Page 4 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers

CHAPTER FOUR

XANDER

I hate the club. The loud music, sweaty bodies, rude people, and shitty bartenders.

I hate all of it, but I can’t deny the cover it provides when meeting with unsavory clientele.

No one bats an eye at a few people who are seemingly friends sharing a drink.

Plus, the music covers conversation, all the dirty and incriminating little details distorted through the pumping bass.

So here I am, seated in a booth, waiting for my nine-forty-five appointment to show while sipping a whiskey neat.

I have a couple ventures and this particular one is very lucrative.

He’s a repeat client and one of my most frequent, so I ignore that it’s now ten and he still isn't here. I don’t generally appreciate tardiness, though people watching is a bonus of being in a spot like this.

I, of course, don’t interact, but I most definitely observe.

People have always interested me and I suppose that is a large reason why I do this job in the first place.

Watching people is fun, but watching evil people is even better.

You could say I’m evil too—it does come with the territory—but even I have a few morals to stand by.

My appointment finally shows a few minutes past ten.

Dressed in a long sleeve button up, trousers, and dress shoes, with glasses and gelled down hair, it’s hard to tell he’s not some unassuming college professor.

He has a plain face and though his eyes are hard, you would never assume his real line of work hinges on murder, drugs, money laundering, and a few other illicit affairs.

He’s not a good guy, but he certainly isn’t the worst. That's exactly why he is here and needs me .

In my world, there is a hierarchy of evil, and Mark Marino falls somewhere in the middle.

“Hello, Mark,” I say as he slides into the booth in front of me.

“Paxton,” he nods, using my alias. I keep my real identity under tight wraps to maintain my safety. Only a fool wouldn’t bother to protect themselves in this line of work.

“I’m in a rush tonight so I’ll forego the pleasantries and make this quick,” he says, cutting to the chase, just how I like it.

“I have a little problem I need taken care of. He’s grown too cocky of his position in the market, and I don’t need him getting any ideas of encroaching on what is mine.

I hear he’s been trying to recruit some of my guys, and we just can’t have that,” he explains.

“Hmmm,” I muse, considering my next words carefully. I never want to seem too eager with a proposition. I don’t need these jobs, not anymore, but they do keep my depravity fed and under control. “What are the details?” I ask.

“I have a man who needs to be disposed of. Just the one—should be an easy in and out. I want this done sooner rather than later and I’ll forward you what I have on him so you can look it over, but I assure you it won’t be too hard to accomplish.

I’ll give you twenty even if we can get this taken care of by the tenth. ”

I mull it over. Just a little more than three weeks to track someone down, plan their murder, and dispose of the remains.

A piece of cake. Twenty seems fair, and it’s one reason I keep Mark as a regular client—he never lowballs me.

He tried once; I couldn’t help the laugh that barreled out of me before I got up and immediately left.

He called me back with a pay increase, begging me to take the contract because he knows I’m the best. I don’t fuck around and I’m thorough, never leaving any loose ends which is a critical skill in my profession.

“Forward me that file by midnight and I’ll let you know if I’ll take him on or not,” I drawl apathetically.

“Sure, Paxton. But we both know you always enjoy the chase too much to ever turn a well-paying offer down,” he says with a smirk.

With my lips pressed to the rim of my glass, I let out a deep chuckle and toss back the rest of my drink.

Standing, I rap my knuckles on the table before turning around and walking away.

Because while he’s probably right that I can’t resist the temptation of a good hunt, I certainly never want to seem eager or desperate.

I must always remain in control, even when it’s difficult to keep a reign on my bloodlust. The day I lose control is the day my carefully crafted facade comes crashing down around me, and that would almost certainly mean my death, if not my immediate imprisonment.

Checking my burner phone after it buzzes in my pocket, I leave through the back door. Sure enough, Mark has already forwarded me the details. Bastard must be more than ready to get this over with.

