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SCARLET

P resent Time…

I’ve heard God makes someone for everyone. For a long time, I wondered what kind of man He’d make for me. Not anymore, though. Now, I know exactly who He’d make. Someone that would give me Hell on Earth.

It’s a good thing I love fire.

I tilt my head as I study the tiny drawing beneath the La Maison Rouge logo. I’ll never be as good as Maisie, but the tiny red gun I doodled while waiting for the go-ahead from my boss isn’t half bad.

It wasn’t intentional. The red pen is a staple of the hotel that once served as a brothel in the red-light district. At least that’s what the poster above the registration desk says.

I chose to sketch a gun because I quite like them. Then again, I’m also fond of knives, another tool of my trade, but I didn’t draw that.

That’s because a scarlet knife doesn’t sound as catchy as…

“A Scarlet Gunn,” I quip, chuckling. “With two Ns ,” I add, thinking of the man that inspired me. Gunn Sinclair. As sexy as his name, just as deadly. My favorite enemy.

I add the title on the top of the paper, the way Maisie does on her cartoon sketches. Tugging my phone out, I snap a picture and attach it to a text.

Me: What do you think, kid?

She replies almost immediately.

Maisie: You have it bad.

I laugh. She might only be fifteen, but Maisie Cameron gets me. I think it’s because of the connection we formed when my boss, Gideon, kidnapped her as blackmail against her sister Skye, and forced me to babysit. Me! The woman who has no experience with children. I’ve never even had a puppy for fuck’s sake.

At first, I was pissed as hell. But Maisie kind of grew on me. Now, she’s my secret little sister. A guilty pleasure, I suppose. Something I’m not allowed to have, like that puppy, but I don’t want to give it up.

If Gideon ever found out I basically adopted her, he’d threaten to take her out. Family being a vulnerability and all. Then I’d have to fight him, and things would get ugly. Which I don’t want because as much as he hates to admit it, he’s also like a sibling to me. An annoying, arrogant, evil older brother.

Maisie: You still in NOLA?

Me: Till the mission is over.

Maisie: Be careful. And I do like the picture. I’ll make sure to add it to Rage’s hand.

My heart tightens in a warm gooey kind of way. Rage is the title of one of Maisie’s sketches, one that she drew long before she met me, but resembles me so much it’s eerie.

She says she conjured me into existence. That I’m exactly like the character. But that’s not entirely true.

Rage’s parents were murdered in front of her. Her brother was able to take them out of the house and cared for her for a few years. Then he was found and killed by the same people. She was sent to a home, where she was abused. She ran away and turned to a life of crime and became one of the deadliest assassins. That was until she was assigned to take out a family that had a son and a daughter, and it reminded her of her own family. She saved them instead and became an antihero.

There are definite similarities between Rage and me. Up until the part where she becomes a hero and saves people, that is.

I’ve had my revenge. The rage is still there. But unlike Rage, I haven’t turned it all around. I’m not out there helping innocents.

I’m still one of the bad guys.

I touch a fingertip to my sketch. Is Gunn one of the bad guys too? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

What I do know for a fact is that I’m going to end his life one day. I’m going to know what it feels like to sink my blade into those rock-hard abs. I’m going to hear him grunt in pain.

I bet he’ll smile at me when I do. He seems like that kind of guy.

He’ll flash me a sexy grin, and those dimples that make me clench my thighs will mark his cheeks, and for a moment, I’ll regret it.

Yes, I’m going to kill Gunn with two N s. Fuck, even his name does something to me. It’s not an actual plan. Gideon hasn’t outright ordered me to, and I’m not going to go out of my way to end him, not when it’s so much more fun to play. Every encounter since the night at Raimondo’s Pizzeria has left me wanting more.

But Gunn is a member of the Sinacore Alliance. The enemy.

We keep colliding into each other and when we do, our fighting does something to me that closely resembles an orgasm. I get off on fighting Gunn Sinclair. Which means, one day, I won’t be able to stop myself, too far gone in the climax of the battle to stop. And I’ll kill him.

Another text comes in. This time, it’s the one I was waiting for.

Gideon: 878 It’s time.

My lips tug up slightly in a rueful smile as my stomach tightens. I go to the vanity and grab the bottle of antacids. The directions say to take two, but as a precaution, I pop four.

Heartburn. Comes with the job.

I peer at my reflection in the mirror and wink. “You look good, Scar.”

Because I decided to go out whether or not the hit was a go, I’m already dressed to party. Black leather pants, easy to wipe off and oddly comfortable. A black leather corset because it’s sexy as fuck. And a black sheer turtle neck under it to cover…

It’s difficult to bring myself to finish that thought. To keep my gaze ahead and not look at the record of sins that hide beneath my blouse. So, I straighten my spine, fluff out my short blond locks and touch up the black cat eyeliner and red lip.

“You look good,” I repeat, suddenly not quite as confident.

Then, from my luggage, I pull out the jar of pennies Gideon made me collect months ago. Asshole. He knew how tough it would be to find 2009 pennies. It was a task that could have been delegated to anyone else, but just for his own amusement, he made me do it. My fingers smelled of copper for days.

Taking four even though I’ll only need two—but better safe than sorry—I tuck them into my pocket.

On the way to the door, I slip into my boots. They’re not high heeled—that wouldn’t be practical—but they come up my leg high enough to hold both my five-inch blades. That, coupled with the push dagger tucked between my breasts and the steel pins in my corset, I’m armed enough to take out more than one man tonight.

