Page 26 of Deception & Desire

“I always do,” I take it from him. There’s nothing on it but a number. “Anything I should know?”

“She wanted a woman in her twenties?—”

My eyebrow quirks up. “She?”

Rufin nods. “Private muscle for a couple of events.”

“Babysitting then,” I look back down at the card. I can’t remember the last time I did freelance work for a woman. Not in this particular industry.

“I’m not sure who she's affiliated with, but it’s not the Irish.”

I tap the card against my palm a few times. “Thanks, Rufin. I’ll send you your cut.”

“Can’t accept money from a ghost, Red,” he brushes me off. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

With a wave, I head out of the alley, burner already in hand. It’s already late, so I half expect that no one will pick up when I dial the number.

But luck is finally on my side.

“Hello?” an unfamiliar female voice says, the connection crackling in my ear.

“My name is Red. I just saw your ad in Rufin’s paper.”

The client gaveme the address of a 24-hour diner just outside of Newark. She was eager to meet at my earliest convenience.

I’d asked if she could be there in a few hours.

I could hardly believe it when she agreed.

Torn between celebrating my good fortune and being more suspicious of the coincidences involved in this job, I take a taxi to the diner and find myself walking across the vinyl floors at exactly three a.m.

At this hour, there’s barely anyone sitting inside besides a couple of trucker types and an older woman who looks like she’s fallen asleep in her booth. It makes my client very easy to spot.

Her eyes find mine the second I step into view.

She’s young. Younger than me, even. Tan skin, dark eyes, and a beautiful mass of curls piled up on her head. Even in her nondescript hoodie and jeans, it’s difficult for her not to stand out.

She looks about as surprised as I feel as I go to take my seat opposite her.

“Red?” she asks tentatively, though I don’t think either of us needs the clarification.

“Rufin said you were new, but…” I let my words trail off.

She looks down at this, bashful, somehow, appearing even younger than a second ago. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Right.” I turn to wave the bored-looking server over. “So, what does a twenty-one-year-old need with a mercenary like me?”

The question hovers between us for a moment before the server appears, granting my potential client time to think up an answer. I order a milkshake in another attempt to put her at ease.

She smiles slightly and orders the same.

“I imagine this is a bit strange for you,” she says once the server leaves us again. “It’s strange for me too.”

I wait patiently for her to gather her nerves, sitting back in my seat and trying to figure out who she could be. She has a slightly non-rhotic accent, but that’s typical of this area. She’s too tan to be Irish. She’s too memorable to be Italian.

“My family…my father,” she corrects herself. “Expects me to make an entrance into his society next week. I managed to delay it until I finished college, but now there’s no way to get out of it.”

“I’m guessing you’re not debuting at the country club?” I deadpan.

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