Page 7 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Wyatt

Three days. I spent three fucking days trying to figure out who the fuck killed Craig Denver and why, and I’m just as clueless as the police.

Even they know the drug deal was likely a cover-up, as it went completely against Craig’s normal behavior.

They also have the hospital report about Craig abusing Amy, so I imagine they’re not as keen on finding out the truth as they normally would be.

Under normal circumstances, I’d consider an unsolved murder case going cold ideal, especially if it involves my target.

However, since it wasn’t me who killed Craig Denver, I’m eager to find the culprit.

I’m not even sure why. I should be happy.

I got the money without lifting a finger.

Sure, I did research, drove all the way here, and planned the kill, but I haven’t had to do anything illegal.

Illegal things attract the wrong kind of attention, the FBI-bursting-through-your-door kind of attention, so I should be grateful to whoever did the job for me.

Of course, me sniffing around Craig’s death is also unlikely to go unnoticed. So why am I still here? Why haven’t I packed my bags and gone home ?

The answer is simple. Amy Hudges. I’m still working with that love potion idea, by the way.

There’s no way this kind of attraction to someone could be natural.

I’m not just interested in her. I’m obsessed.

When I’m not actively pursuing clues related to Craig’s murder, I’m stalking Amy.

Since she, understandably, hasn’t left her apartment since she heard about Craig’s death, I’ve moved from camping outside her building to actually renting a dingy apartment across the street from hers just so I could catch a glimpse of her through her bedroom window. Yep. Unhinged is my new middle name.

What I’m trying to accomplish, I have no clue. I just know I can’t leave the town without seeing her again. And again and again. Fuck me. I’ve heard some assassins go mad from all the killing, but I’ve always considered myself too pragmatic for that to happen to me. I guess not.

What’s worse, my obsession is making me careless.

Careless enough to pick up a tail, but fortunately, still vigilant enough to notice them following me.

It’s not the police or the FBI, which sets me slightly at ease.

I wonder if it’s Craig’s killer, looking to connect?

It’s not like we do yearly hitmen meet and greets.

We usually only know each other by reputation.

I’ve only ever met Bennoit, an antisocial prick with severe OCD, and Slava, a hitwoman who holds a massive grudge against men.

Her methods of killing them made my cock and balls reapply for a position as internal organs.

All in all, my “colleagues” are not the kind of people you’d want as friend.

It’s also possible the local kingpins are having me followed.

I’ve been—respectfully—poking around their territory, trying to see if Craig had some connection in the drug-moving circles after all.

Perhaps the local bosses are feeling me out to see if I’m a threat.

If I want to stay and dig deeper, I’ll have to introduce myself to them before someone makes an ill-fated attempt at preemptively taking me out.

Rather than waiting for my tail to reveal themselves, I decide to expedite the process. Luring them into an abandoned side alley, I quickly double back over the rooftop of a nearby warehouse, then wait for my prey to enter the trap.

From a shadowed corner, I watch a tall figure in a baseball cap peek into the alley, hesitate, then enter it. As far as tails go, this one is completely stupid. They didn’t even check the surroundings, simply carelessly walked into a trap that would be obvious to a five-year-old. Pathetic.

Quietly, I descend from the roof and, with a gun in my hand, ambush the stranger. “Hands where I can see them,” I say, cringing when I realize I sound like a cartoon train robber. All I need is a cowboy hat and chewing tobacco.

The figure turns. “Oh my gosh! It’s you. Yes! Fuck, you’re as good as they say. I didn’t even see you there!”

I blink. Grinning at me is a lanky kid with a bad case of acne.

He can’t be more than eighteen years old.

I don’t lower my weapon, because he might just be playing stupid to get me to drop my guard, or he might be a bait in a bigger trap, but I do wonder what the fuck is going on. Who’s this demented twat?

The kid’s eyes hone in on my weapon, widening not with fear, as a rational person’s would, but with growing excitement. “Oh, a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. Is that the gun you killed Ezra Burns with? And Parker? And Janice Letterman? Ohmygodthisissoexciting!” He actually says it as one word.

