Page 5 of Stolen By the Hit Man

Chapter Five

Jasmyn

Well, that’s it then.

Something weird and illegal is going on here, and I need to get out.

I fling open the front door with no plan other than to see how far I get with the thirty dollars I have in my pocket.

But then, Joaquin is somehow in front of me before I hit the front stoop.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“The bus station.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

I snap at the term of affection. “I can do what I want!”

“Sure, if you wanna break your neck!” Gently but firmly, he grips my upper arms.

He smells like soap, and it’s maddeningly attractive.

I look to my right and see what he’s talking about. The concrete front steps are crumbling, and there’s a huge gap between the top step and the front door.

“What the heck kind of an office is this? Are you trying to kill people? Are you a drug dealer?”

That half grin mocks me, but I have to know.

“No, I’m not a drug dealer. Now, come inside and let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk. I don’t belong here in the company of a…whatever Nelly called you.”

He laughs, but his eyes give a hint that he’s not mocking. “She calls me a lot of things.”

He is in my face, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he looks even more handsome when his eyebrows do that.

“Anyway, I’m married and this feels wrong.”

“Not legally. You’re one of those sister-wives. Number five, I believe. You can leave whenever you want. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone with me.”

In the wind, the open screen door slaps against the exterior wall as I fall silent.

I am appalled. “You were listening?”

“It’s my house, and the walls are paper-thin.”

“I feel violated.”

“Fine. Let’s argue about it. We can do this inside, or we can do this here in the doorway, where your ex and his buddies can see us when they’re driving around looking for you.

He has a point.

“Fine. But then you need to take me to the bus station.”

“Fine.”

I step inside, and he closes the door.

“So,” he says. “Anything you want to ask me?”

“It’s embarrassing. Give me a minute.”

He doesn’t give me a minute but instead fills in the gaps without my help. “You think Nelly and I are together. Or that we have history. And you’re feeling some kind of way about it,” he says.

“I’m not feeling any kind of way about it,” I insist.

His shoulders shrug, and he lies through his teeth. “She pays me rent.”

I am so tired of everyone thinking I’m stupid. “What’s a fuck boy?”

Joaquin laughs, and I hate that I love the sound of it. “Guess I’m not the only one listening to other people’s conversations.”

I shrug. “The walls are paper-thin.”

Joaquin grimaces. “It’s an inside joke. I receive numerous phone calls from various individuals. For my job. Not a drug dealer.” He emphasizes the last sentence when he notices my suspicious look.

“Go on.”

“Some days, I have to step outside to answer the phone to protect my clients’ privacy. Nelly noticed this and made a joke that I must be leading on a dozen or more women at one time. Which led to her calling me fuck boy.”

I’m confused. “You have a dozen girlfriends?”

He snorts angrily. “No! I have zero girlfriends. It was a terrible joke on her part. And she shouldn’t have said that where you could hear it.”

I turn away and plant myself on the ugly sofa. “It’s none of my business.”

He ignores this. “It was wrong of Nelly to say that because I wouldn’t want you to think I was interested in anyone else but you.”

Well, that took a turn.

“Jasmyn? Did you hear what I said?”

I nod. I suck in a shaky breath. “I…”

“Jasmyn?”

“I need a moment.”

I rise to my feet, and suddenly I feel dizzy.

“Jasmyn? Where are you going?”

Going? Are my feet moving?

I feel as if I’m floating through a nightmare. Before I understand what’s happening, I find myself running down the hall and through the kitchen. If I can’t leave through the front door, I’ll go out the way I came in.

Suddenly, my vision is tunneled. The metal storm door bangs shut behind me as the wind knocks me back.

And then, Joaquin’s presence is everywhere. The soap scent fills my lungs. The hard, defined arms are around me. “Breathe, Jasmyn.”

“I don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Jasmyn.”

“I shouldn’t be here! I made you attracted to a married woman!”

He’s laughing. Why is he laughing? What did I say that was so funny?

My knees wobble and my vision goes hazy.

The next thing I know, one strong arm is under my legs and the other supports my back. I’m being carried.

He sets me down in the chair behind one of the desks and hovers over me. “You need to let that shit go. None of that is real.”

Joaquin offers me a paper cup of water from a dispenser in the corner, and I drink it down.

“You don’t understand. I am married. I saw the piece of paper. It was signed."

“But you’re wife number five.”

I nod.

“It’s not legal.”

While I think on this a moment, he begins rifling through desk drawers, looking for something. “I shouldn’t have made you interested in me. I haven’t yet learned how to control my feminine wiles.”

Should I be insulted that he’s laughing again?

“You didn’t do anything,” Joaquin says. “Who fills your head with this horse shit?”

My chin trembles as I find the words. “Men can’t control themselves. Women are temptresses, and we have to be always on our guard.”

“Says who?”

“The Prophet.”

