Paris
I close my eyes and inhale the delicate scent of fresh cut roses drifting upward from the blanket of red scattered across their graves.
As a wise-beyond-my-fourteen-years teenager, I understood life was complex. A long, drawn-out scientific equation, like those my chemistry teacher tended to torment us with. Solvable, so long as you don’t give up. And hey, I’m not the kind of girl to back away from a challenge, right? What no one prepared me for are the illogical blips that will derail you in a heartbeat, the emotional hiccups leading you down a path of anger, desperation, grief, heartbreak, hope. Where you struggle to manage, to pull yourself back, work your way out of an overwhelming maze of emotion and get back on track toward managing the main equation—that being love.
Mama knew it.
Pop knew it.
And as I sprinkle the petals of the last of my bouquet over the graves, and considering how deeply my parents loved each other, with all their faults, all their differences of opinion, all their blips and hiccups, the truth shatters me.
I loved like that, once. Yet hiccup after hiccup has led me astray, causing me to wonder if it’s possible to ever get back on track.
There’s no time like the present, if all goes according to plan.
Rising to my feet, I brush the last few clinging petals free of my palms, reminding myself how my melancholy is just another blip. Because I’m not here in Montparnasse Cemetery to simply pay respects to Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, my favorite French literary authors who happen to be lovers buried side by side in this cemetery. Or dredge up the painful memories of another cemetery, the one I buried my mother in.
No, I’m here to lure a Prick.
One of the main entrances to the catacombs is just beyond the grave. And with every plucked petal, I’ve been counting the seconds, hoping today will be the day something happens.
Thank you, Jaxson, for unknowingly giving me this brilliant idea.
Everything is in place. The less-popular location down by the River Seine where I’ll interrogate him about Novák’s whereabouts; the cat-and-mouse tactic I’ll use, the easiest yet most efficient way to get him to talk; my resolve to get this over with, get to Novák, terminate him, then bid au revoir to a city of light that’s cast nothing but darkness over me. Now all I need is a Prick to notice me.
I sigh. I could call Francis. I’m sure a whole army of men would descend upon this place, hell-bent on making me another permanent fixture buried within Montparnasse. But one man should do the trick.
For the next hour, I play tourist. Touring the cemetery, pacing up and down the sidewalk just in front, trying to be noticed. It’s only when a breeze kicks up out of nowhere and the hairs on my arms to stand at attention that I get the feeling I’m being watched.
Slowly and with utmost casualness, I scan the faces around me.
Until our eyes connect.
His narrow in recognition.
Mine drop to his stomach—which starts jiggling as he rushes toward me.
Big-Belly.
Bingo.
I scoop up my satchel tight against my shoulder, then jog across the cemetery grounds, weaving my way between tombstones and tourists. Running in a crazy jig-jog way, like I’ve overindulged on a bottle of Bordeaux, when what I’m hoping for is to dodge any bullets Big-Belly sends my way.
The sound of screaming tourists and cursing Frenchmen accompany me out onto the far sidewalk. Big-Belly . . . making friends.
I hit the brick sidewalk in a pathetically slow run. Keeping a manageable distance from my target yet close enough where he doesn’t lose sight of me. There’s too many people strolling about for him to fire—at least, I’m banking on the Prick having the tiniest bit of common sense not to open fire, without any additional common sense to spare.
Patience, I remind myself. Play it cool. Play the part. His mark. His victim. A nuisance he’ll take care of for his boss Novák.
I’m barely winded by the time I reach the stone stairwell leading down to the pedestrian walkway built along the bank of the Seine.
By the time I stop beneath the Petit Pont—a little bridge connecting Paris to the Île de la Cité, where Notre Dame cathedral is located—I’m feeling confident Big-Belly is ready to kill me.
I position myself beneath the bridge, fingers over the pistol at my side as I hunch over and pretend to suck air into my lungs.
Waiting. And . . . still waiting.
What the hell?
My pistol clenched tightly behind my back, I retrace my steps. Until I spy two black-booted feet sticking out from the bottom of the stairway. I glare down at Big-Belly’s dead form, at the gunshot wound between his eyes.
“Nice day for a run,” I hear my worst nightmare say, before he drops onto the pedestrian walkway from the embankment above.
“You killed him,” I grind out.
“It was a bad plan. You’ve got a knack for them,” Jaxson fires back.
“I was going to question him.”
“He’s been on his cell phone this entire time. Calling for help. Seems like not only have you pissed off Hayden, but Novák’s out for blood as well. What did you do, sell him out too?”