“You are strong. You are powerful. You are a badass.” I give myself the pep talk on the way down the curved staircase to the first-floor reception. “You are strong. Powerful. Badass. Fucking badass.”

“Goin’ out at this hour, Miss Holland?” Sherry, the older woman at the front desk, asks using my preferred fake name. First, she glances at her watch, then scans me over her reading glasses with obvious disapproval at my outfit.

Badass goes right out the window under her scrutiny and I fight the urge to scurry backwards.

“I’m meeting a friend for drinks,” I lie to her with a nervous smile. What is it about these little old ladies that’s so intimidating? “I won’t be out too long.”

“That’s what you said the last time you were here, and you didn’t come home until three in the morning.”

Damn! How does she remember that? It’s been at least six months since the last time I visited the Quarter. I really should find a new place to stay, one that doesn’t employ a grouchy senior as a night clerk.

“It’s only eleven, Miss Sherry. And I’m a grown woman, so it’s…” I trail off when she purses her lips. “I really should get going.”

Before she can say anything else, I step out through the narrow double doors and into the balmy night.

La Maison Rouge is located on a quiet section of Dauphine Street. I turn onto Conti, and walk toward Bourbon. The closer I get, the louder the sound of Jazz and pedestrian chatter and the scent of delicious food and alcohol.

A grin spreads over my features as I take it all in.

Ah, New Orleans. Be still my heart.

One day, when I’m old and decrepit, I’m going to live here. Maybe I’ll find a job as a tour guide. I know enough about the city, been here plenty of times. Or maybe I’ll do what Miss Sherry does and find a night shift somewhere to terrorize young tourists as entertainment.

My smile falters. The chances of making it to old age are slim to none. People in my line of work don’t tend to live very long. In fact, at thirty-one, I’ve surpassed my expiration date.

But I don’t let it get me down. For one, if Fate had had a say in it, I wouldn’t have even made it into adulthood. Yet here I am. No sense in wasting time bemoaning what might not be.

Standing on the corner, I stare down at the merriment that is Bourbon Street. Fuck yes, I was made for this. The crowd of people pushing against me, the revelry, the sin, the lights and music. Every bar I pass has a band, their song like a fucking siren beckoning me to come inside. Have just one drink. One dance. One sexy glance.

Then the next place does the same.

Go inside. Have some fun with them , the little she-devil that likes to hang out on my shoulder whispers into my ear.

“Not today, Satan!” I say with laughter. Well, not yet anyway. I got a thing to do. “But I’ll be back to play,” I add when she whimpers.

I shimmy down the sidewalk to the beat of the music all around me. I can’t help it. I’m a damn good assassin, but an even better dancer. In another reality, who knows, I could have been killing it on the stage.

With a pep in my step, I head toward my destination.

That is, until I sense someone behind me. Call it killer’s intuition. Maybe it’s the paranoia that clings to me almost as severely as my heartburn and has me constantly looking over my shoulder. Whatever it is, it’s what makes me pause at the window to one of the many bars on the street, and through the reflection, I notice him .

If he were any other man, I wouldn’t have seen him. But Gunn Sinclair is no ordinary man. At least six foot five, he’s tall and broad as a football player. A black Adonis.

And those dimples… Well, I could spot those a mile away.

Fuck, I think even as my heart does an excited cartwheel in my chest. What in the hell is he doing in the Quarter? Is he following me?

I move farther down, stop again, and confirm. He’s definitely following me.

Every part of me goes on instant red alert—my muscles tense in preparation for a fight as my brain rushes through every possible flight route. Meanwhile, my ovaries begin pumping millions of horny little hormones to prepare me for an entirely different type of ending.

Regardless, I obviously can’t complete my mission until I take care of Gunn first.

Shit.

I continue down the street, every once in a while pausing to verify he’s still there. That’s when I spot Darling Tease Gentlemen’s Club. It’s one of the places I make sure to stop at whenever I’m in town. What can I say? They gave me a name. Makes me feel special even though I’m sure it’s just one of many.

I’m at the entrance in two seconds flat. “Hello, Tommy,” I say to the bouncer.

“Peaches. Nice to see you back.” He nods at me.

“It’s good to be back.”

“Have a good time,” he calls after me as I enter.

Quickly, I walk past a set of red velvet panels, and into the main hall. It’s dark as fuck, the only illumination provided by a few dim sconces over the bar set at the back and a tea candle on every round table in the room.

That all changes when a dancer steps onto the stage and the bulbs around the platform turn on. Although they’re focused on her, because what the hell else would be as interesting to watch in here, they provide enough light for the rest of the place too.

“Hey, Miss Peaches.” Josie, the pretty waitress that has been working here as long as I’ve been coming, greets me. “Your usual table is taken. I didn’t see a reservation for you?”

“That’s because I didn’t make one.” I glance behind me. “It was a last second decision to come in tonight.”

“Ah.” She looks toward the door too. “You expectin’ someone to join you?”

“It would seem so.” I scan the room, searching for a nook to hide in. Then, I peer at the girl on the stage seductively gyrating to Slow Hands by Niall Horan and the she-devil on my shoulder perks up.

I shouldn’t , I send the thought toward my tiny fiend.

Why not? she asks. Play with him. For me. For us!

She’s right. Security is pretty tight here. Even if Gunn came in, they wouldn’t allow him to harm me. At least not while we’re inside the club. Besides, I’ve proven I’m faster than he is. What could it hurt?

Biting my lower lip, feeling quite devilish myself, I say to Josie, “I’m going on stage.”