After I woke up from the accident, the four older sister wives filled me in on everything. I had to undergo a crash course in the rules and conduct, as well as information about our leader and his elders.

They tried to prepare me for the outside world. But nothing could have prepared me for this feeling of intense, desperate craving for another human being. Despite knowing it’s wrong.

“Your so-called Prophet is in jail awaiting trial for child abuse, kidnapping, welfare fraud, child neglect, money laundering, tax evasion, and to top it off, murder. I don’t think he’s any type of reliable authority on morality.”

I blink at Joaquin. I know The Prophet’s in jail but…But I didn’t realize the extent of it.

I swallow. “That can’t be right. They said The Prophet is in jail because of persecution.” Even as I say it, it sounds fake and meaningless.

But what else do I have to believe in?

Joaquin leans down and cups my face in his two big hands. “Listen to me. I wish I didn’t know any of this. It’s never been my business to care. But my best friend is married to Georgeanne.”

My stomach leaps into my throat. I’ve heard that name. “Georgeanne was kidnapped by the Wylie Gang and then shunned for adultery.”

“And now she’s legally married to my brother because they fell in love. A piece of paper that’s signed by The Prophet means absolutely nothing."

Joaquin isn’t going to give up until I believe him. And the way he speaks, he chips away at everything that I’ve tried to accept as true.

“But they said that a spiritual marriage is binding."

He shakes his head and doesn’t let go of my face. “What’s it going to take to convince you that you’re not married to an abuser?”

“Well, there’s the whole 'til death us do part thing.”

With no hint of a smile, he says, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who do I have to kill?”

I wait for him to make a joke out of what he just said, but he doesn’t. Chill bumps form up and down my arms.

“I don’t want you to kill anybody.”

Joaquin releases my face and puts up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

My shoulders relax as he goes to his desk, opens a drawer, and retrieves a bottle of clear liquid.

“There are other ways to undo a spiritual marriage.”

He opens the bottle, takes the paper cup from my hand, and grabs another one from the dispenser. He doesn’t seem to hear me as he pours the spirits into the two paper cups. He tosses one back, then shoves the other cup across the desk to me.

“What are you doing?”

Joaquin squints out the window. “Masking my give-a-fucks.”

I don’t understand.

Smirking, he pours a drink for me.

“What is that?”

“Tequila.”

“Won't that give me a headache?”

“Not unless you drink like an idiot. And I won’t let that happen.”

I take the tiny cup he offers me again, and I sip it. The taste feels as if my lip was just bitten by a snake.

“Sip it slowly.”

I do the opposite of what he tells me to do and swallow the rest of it down quickly. I cough at the burning sensation coating my insides. “Ugh! That’s terrible!”

“So terrible, yet so right,” he growls.

Trying and failing to wipe the burn from my lips, I focus on my unanswered question. “S-so,” I stutter, trying to regain the feeling in my mouth, “what is it that you don’t want to give a fuck about?”

Again, Joaquin won’t meet my gaze. “It’s a ritual. I do it before I do a job. It helps.”

I take a step closer and set the shot glass on the desk, then meet his gaze. “If you need tequila to do your job, then maybe you need to look for a new line of work.”

He glares. “You sound like Grady.”

“Who’s Grady?”

Finally, his denim-blues meet mine. “My dad. Well, not my biological father. Grady became my dad long after I’d aged out of the system.”

I feel oddly relaxed and find myself smiling at him kind of stupidly, considering the subject matter.

“System?”

“Foster care. And don’t ask me how I ended up there.”

“I won’t,” I answer quickly, sensing the tenderness in that particular topic.

“Grady Samson was a powerful board member of a nonprofit charity that took an interest in the group home where my best friend, Jefferson, and I washed up. That group home had a number of violations on the books. Corrupt directors. Reports of abuse. Constant fights. The list goes on. Grady got a bunch of people fired and is responsible for the creation of an oversight agency for family court. Meanwhile, he took Jefferson and me—the worst of the bunch—into his home. He gave us jobs, put a roof over our heads, and said we’d always have a place to land as long as we got our diplomas, got jobs, and stayed out of jail. Had goals in life.”

Emotion clouds Joaquin’s face. He clearly loves that man, and I’m happy he had someone like that in his life.

“And did you keep up your end of the bargain?” I say.

He smiles. “On all counts.”

The tequila settles into my bloodstream. I feel oddly warm and soft.

“And what was your goal in life?” I mentally take a guess at what it might be. Underwear model? Stunt man? Stand in for Tom Hardy? That’s what I wonder. But what I say out loud is, “Being a contestant on The Ugliest House in America?”

He snorts.

Where did I get that from? That show … that’s my favorite show. But how would I know about that show when I don’t have a TV?

“Good one. But no.” Joaquin looks me dead in the eye and shoots back another shot.

The only explanation he gives is, “Revenge.”