Page 21 of Delta

Fuck, he's gorgeous. My heart skips a beat when those changeable eyes fix on me. It skips another beat when his lips—plump, pillowy, and expressive—curve in a cocky smirk.

"Jesus wept, you're a looker, ain'tcha? Proper stunner." Prop-ah stunn-ah. That smirk. Fuck. It's a lethal weapon. My heart pitter-patters. "What you runnin' from, 'ey love?”

He’s hard to understand, though, I've gotta be honest.

"HEY! You come, now." The men have caught up, huffing and puffing.

My…savior, maybe?…turns to address them. "Oi. You lot can fuck off."

"Is not concern you." The speaker, an older guy with salt and pepper hair and the ugliest face I've ever seen in my life, produces a gold-plated Desert Eagle .50-cal hand cannon from his shoulder holster. "Now is you fuck off, Brit boy."

"Oooh, look at that whoppin’ big fuck-off gun you’ve got, mate. Put a big fuckin' ’ole in me, wouldn't it? An' Brit boy? You come up with that witty repartee yourself, bruv?"

Jesus, he sounds like he's got a mouthful of marbles. He seems totally unconcerned, though, which is reassuring, because I'm concerned. Very, very concerned.

"Girl. You come." The speaker gestures at me with his howitzer.

"How about no?" I answer, in a shitty but funny Austin Powers impression.

Funny to me, at least.

My Cockney savior snickers at my response, but doesn’t take his attention off of the four men. "Look, mate. I've got a busy schedule, so me an' my new friend here are gonna scarper. You do what you like. But a word of warnin', yeah? I ain't the bloke you wanna fuck around with. Last chance. Fuck off." Fuck around wiv.

"Girl is ours. Run away or you die."

"Um, I'm no one's," I say. "Suck a dick, ass-face."

This gets me another amused snort. "Got on smart mouth on you, 'aven't you, love?” He looks at the four men with annoyance, as if they're flies buzzing around his head. "Fine. 'Ave it your way."

His hand flashes behind his back, blurs around front into a Weaver stance—BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM. The four shots are so close together they sound like one rolling peal of thunder, and all four of the track suit-wearing thugs rock backward in near-perfect unison, red holes weeping trickles of crimson at the centers of their T-boxes.

For a moment, I'm stunned silent. Then my usual running commentary emerges. “Fuck me.” A pause. “That was…impressive." Not my wittiest commentary ever, but I’m not on my A-game at the moment. Sue me.

He grins at me, the picture of debonair cockiness. “Who are you, Gorgeous?"

"Bryn."

He takes my hand in his, brings it to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles without looking away from my eyes. "Rush, at your service."

4

4: A SMILE YOU’D KILL FOR

Well, shit.

My not-so-wee little prick is rather intrigued by Bryn. Usually these girls who manage to get away are scared shitless, helpless little bambis.

This girl…is not.

She was impressed by my drop of the four fat fuckos. She didn't scream, didn't cower or cover her ears or act all squicked out by the buckets of blood currently sluicing down the kerb.

Also, she's fucking breathtaking.

Only a few inches shorter than my six-four, she's slender and willowy, but she's got some killer curves for all that. Her skirt barely covers her ass, leaving her mile-long legs bare, and fuck me, those legs. Strong, thick, smooth. The kind of legs you'd tear apart the earth to have wrapped around your waist all fucking night. If she’s the extra, I wonder what the original merchandise is like.

According to the overblown twat I'm forced to work for, the unexpected did indeed occur, in that both of the girls vanished and both of the mules are dead. But I can't just come out and ask this girl if she's the original.

I mean, I could. But it would bodge up my plan. See, I hate this job. I mean, I really, really fucking hate it. I'm a shit human, okay? I drink too much, I use and objectify women, I murder people, and hand out beatings on the regular. But I do have a few little morals. Number one, I only kill people who either deserve it or are trying to murder me. Number two, sex is consensual. If you have to force it, you're no kind of man and I'll personally rip your fucking pathetic little knob off your pathetic little body with my bare fucking hands and shove it all the way down your gob. Number three, people are not objects to be bought and sold. Just about everything else is up for debate, and I'm damn good at debating.