Page 9 of Stealing His Cupcake
“What?” Perhaps I’m the idiot here because I have no idea what’s going on.
“Well, that’s what people call me,” the kid adds, the flush spreading across his cheeks suggesting that no one actually calls him that. “Name’s Nolan. Nolan Grayson. But I’m only telling you as one professional killer to another. Keep it a secret, will you?”
I know I’m repeating myself, but all I manage is another, “What?” Was this kid born without a brain, or did his parents drop him on the head one too many times?
“Of course you will. You’re the great Wyatt Archer. You’d never betray a colleague.”
Smirking, I remember the time I shot a Georgian Bratva hitman’s kneecaps and left him in a burning building. That was hardly collegial. In my defense, he tried to kill me first. “Uh-huh,” I grunt noncommittally. “I’ve never heard of a hitman called Shade.” Nor have I heard about a teenage one.
Nolan’s blush deepens. “Well, I’m not a big name yet, obviously. But I’ve done some jobs. ‘Round the ‘hood y’know?”
I cringe. The kid is whiter than me, wearing a thousand-dollar designer jacket and carrying a gilded gun with delicate engravings and what looks like fucking diamonds embedded in the barrel. He knows as much about “the hood” as he knows about gun safety.
“The bosses want me to be a courier first. To prove myself, y’know?” His chuckle has a darker edge to it now. “But that’s beneath people like us. I’ll prove myself, alright. Already have a target in mind.”
Ice settles in my stomach. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be eighteen in a couple months, not that it matters.”
A seventeen-year-old wannabe killer with a gilded gun. Gods above, what has the world come to? “Of course it matters. Killing people isn’t just about pulling the trigger. You need to learn a shit ton of things or, at the end of the day, the body left on the floor will be yours. Or you end up in jail. And not in juvie, either.” Even if he’s not eighteen yet, a premeditated murder would be sent to adult court by any judge.
“That’s why I’m here!”
I glance around the alley in confusion. Is there some hitman crash course being held here I’m not aware of? “Here?”
“With you!” Nolan beams. “Just to think that the great Wyatt Archer himself will teach me.” Pulling up the sleeve of his priceless jacket, he shoves his forearm in front of my face. “Look, I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it! So exciting. I kinda want to take a selfie with you, but, well, that probably wouldn’t be very smart. Although, we could wear those cool masks and—”
“No.” Dull pain throbs behind my forehead. The dumb kid is gonna give me a migraine. “I am not going to teach you anything. Go home and rethink your career choice. If you want to hurt people for money, become a dentist or something. Being a criminal is not something you should aspire to.” Any reasonable person should see that.
“But… I want to be like you.”
I think back to all the people I’ve killed, their fear and desperate pleading, and I feel nothing. Then I think about my house. I’ve redesigned and rebuilt every part to my liking, but it’s still just a house. Not a home. Nothing I do makes it feel like a home.
A part of me, that part that can feel genuine joy and affection, has been lost for ages. I’ll be damned—or more damned since I’m pretty much damned already—if I let that happen to a seventeen-year-old kid. “You do not want to be like me.” Some days, I don’t even want to be like myself. “You want to go home. To school. Wherever you’re supposed to be right now.” It’s Tuesday, so probably at school. “Don’t get sucked into this life. That’s the only lesson you’ll learn from me.”
Tears well up in Nolan’s eyes and he gives me the best pleading look I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of them. I bet his parents always cave and give him whatever he wants when he looks at them like that. Too bad I’m immune to kids’ manipulation. Especially if the kid in question is as annoying as Nolan.
He sniffles. “I just wanted to be your padawan.”
Closing my eyes, I count to ten. I could correct him that padawans were the good guys. I could also kill him. In the end, I do neither because it occurs to me that I have yet to ask the most important question before sending him on his way. “How did you find me? How do you know my real name?” In the business, I just go by Wyatt. I don’t advertise my legal last name anywhere.
“I know everything about you. I’ve been admiring your work for years. The word around the dark web is that you accepted a contract on that football player,” Nolan replies with a shrug. “Once I heard he was dead, I paid a lot of money for someone to locate you.”
Jesus Christ. Does any kid with a computer have access to the dark web these days? It used to be for elites only.
Nolan also unwittingly answered another question. During our conversation, I began wondering if it was him who, in his misguided desire to get my approval, killed Craig Denver. It looks like he had nothing to do withthat murder, though, which is not surprising. It was a professional’s work, nothing a clumsy, inexperienced kid like Nolan could have handled.
“Well, don’t do that again.” How do parents force their kids to obey? I can hardly threaten to ground Nolan or take away his phone. I could threaten to kill him, but that seems a little extreme. It doesn’t mean I can’t scare him off a little, though. “I mean it,” I say, slipping behind my emotionless killer mask. I know that it’s working by the way Nolan’s eyes widen. “Do not look for me again.”
Nolan’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Okay.” Taking back his ridiculous gun, he tucks it into the front of his pants again. I’m tempted to keep it, except I doubt it would stop him from doing stupid shit. With the money he clearly has, he’d just get a new one. “I understand,” he whispers with determination I don’t like.
“You understand I won’t be your teacher, right?”
“I understand the lesson.” Nolan nods to himself. “Of course I do. I’m not worthy of your attention yet.”
“Wait, what?”
Before I can grab him and shake some sense into him, he steps out of my reach. “I’ll prove myself to you and then you’ll teach me.”
