Chapter 1 ~ Wanted: Trouble.
Pairing: Mark Meachum X Hitwoman!Reader
Blurb: It's simply complicated. For starters, you're supposed to be the villain, and he's supposed to be the hero. Separated as teenagers, neither of you thought you would ever see the other. But fate retwines your paths after twenty-five years as a Murderer and a Detective. You're wanted in the worst ways possible, but he still wants you because you're his Trouble. And he needs to catch you alive before someone else shoots you dead.
Tags/Trigger Warnings (18+): language, voilence, gore, flashbacks, yearning, murders, hitwoman, police/detective novel, mentions of human trafficking and selling children (not too graphic), car accidents, major character deaths (sort of, but not really), minor character deaths, mentions of glioblastoma multiform (brain tumor), headaches, dizziness, hospital visits, angst, fluff, alcohol, cigrettes, hacking, lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers, tons of miscommunication and misunderstandings, mentions of cheating (doesn't happen but it's mentioned), mentions of jail and aryan brotherhood (undercover work), etc.
A/N: So, this was just supposed to be a small one-shot based on a prompt (emboldened AND italicized in the chapter) challenge I took up with the lovely Hepza_Hart from Wattpad. But I'm gonna turn this into a series as soon as possible, lol.
In the meantime, do go and check out the wonderful story posted by my author-in-crime in her book "Multifandom Shots", under the title, "Home". And shower her with love, y'all, her awesomeness demands it 😘🫂.
Also, a special shoutout to the lovely @bettystonewell for all the encouragement she gave me when I got nervous about getting out of my comfort zone. Thank you to Beth for helping me with the book cover as well, and @jollyhunter for the same! You guys are literal angels 🥹😘❤️.
Lastly, vote, comment, share, and follow for more! Your feedback keeps me going 🥰❤️.
{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }
Chapter 1 ~ Detective, Meet Trouble.
How many masks does one have to wear before they forget their own face?
The back of your fingers traced down your painted s/c cheek, curled eyelashes sticking out from heavily shadowed eyelids that frequently blinked to hide your deadly e/c-coloured orbs that you didn't want anyone to interpret. Your lips were thickly coated in a deep red; happenstance had it that it was the colour of your hands after the number of murders you wore on your hands like some women wore bangles.
You dropped your hand, frowning at yourself in the mirror.
It was a sexy dress, if not also beautiful. The royal blue velvet wrapped around you fittingly, showing off the sharp angles; once upon a time, you had curves, when you were softer. The size of your stubborn body was forced to reduce by the people who made you believe they owned you. You became sharper, too: useful as a knife, deadlier than a machete, unwanted like a blade.
You pretended to dab your face with a tissue when the door to the restroom swung in. Pretending was reflex now.
The opening of the door broke the quiet that had sealed you in a moment of self-retrospection. The booming music outside reminded you of the inebriated bunch of people who were letting loose outside; it reminded you that a weapon didn't dance. A weapon wasn't supposed to think.
You put on the masquerade mask that was a requirement of this party, tied the delicate strings around your head, trying not to damage your designer hair - people trusted other people who came in pretty packages.
You grabbed your purse, beaming pleasantly at the lady who was washing her hands beside you, having finished her business. You walked towards the door on your short heels. It took you a moment to slip into your "predator" mode.
The door opened, and your life changed.
Mark's head was murdering him.
He'd been having headaches more frequently these days. He was avoiding going to the doctor, mostly because he didn't have the time or the patience. Besides, work had been so busy.
An anonymous tipper had wired over information about a hitman who was after the visiting business tycoon from New York. His private jet had to be parked locally after some system failure, and despite the fucking threat on his life, he didn't feel like getting "bored" at the airport.
Just to be difficult, James Rivera accepted a previously declined invitation to a wedding of a local businessman who was trying to befriend James. James didn't believe in sitting idle or hiding because he'd been through enough threats in his life. Obviously, he didn't give the mafia enough credit.
'Take this,' Finau said, entering the bathroom, suited and booted before Mark. It was that damn bowtie that had pissed him off. With his squinting eyes and more than half the concentration on his hammering head, he'd had to retie the thing four times now.
A flimsy, black object was flying at him by the time he was making finishing touches on his bow. He caught it before he thought about it, taking only a moment to inspect it to feel exaggerated indignation.
'A fucking masquerade?' Mark huffed. He hadn't been outside yet, having reached here right before the first guests started seeping in. 'Isn't it enough we gotta dance at these parties like some show monkeys?' He fully believed that the only reason James Rivera brought the police with him to the wedding was because he fucking could.