I open the file and see my next hunt is a man named Leo Capaldi, a rival dealer with a nasty habit of involving young women in his prostitution rings.

Though the women are technically of legal age, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Word on the street is that Capaldi scopes them out much younger than that, waiting and watching until he can sink his claws into them.

Even Mark doesn't stoop to that level, but like I said, hierarchy of evil.

His known whereabouts are about forty-five minutes away but he frequently makes stops in town. I’ve got several addresses to check out in order to plan my attack accordingly. Easy enough. I shoot a one word text back to Mark, “Deal. ”

I never claimed to be a saint, but I take extra pleasure in doing away with those who hurt women.

Adrenaline pumps through my blood as I think about how much fun this will be for me.

I tuck the burner back into my pocket and light up a cigarette.

It’s a habit I can’t quite quit, needing the nicotine to balance out my adrenaline on nights like tonight.

I can feel my pulse settle after a few drags and I take in the patrons meandering about the alleyway.

I watch a few people come in and out of the back door, some lingering, before I toss my smoke and head back inside.

With my meeting over, I could go home and I usually do, but for some reason I want to stay tonight.

I’m walking down the back hall which houses the bathrooms and back into the main area of the club when a force abruptly slams me into a stop. I glance down, realizing a woman has just run into me.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention,” she says with a slur.

Initially her clumsiness is off putting, but the feeling is quickly replaced when I see her face.

Creamy, pale skin enhances her striking hazel eyes, her nose a little too big for her face, her red lips pouty.

She’s beautiful. Her brows are drawn together with concern, her eyes boring into mine enough to snap me out of whatever trance she just put me in.

“Are you going to stare at me all night or move out of the way?” I keep my voice deep and lazy, hoping I sound annoyed.

She mutters an apology and side steps me before tripping over her own feet.

My reflexes take over as I reach out and grab her arm roughly.

My skin buzzes at the contact and I take a moment to observe this woman more closely.

I quickly realize that it's more than mere clumsiness that has her stumbling around the club.

Her eyes are glazed over and she sways back and forth, clearly intoxicated.

“Someone can’t handle their alcohol. Maybe be more careful?

You never know who’s waiting around for a woman to take advantage of,” I warn her.

She has no idea the kind of seedy people that lurk around, waiting to prey on women just like her when they get caught off guard.

Fuck, she’s lucky stalking women isn’t my thing—typically, at least.

“Right. So, get the hell off of me,” she snaps, yanking her arm from my grip before stalking away. I had forgotten I was still holding onto her at all. That sassy mouth, what I wouldn’t do to it. The sounds I’d like to hear come out of it as I?—

No. I can’t go there. I fuck my women and leave them. I don’t have time for the chase and that’s clearly what she would entail with a mouth like that. Despite it, I can’t help but wonder if it could be worth the trouble as I watch her disappear into the horde of patrons at the bar.

I decide against another drink—I may be in the business of killing, but I’d prefer to not kill myself, which is why I drink in moderation.

That, and I need a clear head at all times.

I can’t lose control, and while intoxication is so, so sweet to embrace, it makes the thin tether I have on my urges slip.

We can’t have that. Bad things happen when the voice in my head, the one that craves violence, takes over.

I glance back to the bar and don’t see her. Her name is a mystery but it would only take a few keystrokes to figure it out if I wanted to—which I don’t. I don’t.

But what if I do?

One quick little look around the club for her won’t matter, right? And what if I can be the good guy tonight? Save her from someone worse? That could keep the devil sitting on my shoulder quiet and justify some of my behavior. Maybe even cool some of the ever-brewing violence inside of me.

I scan the bar one last time before forcing myself through the undulating bodies of the dancefloor. God, I fucking hate the club. I slide against patrons sticky with sweat, feeling elbows jam themselves into my sides from flailing arms. Disgusting .

Then I see her .

