Kicking It

Kicking It Page 8

Simone lifted the flap once more and looked inside. Her lips parted in surprise, and a small hint of excitement quivered along her mouth. She pulled out a throwing knife, heedless of the other customers nearby.

It glinted in the café’s lighting, its keen edge a testament of skill and patience. She briefly touched the angular maker’s mark at the base of the hilt, and if he wasn’t seeing things, her finger trembled slightly.

“I thought the blacksmith was dead. How did you get these?” she asked.

“You don’t need to know that. All you need to do is make up your mind. The purse and the knives in exchange for your help retrieving an object. The purse is exactly as you requested—only the owner can see the hidden contents.”

“It’s a neat trick.”

It was a hell of a lot more than that—it was weeks spent bent over his workbench, pouring everything he had into the project. “So, do we have a deal?”

“What are the terms?” she asked.

“Terms?”

“What am I stealing? From whom? How long do I have?”

“A few days at most.” The portal the Fractogasts were building was almost done. After that they would expand and open more building sites, and this chance would be lost.

“What’s the object?”

“A hammer.”

She lifted an inky black brow in question. “Why not just go to Sears?”

“It’s a blacksmith’s hammer. And it’s special.”

She absently stroked the surface of the leather purse. “How special?”

“Special enough that I included a set of throwing knives made by the hand of a craftsman who’s now dead.” Uttering those words without any hint of feeling cost Marcus a good chunk of effort.

“No hammer is that special.”

“It is when it’s in the hands of the Fractogasts.”

Her skin paled noticeably, making her smoky eyes look larger. “You know about them?”

“Unfortunately. They’ve stolen loved ones from me. As they have from you.”

“Don’t pretend like you know me, or that we should bond because of what those monsters did. I don’t bond. Ever.”

“Good to know. I’m not looking for a new BFF. Only a partner for a single job.”

“No, you’re looking for an idiot. If you’d told me that I’d be sneaking into ’Gast territory, I’d never have come.”

“You didn’t ask. You were too busy making demands on your price.”

“Which you exceeded because you knew you were asking me to risk my life. This isn’t like stealing a diamond necklace. They’ll see me.”

“Not in those boots.”

She went still and every trace of teasing feminine power trickled out of her, leaving behind a hard-core, pissed-off badass. “What do you know about my boots?”

“Everything.”

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the throwing knife. Her muscles coiled under black leather as she prepared to strike. “How? Who told you?”

If he didn’t appease her soon, he was going to end up with a knife in his throat. “No one told me anything. They didn’t have to. I was the one who made them—the one from whom you stole them.”

2

This was not a business meeting. It was an ambush.

Simone should have known better than to think that any offer this good could be true.

She looked around the café, searching for signs of which patrons might be Brighton’s backup. While several people looked at her, they were all wearing the same expressions of desire, apathy, or jealousy that she was used to seeing. Not one person here had that cold stare of a man willing to kill.

“I came alone,” said Brighton, apparently sensing her unease. “I’m not here to turn you in to the authorities. I don’t even want the boots back. All I want is your help.”

Again, too good to be true.

She didn’t bother snatching the purse away. The contract was good for only a few more seconds. After that she could no longer benefit from the purse’s inherent magic. It would be just another pretty handbag.

Apparently her sneaking into his mobile workshop and stealing the boots had taught him to be more careful with his wares. She only wished she’d known his name then so she could have seen this ambush coming.

The knife she’d taken out felt good in her hand. Its balance was perfect, the grip fitting her palm as if it had been made for her alone. The cross guard was small, but big enough that she could use the blade as a dagger if she wanted to get that close. Or simply had the misfortune of ending up that way.

There were two more knives just like it inside the purse—two perfect knives that would be lost to her once those three minutes were up.

She reached for the purse, but Brighton was faster. He slapped one big hand down on the leather and gave her a warning look. “Not unless you help me.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she asked.

“You don’t. At least not yet. But we both know you’re perfectly capable of killing me if you choose. And people are starting to stare.”

