Page 24 of Charity's Redemption

The man had some fetishes, among other things, which could be his undoing. The only problem was he had a woman he saw incessantly, a woman I’d convinced myself was his slave. If I could just get into her apartment and wait for him to arrive, it’d be over and done with. From what I could tell, there wasn’t security in the building. If there was, I’d never seen them, which made getting in and out a piece of cake. But what about her? What would I do with her if she caught me? And what would I do about the two new bodyguards he’d picked up and started traveling with everywhere?

The body count kept piling until it was no longer a simple mission of eliminate the senator, but to commit mass murder.

There was this niggling in the back of my mind. It told me he knew something was up. He had to. Why else would you suddenly hire a team to protect you if you didn’t feel you were in imminent danger? Or start using alternative routes to work each day and new ones to her almost every night?

The only consistent and predictable thing in his life right now is that woman. When he visited her, he’d stay for approximately two hours. He’d make her scream and cry, then would meet his guards in the parking garage, which never seemed to have other vehicles. His hair was always a tousled mess afterwards, with sweat on his brows and flushed cheeks, but always with a smile on his face. Then, as if he didn’t just spend that time hurting a woman younger than me, he’d go home to his wife.

I sipped the coke I’d long forgotten about and grimaced as the harsh bubbles popped along my tongue. Cannoli jumped onto the couch as I took another sip, then bumped his head into my elbow, sending soda dribbling down my chin and onto my shirt. His loud meow and fishy breath had me standing faster than I should have just to get away from him.

“That’s it, you greedy bastard. Leave me alone. If I feed you anymore, you’ll puff up like a cow.”

I brushed off the liquid beading on my shirt, then walked into the kitchen and washed my hands while he followed me. “I don’t know what you’d do without me. There’s no way you could’ve supported yourself on that homeless lifestyle you were living.” I dried my hands on the dish towel, then bent down and ran my fingers through his fur, over his ears, and rubbed the back of his neck. He arched into me, his purr vibrating my fingertips.

“Oh, God. So gross.”

I shook my hand, horrified.

Why did I do that?

Cannoli’s shedding fur transferred from his fat frame to my wet fingers, leaving behind multi-colored strands sticking to me. “Ew, dude,” I said as I stuck my fingers underneath the kitchen faucet while he rubbed against my leg, seeking more attention.

“No, I’ve learned my lesson.”

I moved him away with my leg as I dried my hands off, pulled out a sausage biscuit from the freezer, and popped it in the microwave.

Somehow, I’d gone too long without eating, and my stomach was eating itself with loud growling and high-pitched moans that sounded like an alien invaded my belly.

I shuddered at the thought as I strode into my room with Cannoli on my heels.

“Whoever taught you to be so needy deserves a bullet to the knee caps.”

Why couldn’t he be like any other cat that slept twenty-three hours out of the day?

The humming microwave diminished as I entered my room and grabbed a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, then snatched my spare holster and strapped it to my pants.

When I’d left Luca’s, I didn’t think to run upstairs and grab my pistol from his room. I’d left on a whim, safety be damned, and now I was having to use my backup weapon.

Smart, Charity.

Not having a weapon was tantamount to walking outside my house with no clothes on.

My microwave dinged as I tucked my spare gun behind my back and walked into the kitchen with a pounding headache that demanded attention and a cat doing much the same.

The savory aroma of buttery biscuit and spicy sausage billowed from the plastic-wrapped breakfast sandwich along with steam, which engulfed my fingers in a pillow of fiery pain as I pulled it from the microwave.

“God. Motherfucker.”

The offending food fell to the stove top below along with the pill bottle that crashed to the floor as I held my hand to my chest, soothing the burn.

Cannoli shot off like a bat out of hell, his nails skidding on the linoleum as he scrambled to find cover from the loud commotion poisoning the tranquility in the air.

“Fuck that hurt.”

I stomped on the ground and hissed, willing the burn to cease its torment on my already tortured body, then picked up the pill bottle.

If my evening kept going this way, there would be Hell to pay, and I wasn’t sure who’d pay up.

Maybe I’d send the bill to Luca for ending my day with idiotic ideas. Or was it just starting since, technically, I’d stayed in bed all day?

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