I’m rendered speechless. Of course it’s not the same gun. This is my legal gun. I’ve never killed as much as a duck with it. Hell, I’ve never even fired it before. But how does this moronic kid know the names of my targets?

“I have one just like yours,” he continues, oblivious both to my silence and my gun aimed at his stupid head.

“I had it made after I heard it was your favorite. Like, you know, it must be good if the great Wyatt Archer uses it, right?” He chuckles.

“I had them add a little flare to it, of course, but that’s just my vibe, man. ”

I blink again, contemplating simply shooting the idiot in his face, just to stop him from saying “vibe” and “man”. I’m too old for this shit .

“Look!” the kid exclaims, then reaches into the front of his pants.

I should shoot him. When you hold someone at gunpoint and they reach for a gun, you abso-fucking-lutely should shoot them.

I’m just too weirded out to actually pull the trigger, especially when I see that his M&P is gilded.

He has a fucking golden gun. I don’t know whether to start laughing or put a bullet through his head to end his misery.

Not that he’s aiming it at me, but I snatch the gun from his hand all the same.

The safety is off, of course. Coupled with carrying it in his pants like some dumb thug, the kid is on a surefire path to castrating himself.

I decide not to point it out. The world will be better off with him not reproducing.

The kid actually bounces up and down. “Ooh, Wyatt Archer is holding my gun! I’ll never clean it again.”

Given the questionable stickiness of the grip, I doubt he has ever cleaned it before, but I don’t comment. Instead, I finally ask the most pressing question. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Shade! You know, because I’m shady AF.”

“What?” Perhaps I’m the idiot here because I have no idea what’s going on.

“Well, that’s what people call me,” the kid adds, the flush spreading across his cheeks suggesting that no one actually calls him that. “Name’s Nolan. Nolan Grayson. But I’m only telling you as one professional killer to another. Keep it a secret, will you?”

I know I’m repeating myself, but all I manage is another, “What?” Was this kid born without a brain, or did his parents drop him on the head one too many times?

“Of course you will. You’re the great Wyatt Archer. You’d never betray a colleague.”

Smirking, I remember the time I shot a Georgian Bratva hitman’s kneecaps and left him in a burning building. That was hardly collegial. In my defense, he tried to kill me first. “Uh-huh,” I grunt noncommittally. “I’ve never heard of a hitman called Shade.” Nor have I heard about a teenage one .

Nolan’s blush deepens. “Well, I’m not a big name yet, obviously. But I’ve done some jobs. ‘Round the ‘hood y’know?”

I cringe. The kid is whiter than me, wearing a thousand-dollar designer jacket and carrying a gilded gun with delicate engravings and what looks like fucking diamonds embedded in the barrel. He knows as much about “the hood” as he knows about gun safety.

“The bosses want me to be a courier first. To prove myself, y’know?” His chuckle has a darker edge to it now. “But that’s beneath people like us. I’ll prove myself, alright. Already have a target in mind.”

Ice settles in my stomach. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be eighteen in a couple months, not that it matters.”

A seventeen-year-old wannabe killer with a gilded gun.

Gods above, what has the world come to? “Of course it matters. Killing people isn’t just about pulling the trigger.

You need to learn a shit ton of things or, at the end of the day, the body left on the floor will be yours.

Or you end up in jail. And not in juvie, either.

” Even if he’s not eighteen yet, a premeditated murder would be sent to adult court by any judge.

“That’s why I’m here!”

I glance around the alley in confusion. Is there some hitman crash course being held here I’m not aware of? “Here?”

“With you!” Nolan beams. “Just to think that the great Wyatt Archer himself will teach me.” Pulling up the sleeve of his priceless jacket, he shoves his forearm in front of my face.

“Look, I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it!

So exciting. I kinda want to take a selfie with you, but, well, that probably wouldn’t be very smart.

Although, we could wear those cool masks and—”

“No.” Dull pain throbs behind my forehead.

