Page 2

“Fuck! I hate cleaning.” I grumbled to myself.
Trudging up the steps, my feet were heavy as I slapped the button on the wall next to the door, lowering the garage door and sealing the world out.
I punched in the recall number and put the phone on speaker.
“It’s done.”
“Yes. I saw on the news it was done.” The voice on the other end of the line sneered. “I was hoping for something tidier. Something more worthy of your reputation.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens.” My voice was dry and devoid of any emotion. “You paid for dead; you got dead.”
“Indeed.” He answered, the phone clicking off.
Even if this client was paying nearly double my usual rate, I didn’t appreciate the snark from the broker. It was simply his job to send out the details and pay the hitter who got the job done first; his opinion wasn’t part of the equation.
Confirmation calls were not usually part of the job either, but the client had requested I notify the broker, even though he had a way of knowing when jobs were completed.
I finished stripping off my clothes, dropping each piece into the box for the incinerator before stepping into the shower.
The scalding water felt good, like cleansing fire burning away the sins of the day. I scrubbed every inch of my skin and hair, removing all traces of blood and debris from the target’s house.
My first aid kit was on the third shelf, neatly tucked beside a stack of towels folded in thirds. A lesson I’d learned the last time someone got a piece of me and I had to climb up on the step stool to get to the top shelf. That was fucking excruciating!
I spread out the scissors, tape, needle, thread, gauze and Betadine, laying them neatly beside each other, before threading the needle.
My teeth chomped down hard against the folded rag I stuffed in my mouth. Sweat dotted my brow, and my vision blurred as I grabbed the jagged edges of skin and began sewing it back together using small, tight stitches.
“Fuck! I need wine.” I grumbled to the empty bathroom as I swept the used needle, thread and even the rag I used to keep me from breaking my teeth into the bin for the incinerator.
Once I finished and wrapped my stomach with a proper bandage and pulled on a comfy pair of sweats and a slinky navy tank.
I pulled the bottle of red wine from the cabinet and dropped it in the trash, deciding instead to pour myself a glass of white. I loved the full-bodied flavor of red wines, but they sometimes gave me migraines, and last night’s choice had given me a doozy.
A less stubborn person would simply give up on drinking red and stick to white. Then again, I was definitely not most people.
I slid my toes into my chunky slides, lamenting the loss of a good pair of boots, lost to the incinerator, and made my way down the back steps and out into the greenhouse.
The earthy scent of damp soil and sweet roses washed over me, instantly calming the last slivers of unease that remained from tonight’s unexpected turn of events.
I swirled my glass as I walked slowly through the rows of white roses in search of the perfect tribute to mark the occasion.
About halfway down the second row, a rose in full bloom caught my eye. A few of the petals appeared to be torn and wilted; clearly, it had seen better days. Any other day, I would probably have snipped it off and tossed it in the compost bin.
But in this moment, I couldn’t think of a more perfect flower to commemorate the night. The rose was a bit gnarled and not as pretty as it should have been, but in the end, it was still a rose, just like my kill.
Chapter 2
AHREN
As the front door swung open, I caught sight of it lying there. A single white rose, this one not quite as pristine as the ones I usually received, screaming its message at me; you missed.
A wry smirk made its way onto my lips. “Good girl,” I murmured my reluctant praise. I didn’t need to scour the news sites; this rose was confirmation enough. A small tribute in our game of tit for tat.
The call had only gone out yesterday morning. I hadn’t planned to scope this mark out until lunchtime today and here she had already completed the job. Impressive. Irritating, but impressive.
Bending down, I scooped up the delicate blossom moments before the dogs reached the front steps, saving it from being trampled.
A spark of irritation slipped through me. My jaw worked, grinding my teeth against each other as I rolled the stem between my fingers.