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Warning: Sensitive Content in chapter (violence, mention of drugs and SA):
Ohio fucking sucks.
We're staying in a shitty ass hotel, which is one of the downsides of being a separate organization: you don't get to use someone else's money. I'm rich, but not stupid enough to waste my wallet on a three-day mission with six idiots.
Apparently, I am stupid enough not to book seven rooms. Now Frannie has to choose one of the guys to stay with and I have to share a room with fucking Fisher.
He burst through the door, throwing his bags down and flopping on his bed. Thank god there's two. "Hey, roomie."
"We leave in ten, and you're not even fucking dressed," I say, annoyed.
He's not wearing a shirt, since he claimed it was too hot out. The real reason is because he saw a group of girls that drooling over him and decided to give them a little show starring his abs.
"Put a damn shirt on, and get in the van," I add over my shoulder as I walk out.
The hotel smells like dust and old carpet. The strawberry and vanilla scent that had been around a lot is now missing, and I don't get more of it for three fucking days.
That's even stupider than not booking seven rooms.
I find River at the black van parked behind the hotel. He's polishing a couple of our guns from a case, and looks up when he sees me.
"Ready?" He asks.
I nod with a blank face, popping open a folded door with our protective gear. I shrug on a bulletproof vest and take the gun River hands to me. "You sure? There's two targets for this week, you know."
"I know," I deadpan, a little snap to my tone.
Two targets, meaning I don't have to kill one person, but two.
Yeah, they're disgusting fuckers who don't deserve to live, but what does killing them make me? A murderer? Also someone who doesn't deserve to live?
Either I didn't hide it well enough, or River knows me well enough. He points out, "A month ago, you couldn't care less about assassinating our targets. You were numb to it."
A month ago, I hadn't met someone who made me feel.
"I'm not telling you to go back to that person, but this is your job. If it weren't for you, the victims we've saved would be scared to death that their assaulter would come find them again." He puts a hand on my shoulder. "You're doing a good thing, man. We all are."
Gross, since when was he fuckin' sentimental?
"Thanks," I grumble out.
Sentimental, yes, but also right. Assassin I might be, but my bullets don't cause grief, it causes relief.
