.
I blow out a breath, trying to relax the insanity pulsing through my veins.
I’ve never seen this car before, so it likely belongs to a visitor of someone in the building, and instead of having them park out on the street like everybody else, they were given access to the underground parking.
They should be gone soon, and when they are, I’ll be right back down here, moving my car back into its designated space.
I hope.
Trying to put the parking situation to the back of my mind, I head toward the elevator while thinking of exactly what I’m going to post on my travel blog.
I looked over my pictures on the plane, and I’m pretty happy with them.
They need just a touch of editing before they can be posted, but there’s more than enough images to claim I was there for a two-week vacation, and with a little creative writing, I could sell it easier than the black market sells me beautiful blades.
Nobody would ever know I was there for only three hours and managed to slaughter their dirtiest politician while I was at it.
All they’ll see is a young woman living her best life and posing for the camera.
Reaching the third level, I step out of the elevator and stride down the corridor. My eyes immediately zone in on the two movers carrying furniture directly into the apartment next to mine.
Well, shit.
I’m getting a new neighbor, meaning the car currently parked halfway over my space isn’t temporary at all.
It’s a permanent fixture, but if he thinks he’s going to be parking like that every day, he’s about to learn one hell of a lesson about being a considerate neighbor.
And yes, I’m assuming it’s a guy, because only a man could possibly park with that much arrogance.
Ugh. I already hate him.
Making my way down the corridor, I pass by the open door of apartment 305, and without a single ounce of shame or hesitation, I slow my pace and gaze straight into my neighbor’s home.
The layout is exactly the same as mine, just flipped.
But I knew that. I know every little detail about this building.
How many floors, the layouts of each individual apartment, where the emergency exits are, and of course, I know every detail about the people who reside here.
Just like Betty, my old neighbor. She lived in that very apartment for the last thirty years, right up until her children moved her out and dumped her in an old people’s home.
Though I really don’t understand why. Betty was killing it in that apartment.
She was loving life and more than capable of handling herself until her kids decided they knew what was best for the mom they never visited.
Fuck, it’s been weeks, and I’m still mad about it.
Peering into 305, I see nothing but the movers dumping heavy furniture on the hardwood floors, only to scratch them as they start pushing the furniture up against the wall. And despite the Audi parked in my space, I see no sign of its new owner.
Damn. If I had the energy, I’d march straight through that door and deal with the situation myself, but I suppose it can wait until tomorrow.
It’s been way too long since I last slept.
The flight to France was spent researching my target and pinpointing his location, and the flight back .
. . Well, let’s just say turbulence is a bitch.
Nobody in their right mind could sleep through that shit.
I’m beyond exhausted, and the last thing I need is to deal with my new neighbor.
Letting out a sigh, I keep my ass moving while digging into my bag to find my keys, and before I know it, I’m crashing through my door and collapsing onto my couch.
My head lolls against the backrest, and I quickly fall into a deep, much-needed sleep. Hours later, I wake up to my pitch-black apartment and the heavy, repetitive sound of the new neighbor’s headboard slamming against my wall. His deep groans reverberate against my eardrums, and my eyes go wide.
“Oh fuck. Yes, Daddy!” a woman cries. “I’ve been such a bad girl. Spank me. Spank me. YES! OH GOD, YES! HARDER!”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Out of all the people who could have moved in next door, I get lumped with Sir Fucks A Lot and his horny girlfriend, Miss Bend Me Over And Choke Me Until I Scream.
Just my fucking luck.
***