Chapter 7
By the time they went to bed, Ricardo had a faint glimmer of hope that maybe things would be better in the morning. Or at the very least that they wouldn’t be worse. August had calmed down minutely. When Ricardo told him Heidi was happy to hook them up with another gig, he’d calmed down even more.
“Well.” He’d pushed out a haughty little breath as he brought his overpriced cognac to his lips. “We’ll just have to make sure this one goes down in glorious fashion.”
Seemed reasonable enough. Murphy’s Law had had its way with them on this job, but odds were, the next one would play out better.
They could even put a few extra contingencies in place in case their work was again disrupted by a micromanaging vacation rental owner or an incompetent tableside chef.
Hell, things like that made this job interesting; any competent assassin knew to expect the unexpected, even when it was the wildly unexpected like everything that had happened this time.
Maybe August and Ricardo were just rusty after being out of the game for so long.
Well, whatever. They’d get another gig, and they’d accomplish this one, as August had put it, in glorious fashion. And then they could go back to retirement. Or something. Because they couldn’t be assassins forever, but holy shit, retirement was boring.
That was a problem for Future August and Ricardo, though. For now—next gig, expect the unexpected. That was all Ricardo needed to think about now.
So he thought, anyway. Because remember how he thought things might not get worse?
Ricardo had barely begun to swim out of a pleasant dream when—
“Are you fucking kidding me?” August demanded of… the universe? God? Ricardo? He threw back the covers in a flourish and got to his feet, pausing to wince before barking, “This is fucking bullshit! What the fuck?”
Ricardo bit back some curses as he scrubbed a hand over his face.
Then he sat up slowly in the hotel’s luxurious bed, and he eyed his naked husband, who was flailing around and snarling his displeasure while his morning wood seemed to bob in confusion.
August almost threw his phone as he bellowed nakedly, “What the fuck is happening?”
The whole scene would’ve been comical under normal circumstances, but Ricardo’s gut told him this wasn’t just August being dramatic.
Odds were, he wasn’t about to be subjected to a lengthy monologue about a particular designer discontinuing the use of his favorite fabric.
Odds were even better that whatever was coming wouldn’t be something he could derail with a blowjob.
Cringing inwardly, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
August whirled on him, flinching a little because his feet had probably protested. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ricardo rolled his eyes, took August’s forearm, and tugged him back toward the bed.
“Sit,” he ordered. “Don’t fuck up your feet while you’re telling me.”
August blinked, but then he obeyed. Sinking onto the bed, he allowed some relief into his expression; it would never cease to amaze Ricardo how August could get himself so worked up, he forgot his own physical pain for a moment.
And it would never cease to unnerve him when August was that worked up, because it was never something good and rarely something minor.
August closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. Then he faced Ricardo, renewed anger filling his expression, and he held up his phone. “The client left us shit reviews.”
Ricardo straightened. “That’s… That’s it? We got bad reviews for a job that went to shit? How is that—”
“Oh, it gets worse!” August flailed again, and this time his phone did go flying, landing somewhere on the other side of the room with a clatter-clatter-thunk. “That clown who’s catching up with us? That… NightCrow or whatever pretentiously douchey name he’s using? He got a five-star review!”
The only thing keeping Ricardo from laughing right then was knowing it would set August off. Like, more than he already was. And sometimes he enjoyed doing that; if not for delightedly provoking and trolling his husband, boredom would’ve driven him out of retirement a long time ago.
This just seemed like one of those times when poking the bear might actually result in bloodshed, so he restrained his amusement.
“So he got a five-star.” Ricardo shrugged. “We’ve got years of jobs ahead of him, so it’s going to take forever for his average to catch up with—”
“Not if our averages come down,” August snapped.
Ricardo pressed his lips together. Then he took August’s hand and gently repeated, “We’ve got years of jobs ahead of him, so it’s going to take—”
“Your rating has dropped half a star.”
Ricardo’s teeth snapped shut.
August’s eyebrow flew up. “Do I have your attention now?”
“How the…” Ricardo glared in the direction August’s phone had gone. Then he snatched his own up off the nightstand, and as he opened the RateYourHit app, he muttered, “How the fuck is my average going down? I’ve been inactive for three years.”
“So you see why I’m pissed off.”
Ricardo grunted.
That earned him a haughty tsk, and August got up from the bed again.