Simone palmed the knife and slid it into her sleeve. A quick glance around the room proved that Brighton was right. People were shifting nervously at the sight of the weapon, and at least two of them were on their phones. Maybe talking to police.

Time to go.

“Good luck, Brighton,” she offered as she headed for the door.

Marcus was right on her heels. “What about our deal?”

“What deal? You offered me a job. I’m turning it down.” She shoved her way out through the door. The cool night air sucked some of the heat of anger from her cheeks.

She made a beeline for her motorcycle, which was parked nearby.

“If you’re not going to help me, then give me back the boots,” he ordered.

She laughed as she mounted her bike. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.”

Brighton grabbed her arm. Until this moment, she’d pegged him for a suit. Normal, boring, law-abiding. Soft.

His hand on her arm was anything but. Strength radiated through his touch, shackling her biceps. She could break his hold, but not without getting off her bike and exerting some serious effort. And drawing a crowd.

“Please,” he said, his voice ringing with the kind of desperation she’d heard only from men who knew they were going to die. “I need your help.”

Simone looked up at him and instantly wished she hadn’t. There was pain in his eyes. Loss. Grief. She could have been looking into a mirror.

Her resolve started to crack, and damn if Marcus Brighton wasn’t smart enough to see it instantly.

“I have a place we can go and talk. Just give me a few minutes of your time. Hear me out. If you still think I’m out to get you, then I’ll find someone else. Somehow.”

The way he said it made her wonder if he even had a plan B. Maybe she was his only shot.

There’d been a time when that would have made her feel good, but now all she felt was sad. If she was his best shot, then he was in a world of hurt.

“Fine. I’ll listen. But I’m not making any promises.”

He nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. “My place is right around the corner. Big black RV. Follow me?”

She did, riding her bike along in his wake as he jogged away. The streets emptied out fast as they moved away from the university campus. He’d parked behind a neighboring office building that was closed for the night. Security lights gleamed off a massive RV that sat like a monolith in the vacant lot.

Simone paused as she rolled up beside the vehicle. Nothing was stopping her from riding away. She had one perfect knife in her possession. It wasn’t a bad haul for as little effort as she’d exerted. Sure, it was stealing, but any pangs of guilt she’d had about that act had been burned out of her years ago. Life changed. So had she.

“You coming in?” he asked from the doorway.

What harm could there be in listening to what he had to say? She really couldn’t think of anything he could have in there that would scare her, or any sticky situation she couldn’t handle.

Unless he had a Fractogast chained up inside, which seemed beyond unlikely.

“Why the hell not?” She sighed as she climbed in.

The place was littered with tools. Rolls of stiff leather stuck out from a wooden box. Bottles of dye were stacked neatly on a wall shelf, secured with bands of elastic. A workbench took up the space along one wall, and on it was a strip of leather held in place with wire loops. The length of the belt was nearly complete, making her fingertips tingle with the need to touch.

An array of metal stamps sat in a neat row. The ends of them had raised symbols, but those shapes bore little resemblance to the finished image worked into the leather. She could only guess what the belt would do, but whatever magic Brighton used to craft his wares was potent stuff.

He started moving toolboxes and bins of metal bits to make room on a built-in bench. “Sorry for the mess. I never have company.” He waved to the now free seat.

“I’ll stand, thanks.” By the door, with her fingers on the handle.

He tossed the purse he’d made to her specifications on the spot he’d cleared, and then stared at her. The light in here wasn’t as bright as it had been in the café, but even so, the intimacy of the small space heightened her awareness of him. One subtle sign that he was going to hurt her, and she’d tumble out through the door.

So far, all he’d done was stand there, watching her.

He had intense cobalt blue eyes, like sunlit glass. His hair was buzz cut, more a dark shadow than anything. Standing this close to him in such a small space, she realized just how big he really was. Not a hulking brute, but certainly more intimidating than he’d seemed in the brightly lit café with plenty of people around as witnesses.

Her hand slipped into her sleeve, letting the warm metal of the throwing knife ease her apprehension.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, once again surprising her that he’d read her so easily.