With her back to me, she’s dancing sensually to some song by the Arctic Monkeys, I think. She’s not only beautiful, but sexy, her hips swaying to the beat, moving her pert ass. I want to touch her, fuck her, please her. I want the release it would surely bring me. But I can’t. I shouldn’t.

One dance can’t hurt though. Right?

I make my way over to the woman who’s stolen all of my attention, quietly sliding up behind her before anyone can try and take her from me.

Firmly pressing my body up against hers I grip her hips in my hands, holding her against me so she can’t turn around and see who I am.

I know if she took one look at my face she’d run in the opposite direction and that would be a damn shame because God, she feels so good and warm, and she smells fucking divine.

She leans into me, moving that perfect ass against my now achingly hard cock.

I haven’t been drawn to someone like this before, not typically caring for physical touch unless it’s during the act of sex itself.

Anything like this is foreign and I’ve always liked it that way.

I don’t want to get close to anyone; I don’t want to feel anything other than the quick rush of release when I’m with a woman.

Feelings are too much.

Feelings are for people who care, and people like me don’t care.

I can’t care .

The song has changed a few times now, and she’s still dancing against me.

My blood is hotter than fire and my cock is hard with want, with need.

She starts to shift away from me— attempting to turn around, I presume.

Letting go of her quickly before she can catch a glimpse of my face, I disappear into the crowd.

She can’t see me and whatever that was cannot go any further.

She’d surely be pissed if she knew the asshole she ran into earlier was the one groping her on the dance floor.

I leave the club and head to my car, watching as an Uber pulls up to the curb, and there she is, walking out towards it.

A tempest with the hips of a devil. Just my fucking luck.

It’s like this is my destiny for the night.

No matter how hard I try to avoid her, to ignore her, I can’t.

Fate keeps placing her in my path. At least she had enough sense to not drive herself home.

I could smell the alcohol on her, mixing with her perfume to form something heady.

I can still smell her now, and holy fuck is it intoxicating.

I can’t deny the overwhelming urge to follow her. It’s nearly one in the morning and I should go home but, against my better judgment, I find myself putting my car into drive and staying a ways back from the Uber. Enough to stay on their tail, but not enough to be suspicious.

I follow them for about twenty minutes across the city to a less desirable part of town.

Streetlights thin out and large new build homes morph into dated ranches.

The Uber pulls up to a small apartment building with peeling white paint.

I stay down the street with my lights off and watch her get out of the car before walking inside.

A couple of minutes later, I see a light come on from an upstairs apartment window.

I follow the outline of her shadow through the curtains, wondering what she’s doing up there, and if she’s all alone.

I feel a sort of excitement coming alive in me, different from the usual rush of bloodlust, but a similar pulsing energy.

The kind of feeling that comes when I am on someone’s trail and deliciously close to ending them.

But unlike all the others, she doesn’t have to worry.

She doesn’t have to be afraid of me because there isn’t a hit on her head.

No, I would never hurt her. I just want to observe her from afar, get to know her, watch her, learn her.

I suddenly need to know everything about her. What does she do when she’s alone, is she as consumed by me as I am her?

Nearly an hour later, I watch as her bedroom light flickers off and assume she’s going to sleep.

I stay and watch anyway, trying to gather my thoughts.

Trying to justify my behavior. But there isn’t an excuse for this, this isn’t me.

I don’t follow innocents as there isn’t any reason to, only those who are evil and deemed unworthy of life by others in competition with them.

I don’t waste my time like this, and I certainly don’t let women worm their way into my head.

But I can’t stop. And so I sit down the street from her apartment for two more hours until I finally relent in the early hours of the morning.

I start my car and slowly drive towards her building, looking up into her window as I pass by.

Wishing I could see her, wishing her curtains would be open so I could gain any sort of glimpse into her space, just to know her a little more.

I have her address though, and I shouldn’t search for her, I shouldn’t find out who she is, but I will.

And as I glance back in the rear view mirror I see her light flick on again.