Page 1 of Dark Wishes (Dark Contract #2)

Selena

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Black eyes sear into the back of my head. The heat of his gaze is enough to make me tremble. With him watching me, I make a point not to shake—not even a little tremor—because then he’d know how he frightens me. He already knows. But I’m delusional enough to lie to myself to get through this.

It’s my only option.

Jamison... a deadly hit man... has been hovering over me for twenty-four hours.

Has it really only been a day? I wonder. Time is strange. A single cycle and I've watched a man bleed to death, learned I have a new target to kill, hired an assassin to assist me, then spent the night here—in my apartment—with his hands on my body.

I move my thick tongue around the roof of my mouth. Heat settles in my belly when I look at my messy bed, recalling how I lied there, wrists trapped in his huge hand, his agile fingers tracing my breasts.

“Hurry up.” His voice is cold; it cuts through my budding arousal.

Walking around my mattress to my dresser, I drop my charcoal canvas backpack onto the floor. I kneel beside it, digging in the top drawer for some clean clothes. “How much should I bring?” I ask.

“Enough for a few days.”

“Days?” I repeat, shooting him a wary look. Jamison meets my eyes calmly. He's too good at being blase. “You think it will take that long to kill Caruso?”

“It's possible. Better to be prepared.”

Scooping a few outfits into my bag, I start to snap the flap shut, then pause at the sight of one of the shirts left behind.

The red letters are garish on the white fabric.

Anime West 2022. I never cared for the overpriced souvenir shirts at conventions, but this one is different.

Valoria had bought one for each of us to celebrate our first con together.

She'd dressed as Sailor Mars, I’d gone as Sailor Moon.

Our costumes were terrible but it didn’t matter an ounce.

Nothing could tarnish the fun a pair of eighteen-year-olds could have.

We’d eaten enough sugar that we’d stayed up both nights until nearly dawn.

Our bodies were thrashed, but you’d think we were refreshed with how we twirled through the decorated corridors.

I add the shirt into my bag.

Jamison waits for me with one foot in the hall, one inside my apartment. He turns away, as if he can’t bare seeing my home any longer. He doesn't expect to come back here. Or, worse, he doesn't expect me to return.

I linger in the space between my bed and the kitchen. The sun filters through the gaps in my window blinds, casting stripes over the scuffed floor. They stop just before my shoes.

Sliding my foot forward until my toes are in the light, I remember when I moved out here.

I’d slept on Valoria’s couch the first week.

That was the first time we’d ever met in person.

We’d video chatted since we were teens, but it was still awkward.

For me, at least; she forced normalcy with constant hugs that cracked my spine.

Valoria helped me find this place. It didn’t come with furniture—not shocking for the cheapish rent—so we’d sat on the floor, sunlight dappling our faces, laughing as we painted our toenails while dribbling specks of color onto the crinkled newspapers.

She always chose unique colors; yellow, black, orange. She swore one day she’d make me paint my nails something that wasn’t pink.

Now she’s gone. And the girl I used to be has left with her.

This place is full of nothing but ghosts.

I shoulder my bag. “I'm ready.”

***

The entire car smells like a taco stand.

You ever see a dog launch itself full-face into a bowl of food?

That's what I'm dreaming of doing when I stare at the plastic bags packed at my feet.

It's almost enough to distract me from the fact we're winding up some of the twistiest streets I've ever encountered.

“This should be a one way,” I say. “Can you even fit two cars on this road?”

“The traffic is pretty light.” As Jamison says that, he jerks the wheel to make room for a maroon Tesla passing us on our left. “Most of the time.”

“You live all the way up here?” I ask.

“This white one, yeah.”

This white one, like the two-level house isn't worth millions of dollars. To be fair, that's not strange for houses in Los Angeles. But to call this mini-mansion The White One is plain insulting.

Stone walls flank the closed gate, the dual pillars framing the large ivory door at the end of the winding driveway. The house isn't out of place, the whole neighborhood is expensive home next to expensive home.

The more I look, the more I notice other signs of opulence; fancy cars, perfectly trimmed trees, every gate locked shut to keep solicitors out.

“Huh,” I mumble.

