Page 3 of Stolen By the Hit Man

Chapter Three

Jasmyn

If I’m going to get kidnapped and murdered, at least there are kittens.

Hopefully.

I walk on eggshells around the unpredictable Braydon. This guy next to me is so confident and calm that my body relaxes into the passenger seat.

It’s not that I’m not going to develop a crush on him or anything. I’m just here to help. Just me, and this big, scruffy dude with the rugby player build. And, maybe, kittens.

The line of quaint storefronts in Darling Creek flies by the passenger window. Perhaps I should tell Joaquin to slow down.

“If we get pulled over, there’s a chance my husband has already put the word out that I’ve run off. It could get ugly. Plenty of cops are friends of his.”

Joaquin doesn’t respond with words, but his shoulders tense and his grip on the wheel tightens.

We drive to the east end of the tiny downtown; the single traffic light is unmistakably bright red. However, the car is speeding up instead of slowing down.

“Um…where are we going?”

“Hold on,” he replies.

“Oh gosh, where…?”

Words fail me as I’m jostled violently.

We are no longer using roads in the strictest sense.

“Don’t worry; I got this.”

The car makes a sharp turn through an empty lot, smashing through brush and bouncing across holes and bounding over piles of dirt. Somewhere along the way, we end up on a trail in the woods. I hold his hand tight while my other hand grips the dashboard.

Eventually, we come out of the trees and end up at the opposite end of Main Street from where we started.

I look in the rearview mirror, and to my great relief, there’s no sign of the silver pickup.

Joaquin cranks the wheel and speeds down an alleyway, coming to a halt at the back of a sketchy-looking building.

“We’re home,” Joaquin says.

I look around skeptically at the state of this rundown building.

I must be an absolute idiot.

The man speaks in a low, calm voice as I crane my neck around, not seeing cats anywhere. “Where are we?”

“It’s a shit hole, but it’s paid for,” he says.

Despite the red flags, I get out of the car and follow him inside.

Looking around at the avocado green kitchen with its ancient gold linoleum, I’d say that “shit hole” sums it up.

He gestures to the rickety kitchen table and indicates that I should sit. I do, and immediately ask about the cat situation.

“Later,” he says. “First, you eat.”

He roots around in the fridge and starts asking me a lot of questions. Easy ones to start with, such as what I like to eat. Then it gets weirder as he wants to know what size clothes I wear.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“So I can have Georgie pick up some clothes for you.”

“Who’s Georgie? And why would she be shopping for clothes for me?”

Is he pawning me off on someone else? Does she run a shelter of some kind? The thought of leaving this place, as crappy as it is, makes me sad. And not just because Joaquin is so unsettlingly appealing to me.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asks as he busies himself at the kitchen counter with bread, meat, and cheese.

“Why?”

He turns around and slides a paper plate toward me on the table. Ham and cheese sandwich, and some Bugles. I almost laugh. I haven’t eaten Bugles since…wait, when was that, exactly?

I pick up the sandwich and take a huge bite, my stomach thanking me.

“Because I’m gonna send him a fruit basket.”

I look into those eyes as I eat my sandwich. A strange energy comes off him. It’s darkness. It’s danger. It’s death.

What the fuck is wrong with me? What am I doing here? In what scenario am I safer with Joaquin, who I’m pretty sure has never sent anyone a fruit basket in his life?

Unless “fruit basket” is code for something else.

“Braydon Smoot,” I say carelessly through a mouthful of food.

He squints at me. “Good girl.” His voice is as dark as the grave.

A sane person would run.

And yet…here I sit, glued to this uncomfortable chair.

My shoulders relax as Joaquin turns around and goes back to the fridge.

I take this opportunity to notice the way his jeans hug his cheeks and fit his thighs perfectly. A rare thing for measurements like his.

Numbers flash in my mind. Six foot four, 210 pounds, 34-inch waist, but he has to order a size bigger to accommodate his butt and thighs. But not for that brand.

That brand is special.

My mind clocks it, and suddenly, more facts appear like words spelled out on an imaginary whiteboard. He bought those jeans as raw denim, expensively made for people with money, but who aren’t flashy about it. People who are particular and want to break in their jeans on their own terms.

And I know this because…well, it’s just something I know. But I don’t know why I know it, and that’s the frustrating part.

