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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kaden

This is what really happened...

I ’m pacing the shitty rental apartment—dress shoes scuffing stained carpet, fingers raking my hair—trying to lock down the mission.

Josie Rhodes.

Target.

Asset.

Whatever the fuck she is, she’s got me twisted up, and tonight’s the first “real” date. I’ve already mapped her body—every curve, every gasp—but this? This is different. Dangerous. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be letting her in, but she’s burrowed under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out. I don’t date. I pay for food, fuck, and flee. This? What is this?

I tug on my tie, loosen it slightly—suits choke me, but “Ken” wears them. I grumble all the way to my car, footsteps light and silent, mission briefing looping in my head—observe, report, don’t get attached.

My phone buzzes as I slide in. Ready when you are, her text, sweet as hell.

My teeth grit. I don’t like her text or how it guts me. Clingy, soft, unraveling me. I send a message back: Almost there, sunshine. Hating how that nickname fits her, how it slips out like I mean it.

She fires again, instantly: Stop reading my texts while you’re driving. It’s dangerous.

I snort—dangerous? If she knew—bullets, blades, blood—not some fucking text. Then stop texting me. My answer is playful and it should be. Ken would be. But I don’t like how easy being playful with Josie comes.

I snap my attention back to the road and fucking reassure her: My phone reads out the texts to me, so no danger. We’re good.

That’s when I imagine her, in one of her pretty little dresses, worrying about me, and I hate her a little for it. I force myself to stay in character and send: Can’t wait to see you , then toss the phone.

Focus, Kaden—she’s a job, not your goddamn woman.

I pull up in the agency’s sedan—nondescript, cheap. It’s a car meant to go unnoticed, easily forgotten. Ken’s cover.

She jogs to the car, floral dress swaying—legs, light, a beacon for every bastard out here. My chest tightens and warms. I shove that feeling down.

“No apron tonight?” she teases, sliding in, voice like honey.

I force a smirk, “Only if you’re cooking,” and cup her chin, kissing her deep—too deep. Her taste floods me; I nearly ditch it all and drag her upstairs.

No—fucking her is not getting me intel. We need to be out in the world, where I can get her talking, watch her.

Hands shake buckling my seatbelt—fucking hell, she’s going to get me killed. Gravel crunches under tires, my fingers tap the wheel—a focusing habit. My eyes flick to the rearview—nothing. Good. There shouldn’t be, but I scan anyway.

She’s chattering, flipping the visor to check her lipstick—red, bold, another trap. “Okay, official ruling on mini-golf—fun, competitive, or an abomination?” she asks in a bright tone.

I hum, stalling. What would Ken say? “Competitive, because I’m going to win. Fun, because you’ll lose. Abomination, because I’m forced to participate.” Tuck it in, Kaden. Remember you’re Ken. Is someone like him even competitive?

She laughs, nudging my arm—soft, so fucking sweet. “Oh, come on. Abomination? You should reserve that word for something less tragic than losing miserably to a kindergarten teacher.”

My lip twitches—damn her sass. “That’s a lot of smack talk from someone who has no idea of my skill level,” I say, eyes glinting—focus on the game, not her mouth.

“When was the last time you played?” she presses, sizing me up. And I love it. Shit.

“A few times back in—never.” Truth almost slips; I clench the wheel. There was a version of me, in another lifetime, who had enjoyed the silliness of the game.

“Never?” Her jaw drops, delight sparking—too fucking cute. “Hold on. You’ve never played mini-golf before and you still think you’ll kick my ass? That’s... that’s...”

“Confidence?” I cut in, smirking to cover the slip.

She chuckles, “I was going to say delusional, but sure.”

I grind my teeth—her laugh’s a gateway drug to something addictive and deadly. “Don’t go being all sweet or I’ll feel bad when you’re crying after I win,” I toss, hating how it lands.

She rolls her eyes—good, spar, don’t melt for me.

I should leave it there, but I don’t. I can’t. “How about we make a wager. One that will make your loss more palatable?” I say, low—reel her in, not yourself.

“What do you have in mind?” she side-eyes, game.

“Winner gets the first orgasm and choice of how it’s curated.”

Her laugh bursts—loud, free—and she’s blushing to her toes. I’m hard, fuck—mission slipping.

“Within reason,” she waves, flustered.

“Of course,” I nod and lower the window, needing the fresh air.

