Page 8 of Player

“Assassin’s Creed.”

“The ... video game?” she asks in complete wonderment.

“You play?”

She bursts into hilarious laughter.

I strive to look contrite, yet, in truth, I’m feeling a wee bit disappointed she can’t see past my malarkey. Though, how could she? Dishing out my brand of shite is what I excel at. I’m a player, slipping seamlessly into one role after another.

My life has been one motherfucking lie after another. I’ve been a priest. A delivery man. A sloppy drunk. My best role, which I masterfully executed if I do say so myself, was that of an old, frail Frenchman. Even my colleague and fellow mercenary, Kylie Smith, was fooled. Role playing, fighting, pissing people off, these are things I excel at.

You used to be a charmer. A ladies’ man, tried and true. Before Antonio came to be.

I can’t feckin’ wait to be rid of the wanker.

But Hayden says we wait. He thinks there’s more than meets the eye going on here. To keep our eyes and ears open and figure out who all is involved in this back-alley deal.

So, while my counterpart, Diego, has all the fun playing Don Juan inside some luxurious mountaintop retreat, I’m bumbling about like a goddamn fool, with my tongue stuck out in the hopes of tasting that one tiny drop that preludes the motherfucking flood I’m hoping for. Tedious work for a man like me, who thrives best when he’s in the mix of things and not biding his time on the sidelines.

Truth is, I was bored to death. Until this fine specimen of womanhood showed up, flashing her eyes and giving me hell. “Before we get down to business, a toast.” I raise my glass and wait for her to do the same. “May we get what we want. May we get what we need. But may we never get what we deserve.”

Her eyes dance.

Whatisityouthinkyoudeserve,Samantha-not? I take a healthy swig as I consider her. Feeling the welcome burn of the alcohol in my throat.

“May we get what we want,” she murmurs in a voice of steel, then mimics my actions and drinks heavy-handedly.

I fully expect her to break out into a coughing fit as the fires of hell set in. But this colleen’s got some throat on her. My respect for her grows by leaps and bounds as she handles the burn like a seasoned champ.

She takes a second sip, while studying me beneath her lashes. Trying to make her mind up about me. Trying to reconcile what she sees with what her instincts have got to be telling her: run.

“So, back to that video game ...”

My ears perk up.

“Let’s make a deal,” she says. “I kick your ass all the way back to the emerald shores of Ireland and you agree to give me what I want.”

Well, bugger me blind. “Deal,” I quickly say. Not that I’m within a whisker of sharing anything with her. Not on yer nelly.

She frowns. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

I toss back the whiskey, grab the bottle, and crook my finger, signaling her to follow me.

“You know, for someone who pretends to not care about much,” she calls out from behind me, “you’re moving awfully fast toward that X-box.”

Cheeky woman.

What I should be doing is escorting her pretty self out the door. Dodging her perceptiveness. Removing temptation.

Well, like me da always says, I was born thick in the head.

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