The Assassin Next Door

Chapter One

Tanner

“Ass up, face down.”

My order is clear as I press Bella’s head against the cushion of the couch before putting on my favorite reruns. With my dick out, sheathed in a condom, I watch the screen in front of me and position my cock at Stella’s pussy entrance. Or is it just plain Ella? Who the fuck knows?

It’s not a television show or a movie that has my undivided attention, it’s a surveillance tape. One I’ve watched over and over, and I still get hard as a rock when I see those legs spread open and her pink vibrator slide into her cunt.

“Fuck me, Tanner!” The woman, whose name eludes me, is trying to be sexy but her begging is only pulling me out of the zone.

I told her when she sidled up to me at the downtown country bar a couple of hours ago that I just needed to get my dick wet.

The rest—her hopes, her dreams, her name—didn’t interest me in the least.

I guess she’s already got amnesia and I haven’t even rammed her tonsils yet.

“Shut the fuck up.” She does what she’s told just before I slam my dick inside her wet pussy and fuck her to the rhythm of the pink dildo on the screen. The audio is muted, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve replayed the tape often enough that I’ve memorized every moan and every grunt.

Both of my hands are on Country Bar’s hips at my groin, fingers indenting the flesh as I keep pace with the dildo.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Hold. Grind.

Thrust. Thrust.

Hold. Grind.

As the blonde on the screen slides her fingers over her clit, I mimic the act on the—fuck, what color hair does this chick have?

I hate that I have to take my eyes off the screen, knowing damn well she’s about to buck up and take the dildo even deeper, but I’m quick, and it turns out the woman below has auburn hair and that’s just fine.

It doesn’t matter who I’m fucking, the only way for me to bust a satisfying nut is to imagine it’s her.

I look away for only a split second before my eyes are back on the screen, my body pretending I’m the one fucking the blonde. I’m the one pressing the pad of my thumb against her clit and making her work for her orgasm. I’m the one ripping those antagonizing sounds of pleasure from her throat.

Changing it up, I slap the redhead’s ass, leaving a hand print just where the ass meets the thigh.

My dick jolts with the action, almost making me groan.

Bella or Stella or whoever the fuck, is beautiful and sexy in her own right, but she’ll never compare to the woman on the screen.

She’ll never hold a candle to the blonde with skin so fair and soft it makes me want to leave an array of scars all over her body just so we can match. So we’re the least bit compatible.

Like we used to be.

On the screen, the blonde turns over, propping her ass up in the air as she fucks herself in earnest. Her spine rolls into a perfect arch, like a wave cresting seconds before crashing on the shore, her chin-length hair falling forward across her cheek bones.

One hand is busy reaching for an orgasm while the other is fisting her cream-colored sheets with the strength of a thousand warriors.

Fuck, I’m so close because she’s so close.

Pulling the woman beneath me up higher so I can get a better angle, I start pumping my hips harder and faster. Skin slapping skin, gasps clashing with grunts, I clench my jaw as the blonde stills, grinding her cunt against her mattress and letting herself go.

I know she’s mewling, her high pitched cry of satisfaction has been imprinted into my brain. Except the redhead below me is ruining the moment with her own, long-winded groan. No worries, though. I’m done anyway.

I come, a temporary fix to a permanent problem.

Careful not to release or break the condom, I pull out slowly, seconds after emptying out my balls inside the latex glove.

Because I’m not a complete fucking psycho—although my shrinks would beg to differ—I pat Ella?

Nella? on the ass in a silent thanks of sorts.

Okay, I’m an asshole, but these are awkward moments between two people just trying to get off.

“Um…you’re welcome?”

I’m getting a vibe that says she’s none too happy about my social skills. She’s lucky I haven’t thrown her out of the house yet. I figure she needs to take a piss and maybe have a glass of water or some shit.

“The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the left. Don’t fucking snoop around.” I don’t raise my voice. The permanent scowl on my face usually does the trick of keeping people around me obedient. Though, it’s not the only tool at my disposal; I can be a charming fucker when it benefits me.

“Don’t worry, I’m not that desperate.” She throws her bratty response over her shoulder as she adjusts her dress, and I’m eager to see her leave out the front door. For good.

I don’t know why I do this. Picking up random women for a subpar fuck is getting old, especially knowing the surveillance tapes work just as well with my own hand.

In silence, I pull my jeans back up but don’t bother with the top buttons and even less with a T-shirt.

The toilet flushes just as I reach the kitchen, getting two glasses out of the cupboard and pressing the lever on the refrigerator door for cold water.

The tap runs in the bathroom and I’m hoping she’ll be out in mere seconds, drink her water, and be on her way.

The goal, however, is to make sure she looks happy and satisfied as she leaves.

Not for my sake—I’ll never see this woman again—but for the show that’s my favorite ritual.

“Your house is nice…” The confused tone in her voice gets my attention. People are so fucking quick to judge me.

“Is that surprising?” I offer a glass, frowning because I still can’t remember her fucking name, and she takes it, downing the contents as quickly as I do before handing it back to me.

“Nova, and yeah, kinda.”

