Page 34 of Himbo Hitman
I swallow roughly. “That’s … that’s good to, umm, know.” I plant both hands firmly on the counter to stop from adjusting myself into a more comfortable position.
St. Clare’s gaze finally breaks from mine and drops to them instead. Then, he reaches across the distance between us and grabs my little strawberry charm, giving it a tug. The bird, smiley face, and flower charms all shake with the movement.
“You know, Perry,” he says, leaning in, and when he looks back up at me, his gaze is cold. “I could have sworn I’ve seen this somewhere before.”
“Impossible. My mom made it for me.”
“So it’s one of a kind.”
“Yep.”
“And no other person in the world has it?”
I have no idea where he’s going with this. I stiffly shake my head.
“And you haven’t lent it to anyone?”
“Why would I do that?”
St. Clare’s smile is smug. “You wanna know where I’ve seen it?”
Suddenly, I’m not so sure I do. Actually, I’m very, very sure that I don’t want to know where he’s seen it because wherever that was has pissed St. Clare off, and it’s giving me a bad feeling.
A bad, sickly, sinking feeling that maybe Arlie was right.
“It’s actually, uh, time for my break. Must be going. Good talk. See you later.” Before he can answer me, I yank my hand away, the bracelet snapping back against my wrist as I leave the counter empty and scramble toward the back.
Casey should be almost done with her break, and while mine isn’t for another half an hour, they’re going to have to deal withme taking it early because I can’t exactly give them the reason why.
Just a feeling, but I doubt there’s athe guy I was supposed to kill is onto me, and I’m having an itty-bitty freak-outleave option.
This barista job was supposed to be a “no kill, new me” lifeline, and already it feels like I can’t escape my past. My past of literally a week ago, but it still counts. I’m a good guy, dammit. I made the ill-advised choice to dip my toes into the world of cloaks and daggers before backing the hell out again. Surely that gains me brownie points? I didn’tactuallykill anyone. I don’t know of any other jobs with this kind of disastrous trial period.
The baddie bunchreallyneed to get onto starting that union.
I shoulder my way out the back door into the alleyway behind the cafe.
“There he is!”
I jump around toward the voice, door slipping from my grip, and try to place where it came from. There’s a familiarchick-etright as the cafe door reopens, and a bullet sails past my head.
“Fuck,” I shout, diving toward where St. Clare is standing in the doorway. I shove him ahead of me, and another shot goes off as I barrel back inside. The restlessness bursts out of me, and I can’t hear, can’t think, can’t see.
Just scream, “Run!” even though he’s already running, and try to keep pace behind him.
We tear past the stockroom, down the hall, and back through the swinging door into the cafe. Casey is behind the counter in front of a small line of customers, and she looks over in shock, but her “Perry, what are—” is drowned out as we shove our way through the seating area, and I haul St. Clare aside to scope out the street first.
I’m expecting another gunshot, more shouts, something or anything, but when it doesn’t happen, I grab St. Clare’s arm and urge him ahead. “Go!”
He runs, and I run after him. I haven’t stopped to think about where we’re going or who shot at us or why we’re a target; I just have a feeling in my veins that it’s for St. Clare, and as convenientas it would be if someone else took him out, I’m suddenly very, very not okay with that option.
I’m running off adrenaline and feelings, and I’m sure if I’d had a second to stop and think, I definitely would have left him to fend for himself.
“Down here,” St. Clare yells back at me, and I’m nowhere near fit enough for this. My lungs are burning, and I’m wearing jeans, for fuck’s sake. Being alive to aid him long enough for my jeans to chafe is pure luck, but I’d really like a bit more luck to be able to get out of these damn things and catch my breath.
St. Clare leads me into the bar of his nightclub and shouts at some random guy vaping to get security on the door. I don’t wait long enough to see if he does, but we follow the route I took to his office last night, down the hall to the stairs and up them. My thighs protest the climb, and my speed slows down significantly. If anyone everdidwant to kill me, all they’d need to do is chase me up some stairs.
We reach St. Clare’s office, and I hesitate about entering, finally some self-preservation kicking in now that we’re out of immediate danger.