“Why do I get the impression you're confused?”

“I didn’t think you’d live in such a... suburban area.”

“Pictured me in more of a dark dungeon situation?” he asks.

I shrug lightly. “Kind of. Rory’s apartment was more what I expected.”

Jamison turns away, fingers slipping under the lip of the sun visor over his head. He presses something there and the gate blocking the driveway parts open for us. “If you prefer Rory’s style, you ‘ll be satisfied. I keep the curtains shut.”

“Of course you do,” I whisper.

He guides his car along the length of the drive, parking it in the attached garage.

An actual garage. I’ve been forced to street park since I moved out here.

Having a private, secure place to leave your car is a luxury, but this is more than that—the space could fit a second vehicle.

The beige walls are broken up with peg boards holding tools, a few shelves are stacked with black totes. I can’t tell what’s inside those.

I hop out of the car with the bags of food in one hand, my backpack in the other. The scent of pine and sawdust makes my nose tickle. “You do a lot of woodworking in here?”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” he says, following me out of the car.

“I guess.”

He pauses with his hand on the oiled, bronze knob of the door at the top of two short steps. “This is bothering you.”

My mouth opens, then shuts, before I shrug in defeat. “Cute house with a manicured lawn, nice neighbors who probably have Solar Panel stock investments? Tools for your lazy weekend hobby of making—I don’t know, flutes?”

“Flutes?” he laughs.

“Whatever people with too much free time do,” I mumble. “It’s surreal. I’m having a hard time reconciling the you I know with... this.” I gesture broadly.

“I expected you to find this comforting. Other people do.”

“What other people?” I pop back thoughtlessly. And maybe my face is too scrunched up, or my frown too obvious, but the edge of his left eye twitches. “Ah, shit, that came out wrong.”

“No, you said it clearly. Why would a man like me have friends?”

He’s clocked it; that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.

“It’s just, after you said Rory wasn’t your friend.

..” And I learned you slaughtered your sister along with a room full of people.

.. No, I don’t add the last bit. I really want to.

I also seriously don’t. The comment fills my mouth, as chalky as the sawdust I smell all around me. “I figured you’re a loner.”

“You’ve missed the point of the nice house, the quaint neighborhood.

The flutes or whatever the fuck you think I’m whittling.

People are stacked edge to edge in this city, Selena.

I encounter them whether I want to or not.

Loners are seen as suspicious.” Jamison twists the door open, like he’s imagining the knob is my throat.

I cringe automatically at the visceral image and put my hand to my neck. He doesn’t linger to hear my response—I don’t have one—he charges through to the other side.

Way to go, Selena, I scold myself, you sounded like a bitch, AND like an idiot.

Of course he hides in plain sight. Jamison, the quiet neighbor with a quirky hobby.

I know who he really is because I had it shoved in my face.

If I’d passed him on the street, would I have guessed he was a skilled killer?

I shuffle after him reluctantly into a short hallway, closing the garage door as I go.

The floor is varnished; smooth as the wood in every wax-polish commercial.

He wasn’t kidding about the curtains. The large bay window in the next room is draped by thick, navy-blue cloth.

Thank god he believes in recessed lighting, or this building would be pitch black.

Across from the window is a staircase with a vague twist, like the designer decided at the last minute to give it some flair. I haven’t been inside a proper house in ages. Out here, in LA, my experience has been dubious apartment rentals or staring at celebrity mansions from afar.

“You can put the food in here,” he calls out around the corner.

I follow his voice, my eyes wandering across the egg-shell walls to note the number of framed photos.

If you don’t inspect close, you’ll think they’re mementos.

But every picture is something generic, like an ocean cliff, or a bridge, or a chunk of flowers in a field.

Nothing personal. Just enough to avoid bare walls.

Now that I’m looking for it, I see the house for the illusion it is.

Jamison grips the back of a chair that matches the deep mahogany of the table.

There are six empty seats—has he ever filled them all?

Thrown a dinner party? Had people laughing at his jokes?

“What do you want to drink?” he asks.

“Water is fine.” Placing the plastic bags on the table, I unshoulder my backpack. “Where should I...”

“Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”