Mini-golf’s a dump—chipped windmills, noseless gnomes, neon sign flickering like it’s dying. She grabs a pink club, twirling it—show-off. I inspect a blue one, bent—tech’s cleaner than this shit.

“You should go first so I can study your technique,” I murmur—watch her, not them.

“I’ll agree to that only because you’ve never played before,” she teases, slapping my ass—public, bold, shredding me. “But I’ll still win.”

I snag her hand, yank her close, growl, “Plot twist, I’ve been dreaming about diving face first into your pussy all day, so even if I lose, I win.” I kiss her then. The club sways, forgotten. Fuck.

“Josie?” I rasp, voice tight.

“Yes?” she breathes, dazed.

“There are people behind us waiting. You should probably take your shot.”

She shakes her head, glances at me—mistake—and swings at air. I don’t laugh; I’m picturing her naked, mine. She swings again—ball plops into the pond, duck honking.

Seriously? “Interesting technique,” I snort—focus, not on her pout. Not on how she makes me laugh when nothing has done that in forever.

She groans, hands over her face; I’m moving, fishing the ball out, exactly like Ken would. Not because I want to or that I care. That’s the mantra I keep repeating.

“Does that count as one or two shots?” I toss it back, trying to regain some inner calm.

“I guess it depends on how you want our after-date to start,” she whispers, eyes locked.

“Zero shots it is,” I smirk—heart slamming, wanting her now, and I concede that with so much of my blood in my dick, my game might also be impaired.

She swings, ball stops close—good enough. My turn. I set it, scanning—snack shack, cap low, watching her. Rage flares when he gives her an obvious once over. Twice over. Oh, hell no, think you’re going to enjoy a third? Think again.

My shoulders lock—I swing. CRACK. Perfect power drive. Ball nails his shin.

He yelps: I hide my grin.

Ken would apologize, so I stride over to the man. “Sorry, clumsy me.” But I stand close and hold his gaze and dare him to say something to me.

“No—no problem.” He bends to retrieve the ball then hands it over, before bolting.

Wise choice.

I tell myself it is part of the cover. Ken would feel territorial about her. Ken, not me.

She’s laughing when I return to her side. “You’re a menace!”

I wink, “If you have a problem with my skill level take it up with my instructor. She taught me to aim for the water.” That’s when I kiss her again. Not because Ken would, but because I can’t not.

She meets my passion with both desire and humor. “That poor man. Looks like you got him good,” she says, chuckling.

“I did apologize,” I grimace, trying to appear apologetic. Given the same situation, I’d take that man out just as quick. And I’d aim higher if he dared to show his face around her again.

Josie is good at mini-golf. I’m better, but I fudge the score to give her the win.

“Suspicious,” she waves the scorecard at me.

I kiss her neck, “I guess I’m just not good at keeping score. Or I know what I like and that’s to hear you moan my name.” Truth—too much. The way her eyes darken whenever she looks at me has me sporting a permanent hard-on like I haven’t since high school.

Diner’s greasy—booths sticky, bacon sizzling. She orders a strawberry milkshake, whipped cream high; I get black coffee to stay sharp.

“Boring,” she nudges my foot.

“Like I said,”—I sip—“I know what I like.” Dammit. There goes my mind again, right back to us naked and me lapping her up.

I scan the restaurant. My eyes flick to the door, assessing for a threat out of habit. “Tell me about how you chose where you wanted to move to,” I deflect.

She launches into a story about flitting around in her car and choosing a place that felt right.

Who fucking does that?

I stopped asking myself how I felt after my first kill when I wanted to run away and keep running. Feelings are overrated. I focus on Josie and getting her to share, hopefully something I can use. “No prior research? Just close your eyes and take a shot?”

“Or close my eyes and trust my gut. Then I applied to teach in the school district in the town I liked and—here I am.”

“Yes. Here you are,” I echo, realizing how absolutely different our existences are. “I can’t imagine making my decisions that way.”

“Oh, really? And your job? How did you find it?” Her question is a dagger that cuts deep.

“It found me,” I snap—agency, blood, Wade.

“I’m sorry. I assumed you like your job. You don’t?” Don’t pity me, sunshine. I’ve done too much to deserve the comfort you offer so freely.

“Like any other job there are good and bad aspects of it, but I’d rather hear about you. It takes a lot of courage to just up and move to a new town by yourself,” I pivot—keep her talking.

“No more courage than it probably takes for you to constantly be working with new people at new locations as you install computers,” she says—too close.

