Looking back at my office door, I realized I didn’t have anything to grab, so I headed for the elevator doors. Pressing the button, I waited for the elevator, still feeling off from sleeping as much as I had and the hangover still looming over my head like it might return if I wasn’t careful.
Justice, weird fucking name, leaned over the welcome desk staring into me, like she was staring into a storm and didn’t care one bit. “She’s not fragile, you know.”
Facing her, I stood still, maintaining the distance between us. I didn’t need to ask who she meant when I knew she was friends with Abigail. I may not be here every day, but I was equally as observant when it came to others.
“Fragile or not doesn’t change who I am.”
It was the only thing reminding me to not like her more than professionally. I was focusing on the professional parts: how easy she made my life, how she did the things I didn’t want to do, and having someone who would show up. Not the parts drowning out the professional parts of her, like her perky bronzed nipples I had my mouth on or how I got hard without having to hurt someone first.
That was when I found my love for the kinks that normally involved getting hurt or hurting whoever I was with. Sins and Forgiveness was the perfect playground for picking up girls who wanted the same things. It wasn’t exactly considered normal to let a girl leave marks that looked like a fist fight or you choking them and not letting go until the second before they needed to breathe. I had a knack for knowing when exactly that moment was.
Now I could get hard for nothing but thinking of Abigail below me, on top of me, between me and a wall; I didn’t care if it meant her naked and moaning because of me.
Abigail was changing me without even being in on it.
It was a cruel joke with me as the punchline.
Home sweet home was really a concrete structure with windows everywhere they could be and see-through surfaces creating the interior.
Cold and clean just like me.
It was getting later and later with no word from Abigail if she picked up my gun from the shop or if she had even gotten my text about bringing it back to my place. Antsy, I texted her again, demanding an answer, even though I didn’t really need one. I had plenty of guns and plenty of time, but I really hated being ignored by her when I could feel my dick pulsing for more of her.
Grabbing my crotch I gave myself a squeeze, hoping if I closed my eyes tightly enough I could stop tasting her in my mouth, smelling her around me, hearing the shock in her voice at liking me against her so much. At least enough to focus on the kill.
Abigail was exactly like my Xanax… I liked it enough to want more, even though I knew it was a slippery slope to abuse.
Last night, drunk and high, I was sliding down that slope until I hit a wall when she tensed up in my hands and said “no” more than once. I would have forced my way between her legs if I liked her less. Another reason I don’t mix my reliefs.
Abigail was saving me without knowing it.
Cruel joke number two.
The walk-in closet was filled with comfortable clothes, some suits for Clave shit I couldn’t avoid, and the black tactical gear I wore when killing. It was what the four donned when shit got real, when we made moves together, back when we took these roles.
Now we just did our own things. I never looked at this gear twice now. I had enough means to wear Gucci, get blood on it, and buy a new one tomorrow to take its place. I just wasn’t spoiled enough to throw around my privilege like that. That caused too much attention.
I just wear black anything now—normally jeans with the knees blown out or joggers—depending on how committed I was.
I had been living in sweats when I ripped down a pair of black jeans and left my shirt on, still unsure if it was in fact clean or dirty. It didn’t matter when it was simply a plain shirt that could be replaced easily. Opening the drawer meant for ties or whatever else rich people rolled up neatly, I looked down at my guns.
A killer for hire without a collection couldn’t be a killer that was any good.
I had a different gun for every mood, and the one Abigail was picking up for me was just ordered. A Desert Eagle needed to be added to my collection of handguns, just in case one day I felt flashy.
Tonight was a matte black Glock kind of day.
My daily.
I never let myself wonder what the people did to deserve being at the end of my gun. I used to, and that only swept up emotions I didn’t like—a darker version of me that leaned into my monster and blurred the lines.
I had clear lines between Jason (who never was anymore), Grimm (who I always am now), and my part-time monster (on demand). It helped to keep me sane—as sane as I could be.
No one was sane and living in LA. This was one fucking skewed view of the world.
Getting changed from sweats into my ripped black jeans, I tucked the gun safely against my back until I needed it. I already had an address; that was the thing about the Clave: They were prepared above all else.
I would imagine that was the fun part: the hunting of your prey. Not for me. The fun part was it being over.
Punching in the address for Blake, I tried to relax and get Abigail off my mind, but the zipper of my jeans was pushing against my dick, and every small movement felt unbearable. Impeccable timing when Abigail called me instead of texted, and I pressed the button on my steering wheel to answer it through my sound system.
“Sorry, that took forever. The guy wasn’t even asking me for ID, and I caused a scene at his lack of responsibility. Then to apologize, he gave me a quick lesson. I lost track of time. Want me to head over there now?”
Her voice was the best thing I had ever heard through my speakers. Delicate, but not so delicate you thought you could break her. It was a feminine kind of delicate.
I admired how opposite she was of me: hard on the inside instead of the outside.
“Not home, toots. Bring it over in an hour,” I told her while turning down onto Blake’s road. It wasn’t the valley, and it wasn’t 90210. It was some kind of in between when I pulled onto a suburbia looking road.
“Oh… uh, okay. I’m gonna go home, change, and eat, then I’ll head down.”
“What’s wrong, Abi? Miss me already?”
The disappointment was apparent in her response coming over my speakers.
“No, no. Nothing. I’ll see you later.”
There was a pause before she hung up that was daring me to say something, anything, to give her more of me she didn’t know, like how much I wanted to stretch her pussy out.
Derailing my focus, again, I pressed the end button so I could pay attention to the task at hand. I didn’t need to fuck up the one thing I was good at. I still needed my monster that she was curing me of.
Letting myself in, like I normally did when I killed someone, I looked around with my black latex gloves on, not trying to leave any of me behind. Ghosting ever being here. His place was spotlessly clean, which I appreciated, but there were mechanical parts everywhere. In crates, on newspapers, on the surfaces in every room, like he was in the middle of his best invention.
Maybe that’s what he was—an inventor.
I wouldn’t know. I only got a name and address from 666-66. Comical, I know. Not exactly a divine number.
A non-noble death.
Hearing footsteps upstairs, I walked quietly up the stairs, letting my monster take over. My hearing felt sharper, and my eyes were wide, trying to take in more than was possible. My body went mute even with my footsteps.