Hidden Love by MINK

8

Kent

My phone rings. I want to ignore it. But I can’t. Not when the skull and crossbones appear on the screen.

“Kent,” I answer.

“Brother Kent. Glad you’re out of the clink.”

“You could’ve gotten me out earlier.” I pick a bottle of wine from the not-too-shabby selection at the local grocery store.

“You needed to be taught a lesson.” Sister Jezebel sighs. “We’ve been over this.”

“A lesson? I’m an excellent member of the Brotherhood, one who’s--”

“Botched more than a few jobs,” she finishes for me.

I grip the wine bottle tighter. “I didn’t botch anything.”

“Your attention to detail needs some fine-tuning.”

“I pay attention to detail.” I could tell her that right now I’m on the trail of a top-level operative, someone that would be a great asset for the Brotherhood. But I don’t. They want to punish me? Fine. I’ll keep that bit of information to myself.

“Why is Tucker still alive?” Her tone is back to business. “That contract is due to expire in a week.”

“Since when do contracts expire?”

“Since the client failed to make the final payment. She has one more week to cough up the money or the contract on Tucker will be canceled and a new one put out on her.”

“We take credit?”

“No.” She bristles. “But her financials were solid. Or, at least they seemed that way.”

“Sounds like I’m not the only one who doesn’t catch all the details, eh, Sister Jezebel?”

“Dust Tucker in seven days or forfeit the pay-out.”

“I’ll get him.” I swallow the bitter pill that I’ll have to take him out from under Layla. “Hey, are you aware the client put out a contract with other outfits?”

“She hasn’t. The Brotherhood requires exclusivity. You know the rules.”

I shake my head, but I don’t bother arguing.

She clears her throat. “Get it done. If you don’t, the board might take action against you, given your past performance.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Just a warning.” Her clipped tone is starting to chafe. “Goodbye, Brother Kent.” The line goes silent.

“Fuck you very much, too, Sister Jezebel.” I know what “action by the board” entails. A bullet in my skull and an unmarked grave. I’m not going out like that.

I shove the phone into my pocket and turn to find a store employee gawking at me, her wide eyes on the now-broken bottle of wine in my grip. Fuck.

* * *

I use my knee to knock on her door since my hands are full. She opens it quickly and smiles. I would scold her for not checking to see who it is first, but of course she’s likely more deadly than anyone who comes knocking. Except me.

“I got it all done.” She closes the door behind me as I carry the food into her kitchen. The small table is covered in boxes, and the ones on top are open.

“You made this?” I pluck a stuffie from the topmost box. “What is it?” I peer at its rainbow horn and the rest of it.

“Pandacorn.” She scoots next to me, her arm grazing mine. “The horn took me longer than I intended, but it’s done. I’m surprised my sewing machine didn’t combust with all the stuff I’ve made today.”

A pandacorn. Okay. “It’s really … cute.” I don’t know how else to describe its big anime eyes and soft exterior.

“Thanks.” She gently takes it from me and puts it back in the box, then wraps tissue paper around it. “I need to get these to the post office first thing tomorrow, then I have a shift at the toy store.”

I can’t seem to stop watching her, the way her wavy hair tickles the edge of her face, the glint of her eyes, the cute little freckle high up on her right cheek, and the way her loose T-shirt falls just short of covering her round ass in her leggings. That ass could bring me to my knees. I want to drop down right now, turn her around, rip a hole in the fabric, and tongue her clit while I grip that fine, fine ass.

“Kent?”

“Yes?” I snap back to the present.

“Whatever you brought smells amazing.” Her nimble fingers work with careful precision as she finishes adding the shipping material around the pandacorn and closes the box.

I force myself to quiet my filthy thoughts. After all, she’s a professional, one who puts in time and effort to make her cover story as real as possible. Just look at all these boxes and the explosion of fabric bits and stuffing all over the place. She doesn’t hold back, and I have to admit, the things she’s made--I lift my gaze to the now-empty shelves--are works of art. Ones that people happily pay for.

“You sold all your stuffies?” I point to the shelves.

“Yep. They all found their forever homes.” She turns to the food bags and starts searching around in them. “Oh my God, I love Italian!”

“I figured.” I’d done a little recon on that dick Tony. Turns out his sister is Layla’s best friend, and their family owns an Italian restaurant that Layla has frequented quite a few times.

“You went to Carnelli’s.” She pulls out a breadstick and offers it to me. “It is so, so good. Here.”

