Page 26 of Grit & Glamour

“They’re also nineteen, only a year and a half older than you,” he adds, taking me by surprise. I’d thought the guys were at least early twenties.

“And you?” I ask, unable to stop myself from asking. Curiosity’s a bitch.

“How old do you think I am?”

I look over him, from his face, to his eyes, to his skin, and even over his height and build, trying to figure out some way of discerning his age. He doesn’t look old, but he doesn’t look young either. His eyes green are just too tired, and they look like they’ve seen way too much.

“I’m not good at guessing games,” I answer him finally, when I come to the conclusion that I won’t be able to figure it out by looking at him.

“I’m twenty-five,” he offers, taking me by surprise. I didn’t think he’d actually tell me anything about himself, even if by some miracle I had guessed it right.

“Your turn, tell me something about you,” he demands, suddenly laying back onto the bed and stretching out across the bottom third of it. I move up closer to the headboard and think quietly for a moment about myself.

“What kind of thing do you want to know?” I question, biting my lip nervously. Everything I can think of seems either too dumb or too trivial. Foods I like, favourite movies. All of it’s so unremarkable and boring, and for some absolutely insane reason, I don’t want One to think I’m either of those things.

“Where is your favourite place in the world?” he asks randomly.

“I don’t have one, not anymore,” I answer with a small shrug.

“Why not?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“It shut down a few years back. Don’t laugh, but my favourite place in the whole world was this rundown, second-hand bookstore. They made the best coffee upstairs though, and they’d let Caleb roam around their store all day long if he wanted to. He’d spend hours going through all the books while I drank coffee. The owner was nice to Caleb, so we ended up going in there a lot. It beat going home once school was over.”

“You read?” he asks, and I nod absently, thinking of Caleb, and how confused he’d been when the store just hadn’t been there anymore. I cringe as I remember finding out he’d broken in through a window, and was sitting in the middle of the empty store. I’d looked everywhere for him, and when it had finally occurred to me he would have gone there, he’d already been sitting around inside an empty shop for hours by himself in the darkness.

“I’m surprised you do. How do you fit in time for reading around all the murder?” I ask him sarcastically. He laughs, which I find odd, seeing as I’d expected him to bite back at me instead.

“Ask me another question,” he offers.

“What’s your real name?” I inquire, figuring it can’t hurt to try my luck.

“Ask something else, you know I’m not going to tell you my name.” He gives me a serious look from where he’s currently sprawled out, the look on his face seems to contradict the casualness of his position. And thanks to his towering height, his legs hang off the bed by quite a bit. Speaking of towering height…

“How tall are you?” I ask.

“Six-four and a half, you?” he asks back, raising an eyebrow as he runs his eyes over me.

“Five-four,” I answer. “Is there a point to your little question and answer game?”

“I figured as much. There is, but just wait. What’s your favourite food?” he asks.

“Either pasta or pizza. Death by carbs sounds hell he’s going with this.

“Pizza’s my favourite, it’s Two’s as well, but Three won’t eat anything that isn’t 99% sugar. I once saw him eat a chocolate bar, dipped in cream, then dipped in melted chocolate, and then covered in sprinkles,” One says, sounding more than a little disgusted at the mention of Three’s odd food choice. A small smile sneaks its way across my face.

“Are you related to the twins?” I ask. I doubt it from their looks, but he does seem to genuinely care about the two slightly-younger men.

“Not by blood, but we’re a family now regardless.”

“The family that slays together, stays together, huh?” I ask.

“You seem pretty focused on the killing part of our lives,” he comments.

“You’re assassins, is there another part of your lives?” I ask.

“That’s what I’m trying to show you.” He sighs, getting up off the bed and heading to the bathroom. “Don’t go anywhere, but I can’t wait a minute longer for a shower,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks in, and I turn back to the ceiling.

Sure, why not, I’ll just wait in this boring hotel room by myself.It’s not as if I have anywhere else to go… and it’s not like I have anything to do while I wait here. Maybe I should try reading his book, it could be funny attempting make sense of whatever language it is?

When the shower comes on, it sounds surprisingly loud in comparison to when I’d just used it. I glance over and my eyes widen as I see that he’s left the bathroom door wide open. And he’s already started stripping... I stare silently for a moment, in what I try and convince myself is shock horror, but really, is mostly just me checking him out.

Regardless of his chosen career plan, I have to admit, he’s nice to look at. He’s turned away from me as he pulls his clothes off, and I get to see a large tattoo covering a large portion of his back. I’d need to be closer to see what it is properly, but whatever it is, it looks good. His body is pleasantly toned, muscular, but not ridiculous.

“I left the door open so that I could keep an eye on you, not the other way around,” he calls loudly to me, as he walks over to the shower. I know I should look away, but I seem helpless to do so, watching as the water crashes over his body as he steps underneath it. Despite his words, he makes no move to cover himself as he showers, going as far as leaving the sliding, glass shower door open too, leaving me a direct line of sight. Not even so much as a little fogged up glass between us.

What kind of person spies on an assassin in the shower? Spies on anyone in the shower? And why the hell does he seem totally okay with it?

As he lathers up using the hotel’s provided shower gel, I get comfy and decide that seeing as he doesn’t seem to care, I won’t let myself either. Apparently, I’m the kind of girl who spies on a hot assassin in the shower, even if he is an asshole. As he rises off the soap, and turns his head up into the flow of water, letting it run down his face, I decide that I’m okay with that.

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