“Thanks, but courage is no longer part of the equation for me. It’s just all part of the routine, you know?” That and lying. So many lies.

“Yeah,” she nods, “I get that. The first weeks of any new class are wild and in the beginning it used to intimidate me. All new names to learn. Unpredictable parental expectations. So much hope and so much fear on all sides. I’ve learned to accept that September is going to be a little messy and roll with it.”

“That’s a level of chaos acceptance I can admire.” And I mean it.

“Would you ever want to do anything other than what you’re currently doing?” she asks and the question hits me like a kidney punch. “I don’t ask myself questions I don’t have an immediate plan to act upon if I don’t like the answer.”

She touches my hand; I flinch—and curse the slip—then lace fingers, and force a grin. “You’re trouble, Josie Rhodes,” I murmur.

Pop, a car backfires. I tense, hand crushing hers, then ease off.

“You okay?” she slurps. “Too much coffee today. I’ve got the jitters.” I laugh at my own weak excuse.

Bikers stomp in—leather, loud. One bumps the table, coffee spilling. I’m up, napkin down, facing him. I could fight him. Hell, I could fight him and his crew and win, but I’ve been schooled in how to diffuse. This is how we go unnoticed.

“Sorry, long ride today. Legs are still adapting to walking,” the clumsy biker says.

I answer in a been there, done that tone. “Nothing worse. I rode an old Shovelhead from Boston to Ohio once. Didn’t do that twice, but glad I did it once.” It was the truth. My job has taken me to all sorts of places and with every type of transportation imaginable. That’s probably the only part of what I do that I enjoy.

“Damn. A Shovelhead? That’s old-school. Respect,” he nods with admiration.

“I got an old FXR back home. Custom pipes. That thing roars like a damn lion,” another grunts.

“I’m getting ready to buy one of those toy trailers with a camper in the front. Love the destination rides, getting too old for the miles it takes to get there,” the old one adds.

“FXRs are solid. Best handling frame Harley ever built. And there’s no shame in getting somewhere in style,” I reply building on what they like because that’s how to win over the unknown.

And it works. “Stay upright, brother. No matter what it takes to get you there.” He clasps my hand.

“Always.” I shake his hand.

When I slide back into the seat across from Josie, her eyes are warm and moony—wrecking me. “That was intense. You ride motorcycles?” She gapes.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I brush off her interest and feign humility. Like Ken would, because he’s who I need to remember I am.

It’s dark outside when we make it back to her place. She points to the sky. “Orion’s belt. Three in a row. That’s good luck.”

“Sure,” I grunt—luck? No such thing. Her situation is a case in point. While she’s stargazing, she’s missing that she is being circled by an assassin, fucked by him. What she considers luck, I consider being oblivious.

“You don’t ever look up there, realize how minuscule we are compared to the universe, and feel grateful to be a part of it all?”

No, I don’t want to have an existential conversation with her optimistic, grateful side. It always leaves me feeling bad. “You’re a dangerous woman, Josie,” I rasp.

“Me? That’s something I’ve never been called.”

“Does everything make you happy?” That wasn’t a question from Ken. That was me, wanting to understand her and I hate myself for it.

“Of course not. I have bad days. I get sad and lonely like everyone else. I just choose to keep going and seek out better things to focus on. Life is hard and there’s often no way to avoid that, but you can’t let that be all you are. If you’re standing in a dark room, be the light you wish was there.”

“Be my own light?” I’m not a light; I’m a flame-throwing torch and every bit as destructive.

She continues on, unaware of my twisting intestines. “Choose your own narrative. Choose to find something, even on a bad day, that makes you happy.”

Stop. Be Ken. Focus. “Was today a bad day?”

“You know it wasn’t,” she murmurs—killing me.

“I did lose at mini-golf,” I growl and give in to the lust, dipping her. “You know what that means?

“That I come first?” she shrieks.

I slide a hand up her dress, give her round ass a squeeze. “And last. And, oh so many times in the middle.”

“Remember, we have to be quiet,” she pants, wanting this as much as I do.

I can’t help but tease a little. “So, you don’t want me to lay you across your dining room table and feast on you?” I lift her, carry her in—set her down inside, so turned on I don’t care about anything beyond tasting her again. “I suppose we could watch a movie instead.”

She grabs my tie, pulls my face down to hers. “Mrs. Connelly will understand—hope she hasn’t misplaced her earplugs.” I claim her mouth then and I’m gone, moaning against her, as my resolve crashes and burns.