Page 9

CHAPTER NINE

PERRY

“You’re in a foul mood,” Elle says, leaning across the counter at work while Margot ignores us both in favor of her coffee.

“Me? Mood? Nope. I’m totally and completely fine.”

“You’ve spilled two coffees since we’ve been standing here, love.”

I’m not sure how that’s proof of anything, but now she mentions it, I am feeling … jittery? Annoyed? Expectant?

Definitely not foul.

But there is something off that’s making it impossible to be happy in the moment and give my customers all the love and attentiveness they deserve to start their day with. I might have the teeny, tiniest idea of what’s gotten me so shamoozeled in the first place too.

St. Clare.

I don’t hate him, and I couldn’t kill him, so I’m screwed if he doesn’t listen to my very empty threats this time. Maybe I could contract a contract killer and pay them a chunk of what I was paid. Like a pyramid scheme of premeditated murder. That would free up all of my everything, and I’d be able to go back to coffees and Sir Squeakerton and the daily scramble of bill balancing. I haven’t killed anyone, but if I stick it out in this life, it’s only a matter of time, and I’m not interested in that for me, if I’m honest.

No judgment to Luther and Arlie—I’m sure they’re the bestest lil killers—but I’ll sit this one out.

So long as St. Clare does.

My deal with him wasn’t difficult either. The other two people I was supposed to kill managed to do it just fine, so as far as I’m concerned, St. Clare is trying to be difficult. It wouldn’t be my fault if I shot him, really, because he’s been given lots and lots and lots of warning.

“Perry?”

“Huh?” I glance up at Elle, and this time, even Margot is watching me. “What?”

“I asked if there’s anything we should know?”

That makes me pause because I can only imagine their reaction to finding out about my almost job pursuit and how close I’d come to being successful at it. Instead, I grab the can of whipped cream and shoot it at her nose.

Elle jolts back with a screech before bursting into way-too-loud laughter. Then she turns to my sister. “Be a dear and lick it off my face.”

“We’re in public,” Margot answers, completely deadpan, and I’m about to tell her not to be such a killjoy when Elle steps closer and rubs their noses together. Whipped cream smears between them both, and it makes me all schmoopy to see someone who constantly challenges Margot and pulls her out of her shell.

Then Elle licks the whipped cream off Margot’s nose before my sister can dodge her for the napkins.

They’re so sweet. I’ve loved Elle from as soon as I met her because I’ve never seen Margot so ridiculous for anyone, and also, we match. Both a little lost and a lot carefree, only Elle has the money behind her to be so irresponsible. Me, not so much.

Margot finally wrangles her and wipes the mess gently from Elle’s face. The softness in Margot’s expression clears out the restlessness I’ve been feeling because this is all I ever wanted. Everyone in my life to be happy .

“We’ll see you tonight?” Margot asks, dot of cream missed near her jaw.

“Sure will.” I reach over to clean it off for her. “My turn to bring dinner.”

Even the suspicion she eyes me with doesn’t clear out my good mood.

Instead, it’s two words that reach me as they’re leaving.

“Good morning.”

I swing around to find St. Clare at the register. Tussled blond hair a little damp from the rain we had this morning, and blue eyes sharply watching me. My brain nearly explodes, and I’m so, so close to asking him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but then that would sort of give me away, so I swallow back all the frustrations instead.

“St. Clare.” I pull up at the register, heart beating as erratically as that first day he popped up out of nowhere. “Surprised to see you here.”

His eyes narrow a smidge. “Why? I’m here every morning.”

Shit. Yes. That. “Cappuccino?” I squeak, trying to say as little as possible. I doubt he’d spontaneously make the link between me and his would-be killer, but who the fuck knows what could give me away.

The problem is that the back-and-forth banter we’ve perfected over the last week gives me a buzz, and the need to feel that is wrestling with my annoyance. Which is making me even more annoyed.

And St. Clare’s unwavering stare isn’t doing much to help the jitters. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second coffee already.

I’m so nervous I feel like I need to shake out every limb, but I keep it contained as he nods.

“Please.”

I ring up the total, and he pays with cash like usual, only instead of like usual, I throw his change back as fast as humanly possible. It’s past our morning rush, and unfortunately, I have no other customers waiting, which means when St. Clare moves around to the pickup counter, he’s the sole focus of my attention .

