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Excerpt

I bet if contract killers had a union, there’s no way I’d be let loose already. Good for me, though, I guess. Arlie said I’m a good shot, she’s given me a laundry list of tips that I’ve remembered at least three of, and tucked into the back of my jeans, under my fake leather jacket--I really, really need to do something nice for Elle after all these supplies--is a ghost gun similar to Arlie’s.

No fingerprints, no serial numbers, no worries.

I pull out my bright pink flip phone, whack it twice with the heel of my palm to get the display to work, and check the time. I’m lurking in the shadows outside of this nightclub and I won’t be able to hang around too much longer before I’m spotted.

With any luck, this won’t take more than one bullet, considering how impressed Arlie was by my aim. The first few shots went fucking haywire, but once I got used to the weight and the movement, there wasn’t a single thing I couldn’t hit.

I’m killer with a pew pew.

There’s just one problem though.

The last two jobs I went on, I ended up with cold feet. Worse, even. Frozen feet. I’d lifted the gun, looked my mark in the eyes, and all the fear and panic that flashed through them hit me right in the chest like they’d fired their own weapon.

I couldn’t do it.

So with an apology and a pinky swear, I sent them both into hiding.

It felt like a win win win. They get to live, I get paid, and Luther trusts I’m a capable hitman and gives me more jobs.

Unfortunately, there are only so many times I can get away with that, and tonight I’ve made myself the promise that I’ll do it. I’ll fire my gun for the first time. And I’ll kill a guy.

I’ll kill St. Clare.

He owns a hot shot nightclub—the same nightclub I’m watching—in downtown Seattle and lucky for me, he’s just recently had a feature written up on him so I know exactly who I’m after. Conventionally good looking with that blond hair, smoldering eyes combo, and then add to that he’s probably rolling in money. It’s ninety-nine percent likely that he trades drugs and kicks puppies and cheats on his wife.

And yes, my statistics come from mafia movies, but the whole art imitating life must have started somewhere, and I swear when I tilt my head just right, the photos of him have red eyes. Which means he’s evil. I don’t make the rules, but if he’s evil and I kill him, I’m arguably a hero.

Now that would have to make Margot proud of me.

And if I can’t kill him, then I’m out. No more wasting my time or dishing out pinky swears. I’ll be paid for the first two jobs any day now, and then I’ll be paid a lot for this one, and that should be enough to get me by for a bit. No one can maintain a hit a night average anyway, and having three hundred and sixty-five deaths on my conscience wasn’t one of my resolutions this year.

Though neither was being poor as fuck, so here we are.

The back gate into Saint Clare’s courtyard suddenly opens and I jolt to life. I’d been expecting to wait out here for hours, but when St. Clare himself steps out into the street and closes the gate behind himself, I straighten.

This is too easy. There’s no fucking way I’m just being handed my mark.

I know I’m not going to get a better chance than this, but I don’t reach for my gun, because, as weird as it sounds, I almost feel like I’m looking at a celebrity. Not, like, the famous kind. But the kind where you see them on TV or social media enough and then you see them in real life and it takes you a second to adjust. Plus, he’s taller than I thought he’d be. Maybe my height and I don’t know why that catches my interest, but it does.

He walks off, and it suddenly occurs to me that memorizing details is pointless when those details won’t exist soon enough. The bastard doesn’t turn around, just heads for the road, and as much as I want to get it over with, I can’t shoot the guy in the back. There has to be some kind of code about that, right?

Backstabbing totally fine.

Back banging is a no no.

Ah, unless we’re talking sex. Then the rules are completely different.

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About the Author

Saxon James unapologetically writes happy endings for LGBT+ characters.

While not writing, SM is a readaholic and Netflix addict who regularly lives on a sustainable diet of chocolate and coffee.

Member of SCBWI.

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