The RateYourHit app decided it needed to update, so Ricardo sat back against the headboard to wait.
He watched August pick his way gingerly across the room and collect his phone off the floor.
August paused to give it a cursory glance, and since he didn’t seem concerned, Ricardo took that to mean the screen hadn’t broken again.
He was again relieved he’d finally convinced August to start putting Otterboxes on his phones, and that had saved them at least a dozen trips to the Apple Store.
Though August didn’t really think that was a perk of the protective case; going to the Apple Store in Sliema meant an excuse to wander all the other stores in Tagliaferro Centre for three business days.
Ricardo wasn’t falling for that shit again.
The stupid app finished updating, and Ricardo entered his credentials. Then he went to his profile. And…
What the actual fuck?
His rating had hovered around 4.73 for years. Years.
Now it was 4.21?
“How the…” He shook himself and looked at August. “What the fuck is going on?”
His husband gave him a look. “So suddenly August isn’t being an early morning drama queen, hmm?”
“No, you are, but—”
“Rude.”
“How the hell do our ratings drop like that? Especially when we’ve been inactive for so long?”
“Hell if I know.” August returned to bed and dropped onto the mattress beside Ricardo with a huff. “My rating has dropped to 4.05.”
Ricardo straightened. “I’m only .15 above you now?”
August narrowed his eyes. “Is that really your biggest concern? That I’m almost caught up to you?”
“You’re not almost caught up to me. I’ve been dragged down almost to your level.”
“Fuck you.”
Ricardo chuckled, but it was half-hearted. Yeah, the rating thing annoyed him and it enflamed his competitive side, but something about it also didn’t sit right. Why were he and August suddenly sliding downward when they hadn’t taken a job in ages?
“You know what the worst part is?” August asked. Ricardo shot him a look. August gestured with his phone. “NightPigeon is catching up. To both of us.”
“Oh, fuck that…” Ricardo muttered, and faced his phone again. He went to the leaderboard that he and August had dominated for ages, and he zeroed in on the guy in third place. NightRaven.
Relatively new to the scene—his profile was only eighteen months old. He’d been prolific during that time, too, racking up almost eighty hits with a rating of 3.98.
Ricardo whistled. “Someone’s been busy.”
“Uh-huh. And I want to know why we’re suddenly sliding downward while he’s…” August waved his hand, nearly smacking Ricardo’s face in the process. “Ugh. The audacity. Let’s kill him.”
A laugh burst out of Ricardo. “August. We’re not going to kill someone just because he’s climbing the list.”
“Why not? That’s what Victor was going to do to us.”
“Mmhmm. And do you want to be like Victor?”
August pursed his lips. “I mean, he did have a pretty sick fortress in that vineyard…”
Ricardo rolled his eyes. “A fortress you could build with change you found in the couch on a vineyard your sister probably already owns.”
“What about the army of goons? We could totally have an army of—”
“No. You’re lucky I’m willing to work with you.” Ricardo shook his head emphatically. “No fucking goons.”
“Ugh. You take the fun out of everything. Jesus.” August again got up out of bed.
“No army of goons. No six-foot anus painting in the living room. No hounds so I can yell ‘release the hounds!’ like Mr. Burns.” He threw up his hands as he stalked toward the bathroom.
“It’s like you want me to be miserable, Ricardo. ”
The slamming bathroom door punctuated that.
Ricardo snorted. Yeah, he really was the worst husband ever. Especially for vetoing that damn painting. He thought he was quite reasonable, compromising on the three-foot version so at least it didn’t look like the Asshole of Sauron looming over their living room, but August disagreed.
While August showered, Ricardo pulled up NightRaven’s profile and looked at his reviews. They were, to say the least, a mixed bag.
“Incredible precision. And the knife through the pillow the night before as a warning was—chef’s kiss. 5 stars, would absolutely hire again.”
“I kind of feel like a ‘trained marksman’ would be able to take someone in like one or two shots? Two full magazines’ worth of bullets were found at the scene, only four of which had gone through the body, and two of those were non-lethal.
Got the job done, but price was a bit steep for amateur hour. 2.5/5 stars”
“Completely mimicked a local serial killer’s MO, right down to the lace panties shoved into the nostrils and the gummi bear in the belly button. Great for covering up the trail but kind of made the serial killer investigators’ jobs harder, so… 3.5 stars.”