I wanted to kiss a killer.
The knock on the door kept that from happening.
Jacob wrenched away, but he did it with such grace I had to question what I'd seen. Was he scowling? God, I was dizzy. “Coming,” he called loudly.
Before he got there, Kite pushed his way inside. He had a tray in his hands, three paper cups. “Hey,” he said, glancing over us both.
All my blood vessels were screaming. I faked a smile, then ducked my head and gulped my water. “Hey! Uh, how was the trip?” I mumbled.
Carrying the tray over, he offered it to Jacob, who took a cup. “It was fine. Mom over here gave me a list, and I completed it.”
Jacob rolled his eyes, sipping from the container. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Not a problem,” Kite chuckled. Approaching me, he set the tray down and pointed at it. “Here, help yourself.”
I was already waving it away. “No no, I don't drink—”
“Coffee. I know.” He turned the cup, showing my name scribbled on the side by some random barista. “It's hot chocolate.”
Taking the hot drink, I sniffed the opening. He remembered? I scrutinized Kite, noting his pleased as punch smile. He probably thought he was being cute, but it was a reminder for me.
This man noticed everything I did.
Blowing on the opening, I took a small sip. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He scooped up the other coffee, facing Jacob as he did. “So, boss. What's the plan?”
Jacob tossed the cardboard tray into his garbage. From my angle, I glimpsed my apple core. “Well,” he sighed. “I thought I'd do a little research. See what the internet spits back at me about Frank Montego and his past.”
Kite went to speak, but I cut him off. “Don't bother. I tried that already.” Both of their sets of eyes—one light pair, the other pure shadows—fixed on me. I didn't bend under their intensity. “A reminder, I was searching for information about Frank from the day I learned his name. Online, there's nothing about him. Nothing useful, anyway.”
They squinted simultaneously. It was eerie. “Then we go to the streets,” Kite said. “Maybe someone on the lower east side remembers him in his prime.”
Oh. Now, I was interested. “We're going to ask around about him?”
“Not you,” Jacob said, setting his coffee down. He started folding his sleeves back down to his wrists, sparking the memory of how close I'd been to him minutes ago. “One person will be less suspicious.”
“You sure you don't want me to do it?” Kite asked. He was twisting the cup in his fingers, back and forth.
Flashing Kite a tiny smile, Jacob took up his drink again. “Thanks for the coffee. It'll wake me up for tonight. Why don't you two go back to your place and eat some real dinner?”
“Alright,” Kite mumbled. Clapping the other man on the shoulder, he nodded at me. “Let me show you how deadly my cooking can be.”
Nodding, I started to move. I got two steps away from the kitchen when a set of steel-strong fingers closed on my elbow. Every hair on my body prickled, then stayed needle-straight when I looked into Jacob's eyes.
“Here,” he said, lifting a key between us. “It's for my place. If you ever need to get in, just use this.”
The metal was warm in my hand. I crushed it, then slid it into my jeans. I wanted to ask what he was implying by giving me access into his house... but I didn't. Sometimes, I can be a coward.
“See you later,” I whispered, clearing my throat. “Thanks for the snack. And the lesson.”
His forehead crinkled, like he was searching for another meaning in my words. I couldn't say there wasn't one. “Goodnight, Marina.”
- Chapter 10 -
Kite
––––––––
The pasta was way over cooked, the sauce a bit metallic. Oddly enough, Marina sat at my recently cleaned off kitchen table and munched away. She didn't say a single bad word.
I had no clue what that meant.
“So,” I started, poking the food around. “How do you feel after your first day in the hands of the Jackals?”
Her pretty face went blank, a smudge of tomato on the corner of her mouth. I fought the urge to wipe it away for her. “You call yourselves the Jackals?”
“Yeah.”
“But... why?”
I hooked my arm over the back of my chair. “Because it sounds dangerous. Like a pack of wolves.”
“Why not the Wolves, then?”
My eyes rolled as hard as possible. “Every kid names their imaginary team the Killer Wolves or the Blood Wolves, or something. Jackals was different.”
Marina had frozen, fork on her plate. “You came up with the name when you were kids?”
“No,” I scoffed. “Of course not.”
Yes. Back when I was small, and fragile, and far more lonely. Kids are creative, even the fucked up kids with no friends or hopes or real dreams.