Paris
I’m in shock. I’m unable to get a grip on my feelings. I remember too much, when common sense tells me to forget.
Jaxson’s lips brushing against mine.
His hungry gaze from across the room, his eyes fixed on me like I’m the dessert on his late-night menu.
Him asleep beside me, peaceful, heartbreakingly beautiful . . . mine.
Not anymore. He hates me. The thought hurts, but I’m shuffling through a freak show of emotions trying to understand my feelings. The problem is I’m feeling everything; anger, betrayal, mistrust, frustration, guilt.
Goddamn love.
For two days, I’ve curled up in bed at a new hotel, licking my wounds while surviving on a horde of baguettes, cheese, and as many pastries as the corner baker could fit into one bag. Two wine bottles lay empty on the nightstand. A German Riesling—hey, no saying I’ll even make it out of this bed, let alone to Germany—and a Bordeaux, which after I consumed the entire bottle, did the unthinkable and made me weep.
That’s right, I blame it on the Bordeaux.
Jesus, Jaxson.
I spent hours running my hands across his chest, fascinated with his muscled physique, the fine cut of his abdomen, the beauty mark located to the right of his belly button. Now hours thinking about his body, his smile . . . him, and those horrid scars. What did Novák’s men do to him?
All because of me and my not being in the right place at the right time, as promised.
A tear drips off my cheek and lands on the back of my hand in a pool of sadness. Damn, it’s the Bordeaux talking again. I shake my tears off like I’ve been burned.
No, I’ve never been an overly emotional girl, the kind who cries herself to sleep after pigging out on a pint of Häagen-Dazs and watching The Notebook. This mental-health break—that’s what I call it, for lack of a better term—frustrates me to no end. But I guess every Jill has a Jack to turn her into a blithering, runny-nosed mess.
He’s alive, I keep reminding myself. And that’s the name of the game, right? Best remember it.
Time to buck up, buttercup.
I roll out of bed and hit the shower. Midshampoo, an idea forms.
In Shelby, every school year began with the same question. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Private security contractor wasn’t anyone’s answer. Neither was mercenary. Or killer.
Too much time’s been wasted. I need to forget I ever cared about him. Give in to my resentment. He’s been alive all this time . . . without my knowing it. Without believing in me.
Damn if that doesn’t rub me the wrong way. All the time I spent mourning him, missing him.
Well, no more.
Think supplies. Think preparation. Think strategy—something I learned early on, but what comes as second nature to Jaxson. If my suspicions are true, the next time I call Francis, Novák’s men will come back out to play. And I’ll be ready. Discovering Jaxson is alive changes nothing. I still intend on terminating Novák and finishing my assignment. Our botched assignment, which I’m more determined than ever to resolve.
Twenty minutes later, I exit my hotel, pulling my sweatshirt hood over my head. I blink, momentary blinded by the sunlight. Two days in bed will do that to a gal. I take the Metro to the Galeries Lafayette and find a hair salon. Nothing like a little beauty therapy mixed with a bit of thievery to put the spring back in my step.
The salon is upscale, and I’m greeted by light flirting across a white marble floor cast from the chandelier overhead. A three-quarter-length wall, featuring high-end impressionist painting reproductions—or so the sign says, in English too—separates the front of the salon from a second, less glamorous space in the back. An area where all the chemical magic happens. And just where I belong this morning.
In no time, I’m seated in the back and in the middle of an inquisition by my friendly stylist, Margot.
“You know, you’d be très belle as a blond,” Margot says. “Mais rouge . . .” She makes that sound only Parisians seem to have mastered, as if they’re reluctantly letting the letter P pass in a huff from between their lips. A P-huff. So much for her liking my current freak-show red. “And this noire suggestion will be too dark for your fair complexion.”
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to go back to my natural color. Make myself pretty for a man responsible for my two-day lapse in reasoning. Yeah, who am I kidding? What does hair color matter anymore? He’s going to find me, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I just need to hurry the hell up and terminate Novák before my hope for redemption dies along with me.
