UNLIKE MOST PEOPLE in brazil, growing up, we were dirt poor. My mama, my little sister and I lived on benches. Some nights it was in the park, some nights it was just me outside of a shelter because they only took women, and some nights it was in front of restaurants, in hopes that they'd pity us and give us the throw aways. They rarely did.
Wherever it was, it didn't matter— not to me anyway. I was the man of the family. My job was simple. Protect Lina and mama, make as much money as possible, then keep Lina warm at night while mama went to work.
That was all before the incident.
On my twelfth birthday, I found myself homeless, family-less, and without knowledge of how to take care of myself.
I always took care of them.
That is, until a little girl found me. A little girl with brown skin, raggedy clothes and long, greasy black hair.
She'd taken me back to her family of six, in there one bedroom shack. She'd insisted they keep me, because she was tired of being the oldest and wanted and older brother.
They couldn't afford to feed another mouth, so from then on, the little girl shared everything she had with me, her tiny portions were split in two and the old beaten up pillow on the floor had two heads on it.
That thought is the only thing keeping me from shooting her in the forehead, right here right now for being so fucking boring.
"Hello?" She snaps her fingers in front of my nose "pay attention."
With an exaggerated sigh, I turn my head back to the computer screen before me. "Nish, I'm going to lose my mind. We've been doing this for four years and every time we get a new job you do this shit." I run a frustrated hand through my hair, "I didn't get it last time, I don't get it this time and I won't fucking get it next time."
"But the tracker—"
"I. Don't. Care."
"Fine." She breaths, closing her laptop "Then why am i here?"
"Because I need you to set up the tracker and plant it." I state.
Most hit men just find the person and snip them. No questions asked. But I'm not just a hit man, I'm an assassin. Which means I'm cleaner. No chaos, no mess. But to achieve that, I need to know my victim. I need to know their routine, when there alone, when there at home ect.
I rarely shoot people, it draws attention. Stabbing is the easiest for a case like this. Simple, fast and easy to hide.
"Ahw you need me!" Nisha places both of her hands in her heart, sarcastically tilting her head in affection.
"Shut up and do it."
She snorts before getting back to work.
҉
"Okay," Nisha exhales dramatically through the phone. "So, this chick is a lingerie model. Goes by the name Ella Marie."
I hum, turning my steering wheel with one hand as the other holds my phone to my ear. I cant be bothered to hook it up to my truck, not with my two separate phones.
"Anyway, there's a show tonight, I'm gonna' go, chat her up, and slip the tracker into her purse."
"Okay, sounds fine. anything else?"
"No I don't think so..." she trails.
"What do you want?"
"Can Micah come with me? Runways are so boring and he's so funny!"
I pull into a parking space, "yeah, whatever I don't care. Call Ava or whatever the fuck her name is and tell her."
"Ana? Why?"
"She's the manager, she'll find him a replacement."
"No she's not. You demoted her remember?"
"Oh fuck. Yeah." I have no idea why i tried to fire Ava. Something about the way she spoke to Lacey just rubbed me the wrong way.
It's not about Lacey... it's about business. What if she upsets Lacey so much she quits? Then I'll
need to find a replacement. What if she speaks to customers that way? Then we're losing money.
It was all to help the club.
I'd tried to fire her but the bitch started crying. I don't know how to deal with crying. I told her if she got out of my sight I'd let her be a waitress.
"Well... congrats you've been promoted!" I fake enthusiasm.
She matches my tone, "Oh my god! Manager of a strip club?! Thats like a dream come true!"
"Call someone else in and Micah can go. If you can't find anyone, he stays."
"Okay okay. Bye now." I hang up instead of responding.
I enter the coffee shop in a slightly better mood, now that I know I'm one step closer to one million dollars.
"Hello, welcome to bean haven what can I get for you?"
I take my time to examine Lacey, as I always do. Only this time she looks different. I'd seen her cry to Micah before, I'd seen her panic at the sight of Stef, I'd seen her on oxy, when she didn't care about anything. It's safe to say I've seen her through that pathetic attempt of a mask she tries to put on for everyone, but today it's different.
When she was high, she didn't care. The mask was completely gone and replaced with a blunt, angry bitch. This isn't that.
I take it from her lightly slowed movements that she's in pain, meaning she's sober.
She's not frowning, or scowling at people. In fact she's still smiling, but it's not the same.
It's a feeble, tired attempt at putting on the mask, an even weaker one at keeping it on when we make eye contact.
She back straightens, her shoulders tense. "Black coffee." I finally answer.
I watch her eyes move to the iPad in front of her, her heavy, blood shot eyes. Her face relaxes as she types in my order, causing a light frown to appear, taking the place of the pitiable excuse of a half smile.
Almost as if she catches herself, a grin is re-plastered on her face when she turns back to me, "three dollars please."
I hand her the money and wait. I watch her back and shoulders lift and drop as she takes a deep breath.
Her hand shakes as she pours my coffee. It shakes as she holds it out to me. It shakes as I reach for it. It only stops when my fingers brush hers in my mission to grab my coffee. Her whole body stills before she blinks and pulls her hand away in a heist.
A strange warmth lingers on the tips of my fingers, where hers touched mine.
I push past it and leave the cafe.
☄︎⋆ ༘
I promised y'all a double update so here it is. It's kind of filler for next week so stay tuned.