The dumb kid is gonna give me a migraine.

“I am not going to teach you anything. Go home and rethink your career choice. If you want to hurt people for money, become a dentist or something. Being a criminal is not something you should aspire to.” Any reasonable person should see that.

“But… I want to be like you. ”

I think back to all the people I’ve killed, their fear and desperate pleading, and I feel nothing. Then I think about my house. I’ve redesigned and rebuilt every part to my liking, but it’s still just a house. Not a home. Nothing I do makes it feel like a home.

A part of me, that part that can feel genuine joy and affection, has been lost for ages.

I’ll be damned—or more damned since I’m pretty much damned already—if I let that happen to a seventeen-year-old kid.

“You do not want to be like me.” Some days, I don’t even want to be like myself.

“You want to go home. To school. Wherever you’re supposed to be right now.

” It’s Tuesday, so probably at school. “Don’t get sucked into this life.

That’s the only lesson you’ll learn from me. ”

Tears well up in Nolan’s eyes and he gives me the best pleading look I’ve ever seen.

And I’ve seen a lot of them. I bet his parents always cave and give him whatever he wants when he looks at them like that.

Too bad I’m immune to kids’ manipulation.

Especially if the kid in question is as annoying as Nolan.

He sniffles. “I just wanted to be your padawan.”

Closing my eyes, I count to ten. I could correct him that padawans were the good guys.

I could also kill him. In the end, I do neither because it occurs to me that I have yet to ask the most important question before sending him on his way.

“How did you find me? How do you know my real name?” In the business, I just go by Wyatt.

I don’t advertise my legal last name anywhere.

“I know everything about you. I’ve been admiring your work for years. The word around the dark web is that you accepted a contract on that football player,” Nolan replies with a shrug. “Once I heard he was dead, I paid a lot of money for someone to locate you.”

Jesus Christ. Does any kid with a computer have access to the dark web these days? It used to be for elites only.

Nolan also unwittingly answered another question.

During our conversation, I began wondering if it was him who, in his misguided desire to get my approval, killed Craig Denver.

It looks like he had nothing to do with that murder, though, which is not surprising.

It was a professional’s work, nothing a clumsy, inexperienced kid like Nolan could have handled.

“Well, don’t do that again.” How do parents force their kids to obey?

I can hardly threaten to ground Nolan or take away his phone.

I could threaten to kill him, but that seems a little extreme.

It doesn’t mean I can’t scare him off a little, though.

“I mean it,” I say, slipping behind my emotionless killer mask.

I know that it’s working by the way Nolan’s eyes widen. “Do not look for me again.”

Nolan’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Okay.” Taking back his ridiculous gun, he tucks it into the front of his pants again.

I’m tempted to keep it, except I doubt it would stop him from doing stupid shit.

With the money he clearly has, he’d just get a new one.

“I understand,” he whispers with determination I don’t like.

“You understand I won’t be your teacher, right?”

“I understand the lesson.” Nolan nods to himself. “Of course I do. I’m not worthy of your attention yet.”

“Wait, what?”

Before I can grab him and shake some sense into him, he steps out of my reach. “I’ll prove myself to you and then you’ll teach me.”

I should have shot him. I still should shoot him. But dammit, I can’t just shoot a kid for being stupid! “That’s not what I—”

“Thank you for the lesson, Wyatt.” He actually bows, like I’m some karate instructor. “I won’t approach you again until I’m worthy. I apologize for wasting your time. It won’t happen again.”

“What?” I repeat like the idiot I am, lowering my gun as I watch Nolan disappear around a corner. What the fuck just happened?

“Stupid kid,” I grumble to myself. “Since when are hired guns good role models? Action movies really are destroying the youth. Whatever. Not my fucking problem.” Hopefully, Nolan would be disappointed by my refusal and find another hero. Kids have short attention spans, right?

Either way, I don’t have time to bother with him. I have a murder to solve and a beautiful woman to stalk. Not necessarily in that order.