I pay close attention to the large containers stacked neatly on the shelves, from a darker, dearty blond—which becomes ten times dirtier with they way Margot says it—to le peroxyde d’hydrogène for a bleached-blond look.
“Okay, Margot. You’ve convinced me. Bleach blond it is.”
The beautician claps her hand with glee. I resist the temptation to do the same—not until I follow through on the real reason I’m here inside this salon paradise.
Margot chats away as she applies the pasty mixture to my hair. “I’ve a new lover,” she tells me without censor. I let out a soft sigh. It seems I’ve found the one and only Parisian excited to practice English.
“A boyfriend?” I correct.
“Non, a lover. He’s older, experienced. I’ve never had sex like this before. The orgasms, oh-la-la.”
I laugh. Her joy is contagious but short-lived.
“And you? Do you have someone special?”
I feel the blood drain from my face, my cheeks becoming as pale as my pasty hair. Jesus, I’m beginning to detest the City of Love.
“Eh . . . why do you frown? Zut, I’m sorry if I upset you. Boy trouble?”
I stare into the mirror and am horrified to see tears. Zut, and double zut. “Oui,” I whisper. “Beaucoup de trouble.” I give myself a mental eye roll on that one. How do you say “a shitload of trouble” in French?
“Do you still love him?” she softly murmurs.
“No,” I blurt out. “Not any longer.”
“Then why are you crying, chéri?”
“Damn Bordeaux,” I mutter. “Nasty hangover . . .”
“We have an expression here in France—”
“Je t’aime?” I interrupt, far too hostile. Far too mocking. Jesus, I’m turning into a real bundle of joy.
Fortunately, she laughs. “That too. But I’m referring to is this proverb: à cœur vaillant rien d’impossible.”
“Any proverb with the word impossible in it must be considered carefully.” Really, can we turn this discussing to the weather?
She pauses and searches my face. Waiting for my signal to continue. I cave because, let’s face it, she’s so bleeding nice and I’m feeling slightly guilty about my real motive for being here. “What does the expression mean?”
“‘Nothing is impossible to a willing heart.’ Be brave, chéri. Especially in matters of the heart.”
Terrific. I came inside for a dye job and to pinch a few pints of hydrogen peroxide, not become a victim to some philosophizing Parisian hair whisperer. Lucky for me, my hair’s saturated enough for her to leave me alone while the chemicals change me from circus freak to Malibu chic.
For a second, I relax back into my chair, thinking about Margot’s words. Nothing is impossible to a willing heart.
But what about a broken one?
No, I’ve wasted two days drinking my pain away. I count to ten then swing into motion, jumping out of my chair to remove two plastic bottles of highly flammable hydrogen peroxide off the shelf, which I then stash inside the satchel I bought for the occasion, before sliding another bottle over to hide the empty space made by the missing product. I don’t have a firm plan in place for my stolen goods as of yet. But I’ve made do with less volatile chemicals.
Yeah, Diego would be proud.
Jaxson . . . well, I really don’t know what he’d think. A long time ago, he’d been bemused by my antics. But now, nothing is certain.
A beautician comes and washes my processed hair. Then I grab my gear and am led to the front of the shop, where Margot takes over, trimming my hair into a messy yet fashionable bob and oohing and ahhing over my blond head like an artist does to a completed masterpiece .
Before I depart, we exchange Parisian kisses. Two air kisses near the right cheek, two to the left.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, adjusting the arms of the much heavier satchel across my shoulder.
“What do you Americans like to say?” Margot hollers after me as I head out into the bustling street. “Ah oui . . . he’s going to die when he sees you.”
He just might, I think.
And it won’t be the first time.
I work my way back to Montparnasse, making Francis’s task of tracking then siccing Novák’s men on me that much easier. Carefully, I repeat my actions, buying a cell phone, settling myself down at a corner cafe, and ordering a café au lait. Then I make my call.
“Kylie?” Francis answers, sounding wiped out. Either I’ve woken him up or he’s been partying. “You okay?” he asks, like he’s surprised I am okay.
“Never been better,” I tell him. “Any news on Novák?”