Knowing that this man is a denim-head makes me smile inside.

What else can I learn about him? For one thing, this house is a Cold War holdover and needs to be set on fire.

Suddenly, I’m mentally picking out new flooring and a coordinating set of designer curtains, cool art, white ceramic dishes, new appliances, and plants. That wall should be windy blue, and this floor should be marbled tile in graphite. Excuse me, what? Where did that come from?

I couldn’t remember my own name or my husband’s face when I woke up after the accident, but I remember types of denim, paint, and flooring, and I can identify a stranger’s measurements by sight. And yet, I can’t sew a single stitch?

Who am I? Who was I?

“So,” I say casually as I clean my plate and get up to look for the trash bin. “You said something about cats?”

I find the can under the sink and toss the paper plate. I don’t miss the way Joaquin’s eyes darken as I straighten up again, realizing I just accidentally flashed him my very unsexy white bra while I was bent over.

“They…uh…they’re around. They might be hiding.”

“Hiding?”

He shrugs. “Feral alley cats, you know. They’ll show up eventually. It might be a few hours.”

“Hours?”

He clears his throat. “We need to talk. Come on."

I follow Joaquin through a narrow hallway into a front room that looks even crappier than the kitchen, if that’s possible.

And I thought my little sister-wife shack was pathetic. The living room has been converted into an office space—if someone wanted to work in a 1970s office time capsule. The only thing missing is ashtrays and rotary phones.

Joaquin gestures to the ugliest sofa known to mankind.

I sit down and watch him, confused, as he rummages through desk drawers.

My mouth drops open when I watch him unload a cartridge from a very scary-looking handgun and stow all of it in a safe hidden in the wall. With his back to me, he does his best to block my view of the keypad mechanism.

“What kind of place is this?”’

“It’s my house…and my office,” he says. My eyes widen as he takes a wad of cash out of a duffel bag and distributes it among seven different bank deposit bags.

“And what is it that you do, exactly?”

He doesn’t make eye contact as he replies hastily, “I’m a contractor.”

“Oh.” A contractor? Who would hire a building contractor who works and lives in a place that looks like this?

“Are you sure you don’t have something else to tell me?”

He turns around and plants two fists on the top of a World War II-era metal desk.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies. “I lied about the cats. Well, there are cats in the neighborhood, but that’s not why I brought you here. You don’t belong with that guy.” A rugged index finger points directly at me as he says that last part.

I don’t know what to say to that. Tears form in my eyes, and I hoarsely whisper. "I know."

He notices the tears and winces. "Sorry for being so abrupt. I haven’t slept in 24 hours, and I just finished a job."

"It's not your fault," I say, wrapping my arms around my waist.

He exhales. "If you can sit tight, I gotta go shower and burn these clothes. It's been a long morning, and I smell like ass."

Before he moves toward the bathroom, Joaquin reaches back and tugs at the back of his shirt, peeling it off over his head while I watch.

My heart races in shock. The walls and ceiling disappear. All I can see is the broad, bare chest and stomach with enough hair to keep a girl interested.

His heavy eyebrows rise in confusion. “What?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks.

I could be mistaken, but I think I see a hint of a smirk as he lumbers to the bathroom.

While he’s gone, another door is abruptly flung open in the hallway. I jump in fright at the noise. A tall, stylish blonde woman in wildly expensive-looking high-heeled boots clip- clops into the office area. My jaw drops because I’ve never seen anyone like her before.

The woman is so stunningly beautiful that I almost feel like I need to apologize for being here.

She freezes for half a second when she sees me.

“Oh my god!” She clutches her chest.

I simply stare at her, open-mouthed.

She recovers her composure and moves past me like liquid, ignoring my open-mouthed gaze. She goes behind one of the desks, rooting around in the metal drawers. “No one warned me we had company,” she mutters as I continue to stare.

She said, “We.”

Of course. Of course, Joaquin has a girlfriend. Or a wife. I gulp as disappointment seeps through me.

Spike-heeled boots, a flawless manicure, and a button-up shirt that reveals impressive cleavage. A slash of red lipstick.

I look down at my dirty overalls. I feel ridiculous. Joaquin has a type, and of course, his type is not me.

And why should it be?

I am a married woman, after all.

Yet, why does that statement persist in feeling so false and hollow, even in my own head?