Page 31 of Himbo Hitman
Fuck.
There’s no fucking way.
I’m about to say his name when he drops his gun hand suddenly.
“Last chance,” he says, like he’s trying to sound intimidating, but it comes out all wrong.
All I can picture is the slightly dopey sweetheart bumbling around behind the counter at the cafe. “Last … chance?”
“You need to leave. Disappear. I mean it this time.”
“Right.”
He rubs his head again, and this time, I’msureI get a glimpse of dark hair. I’m overlaying my memory of Perry with this guy in front of me and coming up with match after match. “Close your eyes while I leave.”
Stupidly, I do exactly that.
I don’t question whether I’m making myself an easier target, and when I hear the soft creak of my office door pulling open, I’m not at all surprised.
A second later, I look.
He’s gone.
And now I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with this information.
He hasn’t seen Colin. He’s useless to me. One call to the police will remove him from my life, and then I won’t need to worry about disappearing.
Except.
If he is working for someone like he claims he is, there’s nothing to stop them from sending someone else. That someone else might not be so easy to scare off.
It’s like playing Russian roulette with serial killers.
Who do I want to off me first?
CHAPTER NINE
PERRY
“You’re in a foul mood,”Elle says, leaning across the counter at work while Margot ignores us both in favor of her coffee.
“Me? Mood? Nope. I’m totally and completely fine.”
“You’ve spilled two coffees since we’ve been standing here, love.”
I’m not sure how that’s proof of anything, but now she mentions it, I am feeling … jittery? Annoyed? Expectant?
Definitely not foul.
But there is something off that’s making it impossible to be happy in the moment and give my customers all the love and attentiveness they deserve to start their day with. I might have the teeny, tiniest idea of what’s gotten me so shamoozeled in the first place too.
St. Clare.
I don’t hate him, and I couldn’t kill him, so I’m screwed if he doesn’t listen to my very empty threats this time. MaybeIcould contract a contract killer and pay them a chunk of what I was paid. Like a pyramid scheme of premeditated murder. That would free up all of my everything, and I’d be able to go back to coffees and Sir Squeakerton and the daily scramble of bill balancing. I haven’tkilled anyone, but if I stick it out in this life, it’s only a matter of time, and I’m not interested in that for me, if I’m honest.
No judgment to Luther and Arlie—I’m sure they’re the bestest lil killers—but I’ll sit this one out.
So long as St. Clare does.
