Vicious Lies (Lies 1)

Then I slip the phone into my pocket, instead of deleting the message like I should. I keep it, knowing I’ll want to reread the message over and over again as a plan forms in my head.

I shouldn’t have accepted. I should stay far away from my huntress. She’s destroyed me before, and there is a good chance she’ll do it again.

But this time, things are different. This time, I won’t give her my heart. This time, I plan on being the one who wins.

3

Liesel

Only one man responded to my message—unusual.

As shocking as it may seem to some people, this isn’t my first time hiring a hitman. And only getting one response isn’t typical, not in a town like this.

We are supposed to meet for coffee in SoHo. It’s a trendy third-wave coffee shop that is almost always standing room only, so plenty of people to ensure neither of us is in any danger.

I’m not worried about being in any danger regardless. We could be meeting in a back alley alone, and I still wouldn’t be afraid to meet him, whoever he is.

Fear is something that I no longer feel. My fear was taken from me years ago.

We are supposed to meet at ten o’clock.

I purposefully show up ten minutes late. I don’t like to wait; I’m not a patient woman. And if he’s not willing to wait ten minutes, then he’s not the man for the job.

My heels click on the tile floor as I walk to order my drink—a coffee, black. I have no need for extra calories in the form of sugar or milk. Only once I have my coffee in hand do I turn to look for the man I’m meeting.

We didn’t exchange any details about each other. And it’s not like one of us is holding a single rose or something stupid like that from the movies.

I’m dressed in a slim navy blue dress and heels. I look like any other woman headed to work in the city. He’s not going to be able to find me. I’m going to have to be the one to find him.

I walk confidently through the throng of people gathered around the too-small tables. Most people are chatting in a group—those I can rule out. There are a few on their laptops—I rule them out as well. I don’t see a single person on their own.

I sigh as I sip my coffee. I’ll walk through the room one more time, and if I don’t find him, I’ll have to put out a new call for a hitman. I’m not going to deal with a man being late.

Suddenly, goosebumps form down my arms, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and all of the air squeezes from my lungs. I don’t have to turn around to know who is standing behind me.

This can’t be a coincidence. I haven’t seen him in seven, or is it eight months? He doesn’t live here. He saw my call for a hitman, and he answered it. And I have no doubt he knew exactly who he was answering. I used the nickname that only he calls me.

“Huntress,” Langston says, sending shivers racing through my body.

I try not to react. Only Langston has the ability to turn my body on end. To make me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling. And not all of those feelings are good.

“Killer,” I say in a raspy voice, using the nickname I gave for him when we were kids, after I learned that he had killed a deer hunting. If I had only known then that he kills a lot more than deer…

The flame that burns intensifies as we let it simmer between us. We both relish the feeling, even though we will never do a thing about it. An electric energy between two people doesn’t mean that we belong together. In fact, I think it means we should stay as far away from each other as possible. If we light a match near our smoldering fire, we will burn the entire world to the ground.

I turn around, hoping that I’m in complete control. That I look confident, poised, and completely unaffected. But when I look at Langston, it’s not what I expect. He’s wearing a suit. He never wears a suit.

It fits him well, which means he owns it and isn’t renting it. It’s a dark gray color with a white shirt opened at the collar, exposing his delicious sculpted chest. It also hides the muscles and scars underneath, which tell the story of the dangerous life Langston leads.

He doesn’t look like a gangster, a devil, a killer. Instead, he looks like a businessman meeting a client for coffee.

“This is a new look for you,” I say, my eyes purposefully trailing down his suit instead of staring at the harsh edges of his jaw and blue depths of his eyes that I’ll get lost in if I stare too long.

“This is the same look for you,” he says. His voice gives nothing away, but it’s meant to be a compliment. He’s always liked the way I look—neat, tidy, polished with just a hint of womanly curves.

“Shall we sit, or should we just agree this isn’t going to work and go on with our separate lives?” I ask, lifting my cup to my lips, daring him to be the one to decide if he wants to take this meeting further. I don’t want him to go, and I know he won’t. He wouldn’t have come all the way from Miami to meet me in New York City for coffee if he wasn’t going to stay and talk to me.

The edge of his lip lifts, reminding me of the playful boy I used to know as a kid before the world darkened him and turned him into a monster that I barely even recognize. And then he walks past me. For a moment, I think he’s leaving, but he walks to a small table in the corner where a couple of college-aged boys are laughing with two empty coffee cups.