One Prick. Two Pricks. However many, I’m prepared, with my fully loaded pistol and enough hatred to see things through. Like I said, I only need one of them to talk. And as far as selling Novák out . . . God, how I’d like to pop a bullet in Jaxson’s kneecap and wipe that smug smile off his face. But I don’t.
I . . . can’t.
“Why are you so damn sure I’m the traitor who exposed TORC?”
“Hayden has proof.”
“Hayden can go leap off a tall bridge. He’s got nothing . . .”
“What the hell, Kylie?” Jaxson says, his tone is steep with disappointment as he watches what is likely a hailstorm of uncontrollable emotions shift across my face. Disappointment. Anger. Hurt. An insurmountable amount of frustration.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I stare at him, feeling lost. Feeling alone. Would he even believe me if I told him who the real traitor is?
“It’s not how it seems.”
“Tell that to Hayden.” Jaxson takes a step closer, and I retreat a step backward.
“And you jumped on the opportunity to come to Paris and to make me pay.” Yeah, that hurts as well.
“Not before I get the answers I’m looking for.”
I suck in my bottom lip. His gaze drops. The air between us sparks to life. Shoot me or kiss me, damn it. Crazy thinking. But is anything about this situation not crazy? But he’s not ready to listen. No, the handsome jerk believes I betrayed him.
God, what’s happened to us?
“What’s happened to us?” he snarls, his tone incredulous.
Shit, I said it aloud.
“You.” He practically spits the word at me. “You, sweetheart. You happened.”
I’ve always been told anger will be my undoing. Never listened, but it’s true. Anger causes you to lose control. And with Jaxson, I’m already off to a head start.
I bring my face in close and snarl, “You’re the one who started this thing. But I’ll be the one who’ll be ending it.” Damn you. Damn you for distrusting me.
Something flickers within his beautiful blue eyes. Sadness? It’s hard to tell because everything is blurred by my furious tears.
“Crocodile tears? Nice try, but they won’t work on me.”
I inhale and smell the familiarly aching scent of mint on his breath.
He’s so close, his lips a hair’s breath away. Like he wants to kiss me. His body tenses, his nostrils flare, his heart quickens in tempo with mine. He wants to, I can feel it.
Yeah, kissing him will get me nowhere fast.
We’re officially over. More over than when he was dead.
I notch up my chin, growing more livid by the second. Yet he has to know.
“I told you about my younger sister, Madelyn,” I say, frost in my tone. “You know about my family. You even said you’d like to meet them before Mama passed . . .”
I fall silent, and shake my head.
“Keep going. Your sister . . .”
“The night of the hit I returned home.”
“I remember.”
“Franco found out I’d been spying on him and sent his men to find me. As you are well aware, I wasn’t home. But my sister was . . .”
“Did they hurt her?”
I’m so furious at the thought of how Madelyn could have been hurt, at this situation, at the one person standing before me who I believed was in my corner no matter what, my entire body is shaking. “No. I haven’t exactly had time to piecemeal what happened together. Two of Franco’s men dead—that’s what was waiting for me when I returned home, around the same time Declan came by looking for me.” TORC’s most ruthless hit man. At our trailer. With my sister. I still can’t believe it. There’s more to tell Jaxson, so much more to explain.
Except we’ve got company.
Over Jaxson’s shoulder, I spot the three Pricks further down on the pathway. One is pointing and waving the other two forward. Yeah, the Prick must of gotten in another phone call with my location before Jaxson killed him.
I turn to go but Jaxson grabs my arm.
“Finish,” he demands.
“Now’s not the time,” I hiss.
“You might not get another chance.”
I grind my teeth together. Seething. Did he hear anything I just told him? I stand up straighter, spin and pull my arm free, and manage to get a few steps ahead of him before he grabs me from behind.
“We have company,” I snap.
“I see them.”
“Let me go.”
“Hayden has proof you’re a traitor. Pictures of you at lunch with Novák.”
What? The only time I was in that man’s company was . . . God. Oh God.
I send an elbow back into his stomach and am rewarded by his sharp intake of breath.
“Fuck.” His arms drop and he lets me go. And for a second, I regret what I’m about to do.
“Here they come,” I say.
His eyes narrow on my face. But . . . it’s too late. “And there you go.” With all my body weight behind me, I throw myself into him and knock him backward. Surprised when he actually falls into the Seine. Surprised, and suspicious.
That was a little too easy.
I wait until I see his head bob up. What I don’t expect is that familiar grin lighting up his face.
“Whatever is in those goddamn pictures, isn’t what you’ve been led to believe,” I shout down at him, before turning and sprinting away.