When all he does is watch me, I can’t hold it in anymore.

“So … fun morning? Good morning? Everything is good?”

“Everything. What about you?”

“Just have a, umm, problem. Nothing major.” I glare at him, but apparently, the glare has no effect because he goes on looking at me.

“A problem?”

“A …” I squeeze the handle of the milk jug tighter. “Coffee-related problem. It’s fine though. I’ll deal with it.”

“Right.”

He’s not his usual friendly self, and that isn’t making it any easier to shake the anxiety or behave like a normal human.

“You don’t seem like yourself,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you don’t seem like yourself either,” I throw back. Well done, Perry, ten points. Totally taken the heat off yourself.

Only St. Clare’s gaze gets gazier, and my jitters get jitterier.

I almost drop my third coffee of the day and manage to get my shit together as I pour his milk in, shake some chocolate over the top, and slam the lid on with a triumphant “Ha!”

“Ha?” he echoes.

“I’m done.”

“Right.” He reaches for the cup I place on the bench between us. “No smiley face today?”

He’s taunting me. At least, I’m ninety percent sure he’s taunting, and I’m not at all in a taunting mood. Sure, most of the time, I find it fun, but on days like today, where my actual bones want to be anywhere other than restricted to my body, I’m like a powder keg under a hot flame. “Smiley faces are a privilege, not a right.” I’m hoping that will send him on his way, but he doesn’t look in a hurry to leave.

“Did I do something wrong?” His eyes hold mine, and my guts are a mess of indecision.

Succeeds in a high-pressure environment? Normally that would be a big fat tick on my resume since I’m a hard guy to rattle, but knowing how to act in front of the guy who’s supposed to be in hiding because he’s supposed to be dead is a new one, even for me. It’s going to take me some time to adjust.

“Nothing. Nope. Not one thing.” I grin wide, hoping it comes across as genuine. And failing, apparently, because he doesn’t return it.

“You know, Perry, you have very pretty eyes.”

I almost swallow my tongue. “Ah, w-what?”

“They’re trusting. Sweet.” There’s a small pause I’m compelled to fill in but have no clue where to start. “ Memorable .”

“Memorable?”

He keeps on staring. “Not eyes I’d forget in a hurry.”

“Are—are you … hitting on me ?” His tone doesn’t feel right, but the words have me thrown. Do guys usually compliment other guys’ eyes? I do a quick mental search to try and figure out if I ever have before, and nothing specific comes back to me, but it does seem like something I’d do. Not sure I’d use the word pretty . Maybe cool. Interesting. The way he said memorable doesn’t feel like a good thing though.

St. Clare tilts his head, the only change to his expression the way his tongue flicks out for barely a peek as he wets his bottom lip. It’s gone too fast, but the tiny pink glimpse keeps playing in my mind. The way it makes my throat dry feels like a warning.

“Just stating facts.”

“Ah. Yes. Th-thank you. You have a, umm, very pretty …. ah, mouth?”

His lips twitch involuntarily, finally giving me a quick break through the intensity. “My mouth?”

“Sure.”

“Are you hitting on me ?”

My eyes shoot wide. “Just stating facts. I’m straight. Very straight. Very, very straight.”

“Straight.” He picks up his cup and takes a slow sip.

The fact he’s still standing there and not at all running and hiding like we goddamn agreed has the pulse in my throat throbbing .

“Pity,” St. Clare says. “My pretty mouth can do a lot of very pretty things.”

The blood drains from my head. I might be shit at speaking bad guy, but I can speak innuendo, and the suggestion of having that mouth wrapped around my … around … that … has the blood relocating to a very specific part of my anatomy instead.

I swallow roughly. “That’s … that’s good to, umm, know.” I plant both hands firmly on the counter to stop from adjusting myself into a more comfortable position.

St. Clare’s gaze finally breaks from mine and drops to them instead. Then, he reaches across the distance between us and grabs my little strawberry charm, giving it a tug. The bird, smiley face, and flower charms all shake with the movement.

“You know, Perry,” he says, leaning in, and when he looks back up at me, his gaze is cold. “I could have sworn I’ve seen this somewhere before.”