“You have it. I got it for you.” I look at the cabinets. “Plates?”

She points to the cabinet behind me. I carefully scoop the boxes into my arms, her eyes wide as I maneuver them into the living room and place them in the same neat pile close to the door. Paisley appears from the hall and immediately begins inspecting the stack. I give him a quick pet, though I silently inform him that I’m not a cat person. He rubs his head against my fingers and his knowing expression silently informs me I’m full of shit.

“Those have to weigh … I don’t even know. You’re strong.” She’s stopped mid-chew as I grab the plates and quickly lay everything out on the table.

“Sit.” I gesture and open a couple drawers before finding a corkscrew.

“I’m starving. I know this is so rude of me to dig into your food and eat when--”

“Eat. I brought the food for you, kitten. I want you to eat. You’ve been working hard.” I pull out the cork, find nothing but coffee cups, and use those when Layla informs me she doesn’t have any wine glasses.

“I don’t like coffee, but coffee cups are the cheapest sort of glasses you can get at the Goodwill.” She shrugs, her wine glass declaring her “Husband of the Year,” and cuts a tiny piece of lasagna.

I cut a bigger piece and scoop it onto her plate, then do the same with the spaghetti, cheese manicotti, and the chicken parmesan. She doesn’t refuse, and as she digs in, I do, too. Turns out, she was right. The Italian food is good, only slightly Americanized.

“Not a caffeine addict, huh?” I’m more of Red Bull man, myself.

“I should be. But it’s always bitter to me. It would probably help me when I have to work a shift at the store, then stay up late and do orders. Sometimes I get a rush order for a birthday or something.” Her eyes light up. “And I stop everything and make it.” She leans across the table. “And sometimes, the parent sends me a photo of their child with the stuffie I made for them, and …” She leans back and fans her watery eyes. “It really makes it all worth it.”

“Wow, that’s kind of amazing.” My heart seems to boom, each beat louder and fuller than the last. But only I can hear it, and I’m the only one who can feel the strange, warm sensation suffusing every cell in my body. I know what’s causing it. Layla. Her excitement. The undeniable goodness in what she’s saying. How did she ever wind up as an assassin?

We eat as Paisley sits perched on top of the boxes, his green eyes relaxed but still alert.

“You never told me what outfit you’re with.” I sip my coffee cup wine.

“Outfit?”

“Red Dragoons?” I spear a piece of manicotti and savor the slightly al dente pasta and the salty bite of cheese.

“I’ve made a few red dragons. One was actually super cute. I did this pretty silver thread along its back with shimmery sequins.” She looks up as if trying to remember it. “The other one was scarier, but they’re all cute in their own way.” She gives me a curious look. “So, what do you do? I suppose lurking around in parking garages and carrying shopping bags isn’t very lucrative.”

I suppose I should stick to my cover story since she’s so deeply engaged in hers. “I’m a ribbon salesman.”

“Ribbon?”

“Yep. I was at the store a couple of months ago to sell my premium ribbon for use on the stuffed animals. Mr. Tucker was supposed to be in town so I could meet with him, but I was … detained … at the last minute.”

She sips her wine as if it’s hot coffee, her innocent tone utterly beguiling. “I’m sorry you missed your meeting. What happened?”

She knows exactly what happened. After all, she’s the one who filled my black Range Rover to the brim with stuffed animals. All of them dogs. All of them bearing her store’s logo. That’s what got me two months on the inside.

“Things got in the way.” I shrug but hold her gaze.

“Oh, well I hope it’s all cleared up now. But I know how you feel. He never showed. I wanted a meeting with Mr. Tucker, too.” She polishes off her lasagna, and I open the tiramisu and cut her off a large piece.

“Of course you did.” I smirk.

“I’m stuffed.” She waves me away, but I won’t be denied.

“I saw you eyeing the container.”

She smiles, mischief in her eyes. “Okay, maybe I saved a little room after all.”

“Good.” The dessert is sweet, the lady fingers melting in my mouth. As I watch her lick her fork, I can think of plenty more things I’d like to taste tonight.

Looking up, her cheeks redden. “Sorry. It was just so good.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” I swipe our cleaned plates and place them in the sink.

“You don’t have to do that.” She follows.

I turn and pull her into my arms. Her little surprised squeal is goddamn adorable.

“Now, where were we?” I take her mouth, sampling the utter sweetness on her tongue.