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CHAPTER SEVEN

PERRY

Unlike the first two times I’ve done this, something isn’t sitting right. Don’t ask me why—the super-secret pinky oath is sacred, so I shouldn’t have any worries there—but I’m not so sure that St. Clare knows that.

I dunno. There was something in his cunning eyes.

Something calling me stupid and a terrible shot.

If you ask me, being a terrible shot has worked in his favor, so I’m not sure the taunting was warranted.

Hurt my feelings a little bit, if I’m honest.

The truth is, though, I’m not cut out for this line of work. It’s a fact I probably should have cottoned onto after that first time out with Arlie, but sometimes I need the point hammered home with me.

And it has been hammered.

Multiple times.

With every missed shot.

Turns out that hitting a target that’s sitting there waiting for it is easy. Hitting a human target isn’t.

Probably because they, you know, move.

Luther is behind the bar, and I walk right up to him, oozing confidence and giving him absolutely no reason to doubt my story. I knock on the bar top and flash him a smile .

“Just wrapped up a job,” I tell him, which is code for I killed a guy , not that I want to think about that.

Luther eyes me for a second before pouring me a Coke and dropping a wedge of lime into it. “I’ll add it to your account,” he says, code for great job, Perry, you’re the best, I’ll send that payment through. The payment you’re getting for killing a guy , not that I think about that either.

“Thanks.” I take my drink and go to turn away when he speaks again.

“You’ve got a real taste for it.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s not talking about the drink. “Oh, uh, yeah. It’s … delicious?” I’m not sure I’m speaking bad guy right, but he gets it.

“Need another?”

Uh-oh. Considering I’d begged him for the three jobs this week, I didn’t think this was an allocation type of arrangement. More of a request when I can fit it into my schedule deal.

“Ah. Damn. I just signed on for a kid’s birthday party this weekend,” I tell him, pulling the lie out of my ass. “And there’s distance growing between Sir Squeakerton and me, so I really need to get in some quality time with him because he’s, quite frankly, an asshole when he’s neglected. Chews through all my clothes. And then I need to house-sit for my sister’s girlfriend in … umm, December? Which will bring me back to the issues with Sir Squeakerton and spending time with him. But, hey. I’ll come talk to you in February. I should have a gap in my schedule then.” That gives me a good six months to find something permanent to use as an excuse.

Luther looks me over. “One Coke won’t keep you hydrated for long.”

“I know how to make things last.”

I swear I feel Luther watching me the whole time I walk away.

Not that it matters. If this guy stays hidden—and he will if he doesn’t want a repeat visit—then no one will ever figure out what I know. It’s the perfect crime .

Besides, once I have the money, what’s Luther going to do? Go to the police? I can picture how that conversation will go down.

“Where’s Everett and Arlie?” I ask, reaching where Tommy is sitting at the usual table.

“Dunno. Working, probably.”

I slide onto the stool across from him. “Just finished a job myself.”

He looks me over, clearly surprised. “Really? And how are you finding it?”

Terrifying? Horrible? Something in need of trauma pay? “Interesting?”

The way my voice goes up at the end makes him laugh. “Yeah. It sure is.”

“I don’t think it’s for me though. I’ve got a really busy schedule coming up, and trying to fit it all in … you know how it is.”

He grins as he lifts his glass to his mouth. “Couldn’t pull the trigger, huh?”

“Actually, I pulled it a lot of times.” Too many times. Many triggers have now been pulled, with a zero percent hit rate.

Tommy’s eyebrows jump up, and he sets his glass back on the table. “Shit. Wouldn’t have picked that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re … you .”

“Devastatingly charming and resourceful?”

“I was thinking more of a wishy-washy good guy.”

“ Good guy?”

He shrugs. “Don’t take it so hard. Most people see that as a positive thing.”

“I’m a total badass, what are you even talking about?”

“Right, yeah, my mistake.” He can’t keep the humor off his face. “Don’t kill me in my sleep.”

He’s mocking me, but calling him on it might get us deeper into the conversation where I insist that I could do it and he asks me how and I have nothing, and then suddenly, he knows I’m full of shit.

Thankfully, my banking notification lights up on my phone, distracting me, and when I glimpse the amount listed, I almost fall off my seat. “Sh-sh-shit.”

Tommy outright cackles.

“There are four zeros here.”

“Yup.”

“I’m fucking rich.”

His cackle becomes a sudden frown. “Calm down, it’s ten Gs.”

“Is this for all three jobs?”

“My guess it’s for one. And they’ve probably underpaid you because you’re so green.”

“Under … paid?” My jaw drops, and I stare at the screen again, waiting for a little minus sign to appear before the numbers, which would make a whole lot more sense. “Fuck.”

“I suggest you turn those notifications off. You don’t want anyone seeing a large deposit out of the blue and then have them start asking questions. That’s your business.”

“Right. My business.” I stand suddenly, half-drunk Coke forgotten about. “I have to see Elle.”

“Who?”

“My sponsor.”

“Like AA?”

“No, like, a crime sponsor.”

Tommy tilts his head, and I’m surprised the momentum doesn’t throw him sideways off his stool. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“She’s taken anyway.” I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Talk later!”

It really is incredible how quickly all my problems have suddenly disappeared. No more jobs, a fat-as-fuck bank account, and a little breathing room to figure out what the hell is next. And if Tommy is right and I have two more payments coming my way … fuck. My head feels all spinny just thinking about it.

