18
The scent of metal is on my fingers, and I breathe it in as Blake walks back from the bar with two glasses of beer. We picked a booth in a quiet bar called Silver Bullet next to the shooting range. The man in the firing bay next to us is now sitting at the bar, chatting to the barman about a hunting trip he went on. The barman shakes hands with Blake, and I prick my ears to see if he’ll ask my age.
A large TV screen hitched on the wall plays a NASCAR race, and the commentators’ excited voices and the droning of the vehicles radiate through the bar.
“I ordered some fries,” Blake tells me as he places the beer before me. “You would’ve worked up an appetite after annihilating that target.”
“I didn’t hit the bullseye, though,” I state in disappointment.
“Give it time,” he says calmly as he sits opposite me, places his forearms on the table, and starts tapping his fingers on the wood. “Keep practicing. I can take you back next week if you want.”
“Deal,” I say, raising my glass for a toast, and he meets my glass with his.
He leans forward and glances to the side to collect his thoughts before asking, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer it,” I stress the boundaries, then add, “and if you want an honest answer from me, then you have to give me an honest answer for questions I have for you.”
“I can’t talk to you about my work to protect you. The less you know, the better,” he says, rubbing the back of his fisted knuckle against his jaw.
I stumble on his words, underestimating the enormity of what he does. “I assumed you were a petty thief.”
“I have the same boss as you, so…you figure it out,” he states honestly.
“Smiler? Smiler is your boss?” I exclaim in surprise.
He frowns in confusion. “Smiler?”
“The man who hires us to clean up his bloody mess. We don’t know his real name. Do you know?” I ask eagerly to fit another piece to the puzzle of the infamous and secretive hitman.
“No, I just call him Boss,” he answers flatly. “But why do you call him Smiler?”
“Oh, because he or whoever does the murdering has left a smiley face in the victim’s blood for the last three times. Have you met him? Have you seen what he looks like?” I ask excitedly before sipping my beer and enjoying the sweet, yeasty flavor washing over my tastebuds.
“No, I’ve never met him. Anyway, we’re getting off subject,” he says, taking a sip, then wipes the froth off his lips with the back of his hand. “Question. Why did you buy that gun?”
“You’ve asked me this before,” I groan. “I told you I want it for security and protection.”
“From who?” he asks. Those warm brown eyes travel over my lips and eyes, then drop down to my hands, gripping the glass of beer.
“Wait. It’s my turn to ask you a question,” I cut in, and his nostrils flare impatiently.
“Fine. But it doesn’t mean I will answer,” he says, stealing my line.
“Okay.” I’m about to ask him about his thieving ways until I remember my date with Cormac and a Blake/Black/Blade/whatever contacting him. “Do you know a guy called Cormac?”
“Cormac? Do you have a surname? I tend to remember surnames more than first names,” he informs me just as the barman places a basket of curly fries before us.
“Thanks,” I say to the barman before addressing Blake, “Bernardi.”
Blake”s raven eyebrows shoot up as a sugary smirk slides across his face. “I know a Bernardi who’s a cop.”
“Do you mean Detective Gabe Bernardi,” I’m eager for him to clarify.
“Yeah. Do you know him?” he asks, shoving a curly fry in his mouth. He then signals to me to dig in and “help yourself.”
“Sort of,” I answer deliberately vaguely, “but how do you know him?”
“Shall we say that we’re in the same circle but on opposite sides of it,” he states, and I frown in confusion because I’m unsure what he means. So, he clarifies, “Well, he’s in law enforcement, and I’m into breaking the law, so…we’ve crossed paths on more than one occasion.”
I snort in laughter. “Has he arrested you?”
“It’s my turn to ask you a question,” he says, ignoring me. “Does Bernardi know you’ve bought a gun illegally?”
I gasp in fake horror and slap my hand over my mouth. “Is this gun illegal?”
He narrows those dark eyes, catching my plastic performance. “So that’s a no, I take it.”
“I don’t have much to do with the detective,” I inform him, ignoring my sinking heart. Although I would love to spend an evening with the silver-haired fox, “I share a class with his son Cormac.”
“Are you dating him?” he asks out of the blue.
“Why do you care?” I ask, pointing to my head. “Blond hair is not to your taste.”
“Do you want blond hair, green eyes, and freckles to be my taste?” he jabs, tapping his finger against the table.
My heart somersaults in my chest at his frankness. Perhaps he’s testing the air. “You forgot tall. But no, I wouldn’t force something that you find repugnant onto you,” I hit, taking a fry and biting the crispy end, enjoying the salty fattiness.
He tilts his head and runs his eyes over me. “You wouldn’t need to force anything onto me,” he says smoothly.
His comment can be interpreted two ways, and I’m unsure which way he wants it to go. Perhaps two years away from the dating scene has made me rusty on man language. “Whose turn to ask a question that no one answers?”
