Abuse is a hell of happiness destroyer.
Pushing my spaghetti aside, I went back to studying the girl's mannerisms. She ate without caring, rarely dabbing away the splotches of food. Maybe it was bad habits, or lack of social grace. To me, it was a reminder of her empty phone.
Marina had lived alone for far too long.
The details of her morbid story jostled in my head. I especially couldn't get over the idea of her sister, so young and innocent, being forced to endure what she had at the hands of Frank and the unnamed mystery man.
Maybe Jacob and I should have done a little more research. Generally, it was our rule not to learn too much. Get the money. Get in. Get out.
History didn't matter.
“Anyway,” Marina said suddenly, setting down her utensils. “It was an okay day.”
“Only okay?” I teased.
Her eyes flashed, a thundercloud that hung over me. “Well. I would have preferred if someone had started the process of teaching me how to become a killer. Like we agreed.”
Fuck. This woman was serious. I sensed the unlikely composure in her, the emotionless center she had at her disposal. How else could she face me down? If she'd cared about her safety or health, it'd be impossible.
But she was no killer. I knew that much. “Don't get too eager. We need to start with some basics.”
“Then start me with the basics.” Tucking her long hair behind her ears, she didn't break eye contact. “There's no magical 'now I'm ready' moment, Kite. I won't wait for one. Tell me where to begin.”
She was cocky, and it had me curious. “Fine. Stay right here.” Pushing from the table, I wiped my hands on my napkin. The walk to my room was short, but it filled me with the same glow it did every time.
Gathering up my Ruger never got old.
When I returned, her liquid onyx eyes bounced to the weapon. I saw her recognize it.
Yes, you witnessed me using this. There was only one other person who'd seen me fire this gun. Well, one other living person.
Giving me her full attention, Marina's face lit up. “Are you going to let me shoot that?”
Helplessly, I laughed. “Of course not.” Her slumped shoulders screamed her disappointment. Holding the gun high, I turned it sideways. “You should know how to take it apart and put it back together before you fire it. It'll give you respect for the weapon.”
Her chair screeched across the floor. “Show me, please?”
I'm not sure what I expected. It's hard to imagine anything but fear when, every time you've showed someone your gun, it's ended with them wide-eyed and bloody.
Marina had jumped up and nearly danced.
Hefting the Ruger, I gestured at the living room table. “Alright. I'll show you how it's done.”
Spreading my knees, my weight settled onto the couch. Marina sat across from me, balanced on the edge of the ottoman. Without glancing, I could tell our feet were inches from touching.
I was always intensely observant. That was just how my mind worked. It helped prevent mistakes, which would land you in prison.
Or in a grave.
“Can I hold it?” she asked, chin on her hands.
Pushing the release, I jettisoned the full clip into my palm. “Not yet. Watch me, first.”
The tools were pulled from my pockets. Under Marina's watchful eyes, I dismantled the gun bit by bit. I went fast.
There was an eagerness in me to show her my talent. To impress her, and to guarantee she'd have trouble reassembling my gun.
Looking up, I saw her plush lips; slightly open, a silent sign of her awe.
Fuck. I liked that.
Putting the barrel down, I wiped my palms on my knees. “Any questions?”
“Just one.” Marina smiled, eyes crinkling. “Can I please touch it now?”
I motioned lazily at the pile. “Help yourself.” I wanted to act indifferent. I was a pretty good actor. Inside, I held my breath and bent closer the second she touched the first piece of my gun.
Marina held the bolt up, studying it in the light. She sniffed it, then lifted an eyebrow. “Smells like quarters.”
“Quarters?”
“That smell you get when you handle spare change.” Shrugging, she started the process of fitting things back together. It was tedious, but she amazed me with her memory.
In front of me, she was patiently figuring out how to return the fragments into a usable weapon.
Reaching for the bottle of oil, she wrinkled her forehead at me, silently asking for permission. In response, I handed her the rag.
The concept of someone else cleaning my gun was... almost erotic.
This dark-haired woman, my blackmailer, she curled around the deadly instrument and lovingly oiled the surface. My foot touched hers, and she didn't even blink. That was how focused she was.
As for me? Watching her lube the barrel, gliding her fist all over the shaft... come on.
The visual was pornographic.