“No,” he answers far too quickly.
“You understand that I’m going to kill him, right?”
“Um, yeah. You’ve been obsessing over it since we first met.”
I blink. For a moment, he sounds like the old guy I knew, a hesitant man who always seemed surprised by my actions. My partner. My friend. But I know better.
“Any information on who’s been sent after me?” I ask, curious if he knows about Jaxson.
“No. Hayden pulled me off the job.”
What? “When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
I scowl at the phone. “I called you three days ago. You mean you’re no longer involved with TORC?”
“You hung up before I could tell you.” Silence fills the line as he hesitates before continuing. “Hayden said he’ll call me. I’m not allowed back at the Ranch unless he does. Somehow, he found out about my snorting a bit of coke with Franco.”
Of course he did, you moron. Despite my not liking the accusation in his tone, I ignore it. Too caught up in the sudden thought that maybe Hayden has figured out who the real traitor is.
And Novák? Are you still working for him? I feel like asking but keep my trap shut.
Patience.
“So you don’t know who he’s sent?” You don’t know about Jaxson?
“No. My guess is it’ll be Declan. That’s his thing, tracking and quietly terminating his targets.”
I feel my shoulders relax. It’s not what Francis has said directly that lightens my burden. It’s what he obviously doesn’t know. Declan had his turn at terminating me and passed. Smart man. A gun. A woman desperate to survive. A man worried the gun held against his crotch by the desperate woman will indeed maim his man-jewels, turning them into little jewels.
There’s another reason that stone-cold killer let you go. You’re just in denial.
“Where are you?” Francis asks, predictably.
“I’m at a lovely little corner cafe in Montparnasse. Actually, it’s called Cafe Montparnasse. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt this relaxed. I took a mental-health break. No weapons. No worries. Just me and jolly Paris.”
There’s silence on the other end. No warnings like, “No weapons? What a dumb amateurish move, Kylie.” Nothing.
“Are you still awake?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he snaps.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If there are ten men after me and I terminate three of them, how many will still be left, jonesing to kill me?”
“What? Do the math,” he grounds out. “Seven.”
“Seven?”
“Are you deaf? Seven.”
“And of all the ex-military guys, hard-core fighters, street-bred men, why do you think I chose you to be on my team? I mean, I could have had a butcher like Broken-Nose. Or any number of ruthless men. But I helped carry you through Hell Camp.”
“Uh, hem, I don’t know.”
“Because I trusted you.” I pause and listen to his sharp intake of breath before driving the nail home. “You’re the only friend I have.” True, yet unfortunate.
I wait for him to say, “You’re my closest friend.” Because, let’s face it, I am. Or was. But the line is dead silent.
If I wasn’t counting on him flushing out Novák’s men. If I let myself dwell on why I didn’t inform Hayden of Francis’s drug problem and my partner’s growing resentment toward our boss. I clench my fingers tightly around the phone. Francis is the real traitor. Who’s in cahoots with Novák. Sold TORC out. Pinned the blame on me. Got Jaxson killed . . .
I smile because in the list of wrongs he’s done, Jaxson’s death has always been the worst of it.
“I better go, Francis. If it’s okay, I’ll call you tomorrow for an update. Keep your ear to the ground for me, okay?”
“Sure, Kylie,” he quickly replies.
How does that expression go? Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?
I’m so pissed off, I leave a half-full coffee behind as I toss a few euros on the table and head out.
Turning down a side street, I swiftly stalk down the sidewalk, searching for the perfect place to smash the phone into tiny, little lying bits.
I spot an old brick house. Perfect. Setting my satchel on the ground by my feet, I raise the cell phone in my hand and whack it against the wall. One. Two. Three.
I hold it up between my fingers to assess the damage.
Jesus. For a cheap phone, it’s well constructed.
I hear a zinging nose and immediately freeze. Then, to my horror, the cell phone shatters into pieces.
An excellent shot this time.
A sniper shot.
Holy sweet Mary, how did he find me?
I shake free the fragments still clenched between my fingers. Hastily snatching up my satchel, I take off running.