“Yeah, I notice you divert,” he mumbles.
“You can’t talk,” I snap at him.
He takes another sip of beer, and I notice that his glass is two-thirds empty, whereas mine has been barely touched. His smile washes away as he leans back into his seat. “Did something happen to you?”
My cheeks burn slightly, and I’m pleased we’re in a dimly lit room with plenty of distractions. “What do you mean?”
“The Glock,” he taps his fingers on the table. “I saw how you were firing it as if you were there in the moment, killing the person you’re avenging. So, either you’ve been hurt and believe whoever hurt you will return for you or…”
“Or?” I urge him to continue, curious about his theory on the girl he just met.
“Or…you have a great imagination and watch too many thriller shows. So, which one is it?” he questions inquisitively.
He hit the post because it was the third option he hadn’t thought of or assumed I’d never be brave enough to undertake: avenging my enemies by hunting them down and shooting them before they came after me. “You make me sound like a victim.”
“Are you?” he asks, watching me bite another curly fry.
“These fries are great,” I state, getting an eye-roll out of him.
“Diverted again,” he mutters under his breath, but loud enough so I can hear it.
“I do love a good thriller,” I exclaim and realize that I’m pouting flirtatiously. I immediately stop when I notice the devilish expression on his face. It occurs to me that I am very attracted to this man’s suave charm and warmth, and I’m wrestling internally with his lack of attraction to me, even though his body language contradicts his words. “Why did you bring me here?”
He drains his beer, swallows, and glances at the bar. “I’m going to get a refill,” he states, ignoring me in that nonchalant panache.
“Are you going to answer my question?” I snap as he stands up and examines my beer.
“A confession,” he projects charmingly and turns his back to walk away.
“About what?” I call as he swaggers away, noticing his butt moving in those black jeans. There’s a breezy effortlessness about him that’s so alluring to someone like me who has a mountain of troubles on my shoulders. Yet, his carefree nature is at odds with his chosen profession. You’d think he’d worry about getting caught and imprisoned, so scrutinizing every person who steps into his world would be imperative. It only takes one misstep, and he’s screwed, not only with the police but with the man he works for.
“About a lie I told you,” he calls back to me, but by the time he reaches the bar, he’s too far away for me to yell, so I impatiently wait for him to return.
“What did you lie about?” I ask again when he returns with his second beer, and my chest is about to explode.
He grunts a smile as he plants that ass down opposite me. “About my tastes.”
I hesitate and sip my beer as those eyes watch my every move, waiting for me to respond. “Tastes in women?”
He cocks his eyebrows as a yes.
“So, you don’t like thin-lipped women?” I tease.
He suddenly seems uncomfortable, glancing about the room before concentrating on me again. “I like what you are.” His finger points at me from the hand holding his beer. “Everything.”
“What do you mean?” My cheeks are burning because he’s about to confess something, and I’m unsure if I’m ready to hear it.
“Ev-ery-thing,” he repeats slowly. “Top to bottom.”
“Freckles?” I ask, pointing to my cheek.
“Cute,” he answers.
“Green eyes?”
“Spectacular,” he answers.
Taking a curl of hair from my ponytail. “Blond hair?”
He hesitates, watching me play with my hair. “Beautiful.”
My heart hammers in my chest as the spot between my legs is on fire, and I inspect his hands, wondering how they’d feel running over my naked, damp skin. “Height?”
Blake nods. “Nice. Long legs.”
“Not afraid of being strangled in your sleep?” I clown around to see if I can trip him up.
He replies with a breathy chuckle, and I can tell his mind has gone somewhere dirty, where there are only two players: me and him. “I couldn’t think of a better way to die.”
I drop my eyes down shyly, fearing where this conversation could go. I bite my lip before whispering, “Full lips?”
A grip of warmth seizes my chin as his thumb runs along my bottom lip, and I lift my eyes to meet his chocolate pools, which I intoxicate. We hold the gaze for a few seconds while my body trembles in anticipation, wondering what his next move will be.
“The girl on the park bench,” he whispers before leaning across the table and pressing his lips against mine, drawing a sigh from my hungry mouth as his hand remains cupping my cheek.
“Thief’s kiss,” I whisper as he pulls away, and something remarkable dances behind his eyes.
“Killer’s kiss,” he corrects me.
Nerves stumble through my body as I lick his taste off my lips. I liked that. I truly liked that. “You’re a killer as well as a thief?” I ask apprehensively. It makes sense since he works for Smiler, but being across the table from a contract killer is not exactly how I envisioned the day would go.
He takes a sip of beer and swallows while his eyes are glued to my face, examining every quiver of my eyelashes and every curve of my lips. Someone laughs by the bar, followed by a glass smashing, and my attention is diverted to see the commotion.
“I wasn’t talking about me,” Blake says softly.