Page 6 of Stealing His Cupcake
The yarn creaks softly as I work, rubbing against my skin where it’s wrapped around my index finger. I spread the working piece out to make sure the basic triangle is even and the sides straight. My subconscious decided, very much without my input, that this is going to be a gift, and I never give anything less than perfection. Especially not to someone as perfect as Amy because, of course, I’m making this for her.
What is happening to me?
Satisfied with the foundation, I set it aside and grab a sheet of graph paper. A gift must be personalized and I know exactly what pattern I want to make on Amy’s scarf. Fitting the image I have in mind into the squares is tricky and I sigh as I imagine all the counting the pattern will require, but it will look great. Hopefully, it will keep my mind occupied so I don’t do something stupid like ring her doorbell or snatch her from the street the next time I see her. That would be…not smart.
I lose myself in the work, only occasionally glancing up to where I assume her apartment window is. The light went out hours ago and I hope she’s sleeping well. At least one of us should be.
Hours pass and, checking the time, I’m both relieved and dejected to see that it’s time to move. Craig will soon be meeting his buddy in a park near the local college. At first, I thought that Craig and Turbo, which is an unfortunate nickname for someone who prides himself on his sexual prowess, were meeting every Sunday to go for a run, or to catch up over a cup of coffee. Turns out, they visit the park to leer at women attending an open yoga class. What a pair of disgusting pigs. I’m tempted to take “Turbo” out as well, pro bono, just to rid the world of more filth. But today, it’s just Craig I’m after.
I tap my pocket to make sure I haven’t forgotten the ampules of clenbuterol, then leisurely make my way through the park. It’s just before 10 a.m., so it’s not too crowded yet. Mostly I meet parents pushing strollers around, the older kids toddling or running around them. A little girl, no older than three, is busy eating grass. Her skin is a few shades lighter than Amy’s and I wonder if that’s how our child would look like. Would it havemy straight brown hair or her black curls? My green eyes or her brown? And why the fuck am I even thinking about that?
I forcefully tear my gaze from the girl. Her mother has interrupted her grassy snack, which resulted in a massive tantrum, and I bid a hasty retreat. Being caught ogling other people’s kids is never a good thing.
Claiming a strategic spot on a bench overlooking both the yoga class and the place where Craig and Turbo usually lurk, I pretend to scroll on my phone. I’m tempted to look at more of Amy’s photos, but I manage to focus. I have a job to do. Stalking Amy can wait. Not that after today I'll have any legitimate reasons to stalk her, but now is not the time to think about that.
Turbo shows up, scowling at his phone. He’s handsome, I give him that. Toned muscles, bright blue eyes, a roguish smile. His blonde hair is cropped short on the sides but the longer strands on the top fall across his forehead, completing his hot beach boy look. If only he had a personality to go with it.
The yoga class starts. The participants are both males and females, old and young, and I don’t get why anyone would get up on Sunday morning just to watch, but then I notice the hungry gleam in Turbo’s eyes. He’s focused on one of the younger women, his eyes tracking every movement she makes. When she leans forward for the downward dog pose, Turbo licks at his lips and furtively adjusts his jeans. Alright, I’m killing this asshole as well. As soon as I take care of Craig. But where the hell is Craig?
As far as I can tell, the Sunday morning leering is something he never misses. Did he get so high on turning his girlfriend into a punching bag that he decided he didn’t need to stalk other women today? Did Amy fight back and now he’s ashamed of the black eye he’s sporting? As much as I would welcome that option, I doubt it. Amy looked too broken, too defeated to have fought back. So what happened? Did Craig get drunk and overslept? Did he get a flat tire?
If it were just me, I’d chalk his absence up to unforeseen life circumstances, but Turbo seems unnerved by it, too. He calls someone twice,sends several texts, growing increasingly angry, which is curious. I’d understand if he were worried about his friend not showing up or replying to his texts, but anger? Secretly ogling women in a park seems like an activity he should be able to handle alone.
Ignoring Turbo’s strange reaction, I access the police records. Perhaps Craig was in a car accident. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
The search for his license plate number doesn’t reveal anything unusual. The search for his name, however, leaves me speechless. Apparently, Craig Denver is dead.
Chapter 5
Wyatt
Istareatthescreen, my mind blank. My target is dead before I even touched him. That’s a fucking first.
Craig Denver is a common name, so I dig deeper into the police reports to confirm that the victim of last night’s drug deal gone wrong truly ismyCraig Denver. The body hasn’t been officially identified, but the wallet found on the victim contained several IDs with his name and photograph. After all, he’s a professional football player. While he’s not exactly a national superstar, locals do know him and several members of the first response team recognized him.
Craig Denver truly is dead. What the actual fuck?
I palm the ampule of clenbuterol in my pocket again, just to reassure myself it’s still there. I haven’t given it to Craig. It was supposed to look like he OD’d on unsanctioned doping and got a heart attack. Killing him and ruining his reputation at once. My client hadn’t exactly asked for that, but I thought it would be a nice touch.
Now, I’m left utterly stupefied, which hasn’t happened to me in years. Decades. Fuck, I’ve never been so confused in my life! Especially because Iknow the “drug deal gone wrong” is utter bullshit. If there was one positive thing about that bastard, it was that he didn’t do drugs. Even the detective on the case noted it in her preliminary observations.
Someone murdered my target and made it look like Craig was buying drugs and that’s…fucking brilliant, if you ask me. I would have chosen a different approach but I can appreciate the intent. Except, what does it mean for my contract? Did Washington hire someone else along with me to make sure Denver really died? Hiring two professionals to kill one measly football player seems like overkill, even for someone as rich and as angry as Washington, but I can’t rule it out. What else could have happened? What are the chances that Craig pissed off someone else enough to get himself killed at the exact same time there was a contract on his head? And at the exact same time he beat up his girlfriend, my brain supplies. I briefly indulge the theory of Amy hiring someone to take care of her abuser but dismiss it. She’s not that type of person, nor does she have the connections. Or the money. She can barely afford her rent and hitmen are expensive. I should know.
It must have been Washington, and it makes me irrationally angry. I’ve never left a job unfinished, and my reputation in the community is stellar. Why would he hire someone else after I’ve accepted the contract? I didn’t piss him off that much, did I?
As if on cue, my phone rings. “Mr. Washington?”
Before I can give him a piece of my mind, he says, “I just heard the news. Good job. The money is on the way.”
That doesn’t sound like he’s telling me I won’t get paid because another hitman got to the target first. I don’t even care about the money. It’s about principle. Two hitmen hunting the same target might make a good movie plot, but in reality, it’s dangerous and gets messy. We don’t play along well.
I don’t beat around the bush. “Did you offer the reward to someone else aside from me?”
“What? Of course not.” Washington scoffs. “Dealing with one fucking psychopath is disgusting enough. You have your money. I never want to hear from you again.”
“Leave a review on the dark web,” I tease somewhat absently. Washington ends the call without responding, leaving me even more confused than before. Normally, I’d say he was lying, but why would he lie? And if he didn’t hire another hitman, then who the fuck killed Craig Denver?
Amy