First though, take Margot and Elle out for dinner.

Second, well, whatever the hell I want.

** *

I wish someone, at some point in my life, had sat me down and said, “Perry, being a barista is your calling.”

Turns out, much like with shooting a gun, I’m a natural at putting together all the wild coffee orders people come in with.

Unlike with a gun, these shots aren’t going to kill anyone.

I’d applied for this job during my pitiful resume blast and assumed, since I didn’t hear back, that they weren’t interested. Then, the day after botching the St. Clare job, they called me for an interview, and I went straight into training. It’s like it was supposed to be.

Sure, I’m only a street away from the Saint Clare nightclub, so in hindsight, it’s lucky I sent the guy into hiding.

Now, I get to spend my day surrounded by the smell of caffeine, the buzz of customers, and get a real boost from all the talking I’m literally paid to do.

These guys are paying me. To talk to people.

Plus, I get all the free coffee I want. I think. No one has told me otherwise, and I’ve downed at least three of these babies this morning.

“Welcome to Toasty Roast,” I say, turning to the next in line. “What can I get?—”

My throat swallows the words as St. Clare gives me an impersonal smile. A stiff, impersonal smile. The kind of smile that says, sorry I broke our pinky swear, but I’ve found you, and now I’ll be the one to shoot you in the head, thanks .

But the word he says doesn’t match the ones in my head. “Cappuccino.”

I blink at him for a second. “W-what?”

Concern crosses his face. “I’ll have a cappuccino, thank you.”

“Like … the coffee?” I clarify, trying to decipher whether this is code for something I don’t know. Like … shit. Umm. Maybe I’m gonna cap-a-ccin-hole in your head? I shake the thought away because that’s a reach even for me.

He glances over at where a huge guy is sitting at a table behind the big coffee machine, then back at me. One corner of his lips trembles upward. “That is what you sell here, correct?”

“But what about—” Thankfully, I cut off before the words pinky swear can leave me. My brain is still chugging along at a sluggish pace, but somehow, I fill in the blank. “Sugar?”

St. Clare shakes his head, and I clock the small bandage over his ear. “No, thank you.”

I’m waiting for any sign of recognition but it doesn’t come.

“Right. Ah.” I’m numb as I ring him up and stutter out the price. He hands over cash and I take it and he pays and I give him change and then we’re looking at each other and I’m lost as to what happens next.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, gaze flicking down to where I’m still holding on to the five-dollar bill.

I wrench my hand away. “I’ll call when it’s done.”

I serve the next person, then get to work on the two orders. Part of me wants to duck down and army crawl my ass out of here. Sure, no one will be there to stop the cafe being ransacked, but the alternative is handing over a drink to the guy I almost killed and wishing him a good day.

Any day he’s not up for murder probably is a good day, to be fair, but it’s not like I can say that either. In fact, it’s better that I don’t say anything. Just hand over the drink with a grunt and go back to the next order.

I can do that.

I mean, I don’t have to talk to everyone .

My palms are clammy as I finish up his coffee and walk it to the pickup counter. “St. Clare?” I call, and it’s only once the words are out of my mouth that I realize I didn’t ask him for his name.

Fuck. Like, I’m sure he didn’t recognize me—thank you, skeleton mask—but do I want to give him any more fucking clues so he can put it together?

I really can’t be blamed for being so unsettled though. I’ve got the caffeine jitters, I’m on a high from making so many people happy this morning, and then his shockingly proportionate face shows up out of the blue, barely a foot away, when that shockingly proportionate face is supposed to be staying hidden.

I keep my gaze pinned to the coffee, knowing it’ll be easier to just shove it at him and run away.

He gets to the counter, and my pulse is out of fucking control. “Thanks.”

“No good— all good.” Shit, I’m fucking sweating. “Have a dood gay.”

The mortification of those words makes me look up on instinct, wanting to know if he caught the fumble, and judging by the huge smirk on his face, he definitely, definitely did.

His blue eyes are waiting for mine to catch them, and the heat rushing my neck is filling me with the urge to say more that’s so overwhelmingly powerful it’s a struggle to keep shutting up.

“A dood gay?” He leans his hip against the counter. “What would that be, exactly?”

“It was supposed to be good .”

“A good gay?” His grin stretches wider, and my embarrassment claws deeper. “How did you know that’s my type?”

By this point, my head is threatening to go supernova, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying and … wait. Is he … wait .

St. Clare blatantly checks me out.

He’s fucking hitting on me.

He’s hitting on the guy who almost killed him.

The urge to laugh rolls over me, and the only thing that stops it in its place is the worry I’ll come across as wildly homophobic. Which I’m not. Guys have hit on me before. It’s fine. It’s cool. Gives me a little zip of confidence even.

And, like now, even sometimes manages to scrub the ever-present words from my brain.

“Uhhhhmm …”

He reaches over and drags a long finger along my plastic charm bracelet. “This is cute.”

“Th-thanks. It’s my happy charm.”

“Happy charm? ”

I try to gather up my confidence that’s currently shredded on the floor. “When I’m down or whatever, all it takes is one look at it to make myself feel better.”

He eyes me curiously. “I like the idea of a happy charm. Maybe I should get one.”

“You should.”

“I should.” St. Clare takes a long sip from his drink. “Damn, that’s good.” He nods my way. “Have a dood gay …” His eyes flick toward my name tag. “Perry.”