“Impossible. My mom made it for me.”

“So it’s one of a kind.”

“Yep.”

“And no other person in the world has it?”

I have no idea where he’s going with this. I stiffly shake my head.

“And you haven’t lent it to anyone?”

“Why would I do that?”

St. Clare’s smile is smug. “You wanna know where I’ve seen it?”

Suddenly, I’m not so sure I do. Actually, I’m very, very sure that I don’t want to know where he’s seen it because wherever that was has pissed St. Clare off, and it’s giving me a bad feeling.

A bad, sickly, sinking feeling that maybe Arlie was right.

“It’s actually, uh, time for my break. Must be going. Good talk. See you later.” Before he can answer me, I yank my hand away, the bracelet snapping back against my wrist as I leave the counter empty and scramble toward the back.

Casey should be almost done with her break, and while mine isn’t for another half an hour, they’re going to have to deal with me taking it early because I can’t exactly give them the reason why.

Just a feeling, but I doubt there’s a the guy I was supposed to kill is onto me, and I’m having an itty-bitty freak-out leave option.

This barista job was supposed to be a “no kill, new me” lifeline, and already it feels like I can’t escape my past. My past of literally a week ago, but it still counts. I’m a good guy, dammit. I made the ill-advised choice to dip my toes into the world of cloaks and daggers before backing the hell out again. Surely that gains me brownie points? I didn’t actually kill anyone. I don’t know of any other jobs with this kind of disastrous trial period.

The baddie bunch really need to get onto starting that union.

I shoulder my way out the back door into the alleyway behind the cafe.

“There he is!”

I jump around toward the voice, door slipping from my grip, and try to place where it came from. There’s a familiar chick-et right as the cafe door reopens, and a bullet sails past my head.

“Fuck,” I shout, diving toward where St. Clare is standing in the doorway. I shove him ahead of me, and another shot goes off as I barrel back inside. The restlessness bursts out of me, and I can’t hear, can’t think, can’t see.

Just scream, “Run!” even though he’s already running, and try to keep pace behind him.

We tear past the stockroom, down the hall, and back through the swinging door into the cafe. Casey is behind the counter in front of a small line of customers, and she looks over in shock, but her “Perry, what are—” is drowned out as we shove our way through the seating area, and I haul St. Clare aside to scope out the street first.

I’m expecting another gunshot, more shouts, something or anything, but when it doesn’t happen, I grab St. Clare’s arm and urge him ahead. “Go!”

He runs, and I run after him. I haven’t stopped to think about where we’re going or who shot at us or why we’re a target; I just have a feeling in my veins that it’s for St. Clare, and as convenient as it would be if someone else took him out, I’m suddenly very, very not okay with that option.

I’m running off adrenaline and feelings, and I’m sure if I’d had a second to stop and think, I definitely would have left him to fend for himself.

“Down here,” St. Clare yells back at me, and I’m nowhere near fit enough for this. My lungs are burning, and I’m wearing jeans, for fuck’s sake. Being alive to aid him long enough for my jeans to chafe is pure luck, but I’d really like a bit more luck to be able to get out of these damn things and catch my breath.

St. Clare leads me into the bar of his nightclub and shouts at some random guy vaping to get security on the door. I don’t wait long enough to see if he does, but we follow the route I took to his office last night, down the hall to the stairs and up them. My thighs protest the climb, and my speed slows down significantly. If anyone ever did want to kill me, all they’d need to do is chase me up some stairs.

We reach St. Clare’s office, and I hesitate about entering, finally some self-preservation kicking in now that we’re out of immediate danger.

Maybe this is a trap. Maybe he’s leading me here on purpose. Maybe?—

This time, he grabs my arms and hauls me through the doorway after him, so hard that I knock into him and we both almost go over.

“Watch yourself,” he pants, shoving me away as he slams and locks the door behind us.

I hunch over, hands on my knees, trying to get oxygen to my—well, everywhere—and what happened finally sinks in.

“Shit. I think I almost died.”

St. Clare shoots me a glare. “Join the club.”

Then a third voice answers us. “And while you’re doing that, why don’t you fill me in on where the fuck you’ve been?”