Fuck. Nova? I wasn’t even close. I don’t miss the way her eyes roam over my chest and abs, probably trying to discern the images that cover every inch of skin from my neck to my wrists and all the way down to my groin. Tats are always a crowd pleaser.

“What? A guy like me must live in a dump?” Opening the dishwasher, I place both of our glasses on the top rack and close it back up, my hands on my hips and my expectations clear. It’s my cue for her to go. I’m bored with this tedious conversation.

“Something like that. Didn’t figure you for someone who cares enough to have to deal with the hassle of a home.

” Nova shrugs and it dawns on me that she cares about this whole encounter about as much as I do.

The thought relaxes me a little, but when I check my watch, I tense up all over again.

She needs to walk out within the next ten seconds for maximum effect.

“Fair point.” It’s all I give before glancing at the front door.

“Well, gotta bounce. It was fun, Tanner. Thanks for the ride.” The sarcasm on this one is strong. If I weren’t who I am, I’d probably enjoy her company, but I am Tanner Black and caring about people I don’t know isn’t in my DNA. It’s even in my last name. Black…like my soul or so I’m told.

I reach my front door, twisting the knob and pulling it open like a gentleman on a first date. Except this isn’t a date and I’ve never once been accused of being a gentleman.

A loner, yes. A psycho, often. An asshole, on the daily. A gentleman? Absolutely not.

“I ordered an Uber in the bathroom, it’s two minutes away.”

I nod like it’s no big deal but check my watch again and fight the small smile that’s aching to pop up. Five in the morning. Any time now.

As though I’d orchestrated it myself—okay, maybe I had a little—the white sedan pulls up to my curb just as my neighbor’s garage door begins its ascent.

Today is Wednesday, so little miss goody two-fucking-shoes will be taking her masterpiece of a car for a ride.

On any other day, she drives her ridiculous hybrid that makes no noise and has zero personality, but on hump day, she takes her father’s old 1968 Pontiac Firebird 400, hood tach and all.

It’s a fucking vision with the shiny black paint, save for the red line from wheel to wheel on each side.

It’s a classic Mr. Brigham gave his daughter when he and his wife moved down to Florida for their retirement.

What a waste.

“I’m not going to pretend this is anything other than what it is, so how about we skip the goodbyes and go on our merry way?” I blink back to the here and now and realize my one hour fuck is still here.

“Good call.” Shirtless, with my fly half buttoned and no shoes or socks on, I choose violence in the too-early-to-be-called-morning light.

Stepping down from my porch, I make myself perfectly visible to my neighbor just as she pulls the Pontiac out of her garage.

Hell hath no fury like a neighbor scorned.

Nova just waves a hand over her shoulder as she strides up to her ride, gets in, and leaves without a single regret. Meanwhile, from the corner of my eye, I see the black Pontiac inching out of the garage in reverse before coming to a stop.

Slow and deliberate, I turn my gaze on my neighbor as the squeak-squeak-squeak of the passenger side window grates on my last nerve.

She’s usually thorough about cleaning the tracks and weatherstripping about once a month.

I guess she’s been too distracted to care for her Firebird.

When it’s halfway down, I narrow my gaze at the bane of my existence as her face comes into perfect view through the opening.

“They just keep getting younger and younger, don’t they?” She’s full of shit. Nova couldn’t have been younger than twenty-five, maybe even older and inching up closer to my thirty.

“Jealous?” The rest of the neighborhood is still buried under their sheets on this warm early August morning, the sun still hiding behind the mountain to our east.

“Not on your life. I choose wisdom over youth, always.”

She’s such a liar.

“Tough break then since you have neither.” I shrug and turn on my heel, satisfied that I’ve thrown the last punch and ready to hit the hay before setting up for work.

After a decade serving in the Marines—oohrah—life as a civilian hasn’t exactly been easy or exciting.

So when one of my former unit brothers called me to let me know they were one short for a privately owned team of mercenaries, I didn’t even hesitate.

The thrill of the kill with unlimited resources and triple the pay from the military?

Sign me the fuck up. And that’s how I became a DOG.

Even though Delta Ops is reminiscent of the Army, and compared to the Marine Raiders or Force RECON they’re a bunch of pussies. Respectfully, of course.

“You’re an asshole.” With my back to her, I grin, knowing I’ve hit the nerve I was aiming for.

“First truthful thing you’ve said all day, Berk.

” I look over my shoulder just in time to catch the laser-sharp glare at my use of her high school nickname—not my most imaginative work—and the distinct frustration in her guttural expletives aimed right at me.

Through it all, I remain stoic until the squeak-squeak-squeak of her window going back up reminds me of an episode of I Love Lucy with its comedic timing.

The urge to laugh is almost too strong to ignore but somehow, I manage, and by the time I reach my porch and turn around, the Pontiac is on the road and Berkleigh’s middle finger is aimed right at me.

I chuckle at her attempt to offend me, as if that’s even possible. With the shit I’ve lived through and seen, being offended is the least of my problems.

In fact, my only problem, and one I’ve had almost my entire life, is Berkleigh Brigham. As such, every day, she pays a little price for the inconvenience of her existence and being the cause of every scar I own.

Even if she lived a thousand years, she could never redeem herself for what she did to me.