Page 4 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers
Feeling a lot more sober, I heat up some leftover food, knowing it’ll help with my hangover. Once I’ve eaten I crawl into bed, the exhaustion of tonight hitting me all at once.
I startle awake in a cold sweat, feeling off. I glance at my phone, squinting my eyes as the bright screen shows the time being 4:02 am. Weird, I usually sleep like the dead and nothing can wake me. Maybe it was just an already forgotten bad dream that stirred me. I turn on my bedside lamp and steady my breathing, trying not to freak myself out with pointless worry. I glance around my room to see if anything is amiss, just in case. Everything is normal as I settle back into my warm duvet. No intruders or ghosts to be found, just Gracie fast asleep and purring at my feet.
My mind drifts to the stranger I ran into at the bar and his weird comment, and then to the stranger I danced with, replacing my worry with a little…excitement.
Great, I do not need to be horny over a stranger I met in the club when it’s four in the morning.
I try to shut off the feeling of hands on my waist and the heat of his body on mine, but I can’t. I think about how good he felt against me, how small I felt compared to him, and how desired he made me feel with his touch alone. I can feel the heat buildingbetween my thighs and I slip my hand down into my pajama shorts, feeling the wetness already pooling between my legs.
Wonderful. I am thoroughly turned on by a faceless, nameless stranger from a bar. This is a new low for me.
I pull my hand out, disgusted by my depravity and not willing to see where my mind and body would venture if I gave into my lustful thoughts. I turn my light off in shame, trying and failing to get back to sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, I give up and settle for an early start to my morning and the promise of a midday nap.
CHAPTER FOUR
XANDER
I hate the club.The loud music, sweaty bodies, rude people, and shitty bartenders. I hate all of it, but I can’t deny the cover it provides when meeting with unsavory clientele. No one bats an eye at a few people who are seemingly friends sharing a drink. Plus, the music covers conversation, all the dirty and incriminating little details distorted through the pumping bass.
So here I am, seated in a booth, waiting for my nine-forty-five appointment to show while sipping a whiskey neat. I have a couple ventures and this particular one isverylucrative. He’s a repeat client and one of my most frequent, so I ignore that it’s now ten and he still isn't here. I don’t generally appreciate tardiness, though people watching is a bonus of being in a spot like this. I, of course, don’t interact, but I most definitely observe. People have always interested me and I suppose that is a large reason why I do this job in the first place. Watching people is fun, but watching evil people is even better. You could say I’m evil too—it does come with the territory—but even I have a few morals to stand by.
My appointment finally shows a few minutes past ten. Dressed in a long sleeve button up, trousers, and dress shoes,with glasses and gelled down hair, it’s hard to tell he’s not some unassuming college professor. He has a plain face and though his eyes are hard, you would never assume his real line of work hinges on murder, drugs, money laundering, and a few other illicit affairs. He’s not a good guy, but he certainly isn’t the worst. That's exactly why he is here and needsme. In my world, there is a hierarchy of evil, and Mark Marino falls somewhere in the middle.
“Hello, Mark,” I say as he slides into the booth in front of me.
“Paxton,” he nods, using my alias. I keep my real identity under tight wraps to maintain my safety. Only a fool wouldn’t bother to protect themselves in this line of work.
“I’m in a rush tonight so I’ll forego the pleasantries and make this quick,” he says, cutting to the chase, just how I like it. “I have a little problem I need taken care of. He’s grown too cocky of his position in the market, and I don’t need him getting any ideas of encroaching on what is mine. I hear he’s been trying to recruit some of my guys, and we just can’t have that,” he explains.
“Hmmm,” I muse, considering my next words carefully. I never want to seem too eager with a proposition. I don’tneedthese jobs, not anymore, but they do keep my depravity fed and under control. “What are the details?” I ask.
“I have a man who needs to be disposed of. Just the one—should be an easy in and out. I want this done sooner rather than later and I’ll forward you what I have on him so you can look it over, but I assure you it won’t be too hard to accomplish. I’ll give you twenty even if we can get this taken care of by the tenth.”
I mull it over. Just a little more than three weeks to track someone down, plan their murder, and dispose of the remains. A piece of cake. Twenty seems fair, and it’s one reason I keep Mark as a regular client—he never lowballs me. He tried once; I couldn’t help the laugh that barreled out of me before I gotup and immediately left. He called me back with a pay increase, begging me to take the contract because he knows I’m the best. I don’t fuck around and I’m thorough, never leaving any loose ends which is a critical skill in my profession.
“Forward me that file by midnight and I’ll let you know if I’ll take him on or not,” I drawl apathetically.
“Sure, Paxton. But we both know you always enjoy the chase too much to ever turn a well-paying offer down,” he says with a smirk.
With my lips pressed to the rim of my glass, I let out a deep chuckle and toss back the rest of my drink. Standing, I rap my knuckles on the table before turning around and walking away. Because while he’s probably right that I can’t resist the temptation of a good hunt, I certainly never want to seem eager or desperate. I must always remain in control, even when it’s difficult to keep a reign on my bloodlust. The day I lose control is the day my carefully crafted facade comes crashing down around me, and that would almost certainly mean my death, if not my immediate imprisonment.
Checking my burner phone after it buzzes in my pocket, I leave through the back door. Sure enough, Mark has already forwarded me the details. Bastard must be more than ready to get this over with.
I open the file and see my next hunt is a man named Leo Capaldi, a rival dealer with a nasty habit of involving young women in his prostitution rings. Though the women are technically of legal age, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Word on the street is that Capaldi scopes them out much younger than that, waiting and watching until he can sink his claws into them. Even Mark doesn't stoop to that level, but like I said, hierarchy of evil.
His known whereabouts are about forty-five minutes away but he frequently makes stops in town. I’ve got several addressesto check out in order to plan my attack accordingly. Easy enough. I shoot a one word text back to Mark,“Deal.”
I never claimed to be a saint, but I take extra pleasure in doing away with those who hurt women. Adrenaline pumps through my blood as I think about how much fun this will be for me. I tuck the burner back into my pocket and light up a cigarette. It’s a habit I can’t quite quit, needing the nicotine to balance out my adrenaline on nights like tonight. I can feel my pulse settle after a few drags and I take in the patrons meandering about the alleyway. I watch a few people come in and out of the back door, some lingering, before I toss my smoke and head back inside. With my meeting over, I could go home and I usually do, but for some reason I want to stay tonight.
I’m walking down the back hall which houses the bathrooms and back into the main area of the club when a force abruptly slams me into a stop. I glance down, realizing a woman has just run into me.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention,” she says with a slur.
Initially her clumsiness is off putting, but the feeling is quickly replaced when I see her face. Creamy, pale skin enhances her striking hazel eyes, her nose a little too big for her face, her red lips pouty. She’s beautiful. Her brows are drawn together with concern, her eyes boring into mine enough to snap me out of whatever trance she just put me in.
“Are you going to stare at me all night or move out of the way?” I keep my voice deep and lazy, hoping I sound annoyed.
She mutters an apology and side steps me before tripping over her own feet. My reflexes take over as I reach out and grab her arm roughly. My skin buzzes at the contact and I take a moment to observe this woman more closely. I quickly realize that it's more than mere clumsiness that has her stumblingaround the club. Her eyes are glazed over and she sways back and forth, clearly intoxicated.
