Page 1 of Himbo Hitman
CHAPTER ONE
PERRY
There comesa time in every man’s life when he needs to grow up and get on with things. Granted, I’ve always been a late bloomer, and it might have taken my apartment being broken into a third time, a disappointed big sister, dead parents, and an apparent murder car for it to happen, but it’s time.
I’m here.
Ready to take charge of my life and give my sister approximately one hundred fewer things to stress about.
I tug on the elastic bracelet with plastic charms that I made with my mom when I was a kid and have never taken off since. It’s a steady reminder that things aren’t so bad, and I need it right now because it turns out sudden motivation isn’t a magical portal to finding a job. I’ve applied for everything that doesn’t need experience, from late-night cleaners to gas station attendants to this one suspicious listing for a “personal nursemaid, no experience, must have nice feet,” and honestly, I’m not even sure I’m qualified forthat.
Putting myself out there again and again and only hearing silence back is threatening to put a chink in my positivity and send me on a weeklong reality TV binge instead.
There’s nothing Judge Judy can’t fix.
I need to resist though. For my sister.
Margot has always been the responsible sibling, and after our parents died, she’s jacked that need up to a thousand. I wouldn’t say she’s overbearing, but I would say that she could worry a little less about me and my life and the cute mice I share my apartment with.
I’ve been desperate for money before, but this is the desperatest I’ve reached yet, and I’m at the point where I need anything that will pay me money.
When I approach Lethal Poison, the bar I love to hang out in because of the interesting people there, I smirk at thehelp wantedsign in the door.
Help wanted.
Wink wink.
Sure, most people don’t know what that means, but I’m an intuitive, trustworthy kind of guy. I pick up on things. I talk to people.
And Lethal Poison isn’t just a bar.
It’s a meeting place for the most ruthless ruffians Seattle has to offer.
From thieves to vagabonds to contract killers and everything in between. I’m not … actually sure what comes between those things, come to think of it, but I don’t need to know all the details. I just know that if there’s something illegal you want done, there’s someone to do it, and those someones hang out at Lethal Poison.
Margot wanted me to find a job, so here I fucking go.
I push through the front door, bell tinkling, and walk into the cute little bar. For a place where dangerous people hang out, it has the decor of an old speakeasy with upbeat country music always playing, the happychinkof pool balls knocking together in the back room, and smells overwhelmingly like Christmas cookies.
I fucking love it here.
The owner, Luther, is behind the bar, and I can only assume his parents were obsessed with Superman. Batman. One of the hero men. He gives me an upnod as I approach and pours me out my usual glass of Coke before popping a lime wedge into it. It doesn’t do anything for the taste, obviously, but while I might not be a bigdrinker, I like to pretend to be fancy. Plus, no one asks questions about why you’re in a bar if it looks like you’re here to get drunk.
Luther hands over my drink, but before he can let go, I close my hand over his and lean in.
“I saw your sign,” I tell him, raising my eyebrows in a way that lets him knowIknow. “Good help is hard to find.”
“Sure is.” Luther tugs his hand back. “Know of anyone with a bar license?”
I squint, trying to figure out what bar license might translate to in bad-guy speak. A gun license, maybe? Do contract killers need one of those? Seems a bit discriminatory; what if a gun isn’t their weapon of choice?
“It’s easy enough to get.” Ithink.
“Well, come see me when you have one.” He walks down the bar, but I quickly follow him.
“The problem is that kind of thing costs money, and I’m a bit low on funds right now.”
“Not my problem.”