Finau's lips curled upwards, fixing his own mask. 'You okay, man? You've been moody.'
'Yeah. Feels like my brain's not working,' Mark mumbled, fidgeting with the mask's strings.
'Is that new?' Finau lightly teased.
Mark shot him an equally playful glare.
'You going to show a doctor your brain?' Finau asked.
'Later,' was all Mark said. He did realise he would have to go at some point - his headaches were getting worse, and he was starting to wonder if it was late-onset migraines or some shit that came with growing age.
For now, he was going to focus on this publicity stunt where the rich took relish in the fact that they were rich enough to be fucking hunted. Finau entered the room before him, probably to find a wall he could be a fly on and keep an eye as a lookout. The rest of the police lurked on the next block. Some of them had been absorbed by the raving crowd.
It was Mark's job to blend in, too. Mix and mingle. Find the killer from within, if he could.
He coerced his mind into believing that the headache was just a few dull throbs and pulses, letting the feeling be subsumed by adrenaline and purpose, letting the hard mask in his one hand and the walkie in the other to dig into his palms.
He blew one last breath out, smiling at an old man who was making his second trip since Mark had joined the washroom to change a few minutes ago. The old man had a toothless smile that reminded him of an old restaurant owner in Victorville.
He dismissed those memories as fast as they came. He'd stopped thinking about what that restaurant meant to him years ago.
The music had punctually begun, and the lights had been set to strobe.
Between the pub-esque lights and his blinding headache, he wasn't paying attention when he crashed into a smaller body. An elbow to his abdomen winded him, his hands released what he was holding so his arms could grab the woman, who had become far more unbalanced than him.
'Oh!' your hands clutched his broad shoulders to keep yourself upright, reflexes nearly as lithe as his. 'What the fuck, man-?'
Your eyes met.
Your mind blew.
'Sorry,' Mark sincerely apologised, letting your waist go like he hadn't had the same explosion devastate his mind.
He sidestepped you so he could crouch down and pick up his fallen mask.
You stood frozen in your spot, although your life seemed to have been uprooted.
'Are you okay?' Mark wondered, voice only just audible over the music.
You blinked at him; wondering if you blinked enough, he would start flickering, and then he would be the ghost you knew him to be.
Your lips trembled without your consent.
'Miss?' he asked, somewhat alarmed at your reaction.
You tore your eyes away from his stupidly handsome face. 'I, um, yeah. Sorry.' It was way too breathy. Since when did you apologise for things you didn't do? 'Um, sorry,' you shook your head, apologising to yourself now. 'I just . . . saw someone I wasn't supposed to. I, um, distracted.'
'Ah.' But his nod was polite. He smiled small, 'I hope your evening picks up.'
And he walked away from you.
Again.
Your eyes bore into his back as he melted into the crowd.
He hadn't fucking recognised you.
'Two Budweisers,' you shot two fingers up in the air, leaning on the bar counter while your eyes swept the room like two tiny scanners.
'We don't serve beer here, madam,' the British bartender said in his accent.
You turned your head, fixing a condescending smile on your face. You let your gaze trail down his bodice as he wiped a wine glass, making him shift on his feet with discomfort, the longer you "judged" him for his profession.
Successfully, the fresh-faced, barely more than twenty-one-looking adult squirmed in his shoes. He was stationed alone on the bar - and why not, after the bottles you smashed in the back room, drawing the guy responsible for liquor away from the bar, leaving this new meat in charge. You'd also knocked out the other hire outside the lavish hotel, booking him a cab and passing him off as a drunk.
No one even questioned you. How would they? You were a woman.
It was why your boss had asked you to do this job; told his right-hand guy, Milano, who you got this job instead of, to be on stand-by. That was two months ago, when Prince thought that this was too high a profile for a man to get away with murder. You had been rigorously planning ever since.
'Did I say serving me was optional?' you raised a ruthless brow.
'N-No, but—'
'Bup, bup, bup!' you imitated a mouth shutting closed with your puresless hand. 'Listen up, kid.' You leaned in further. 'I woke up in a pool of my blood today,' you pointed a finger down to indicate your uterus for the sake of a lie, 'unless you want me to end it in a pool of yours, you're gonna find me two fucking beers!'
'Y-Yes, ma'am,' he swallowed, eyes wide, face flushed. Yeah . . . the shark week was an amazing excuse to be rude; it was just a bonus that it flustered most men.
When he kept twisting the cloth in his hand, you scoffed. 'Waiting for me to wave my knife around?'
He scampered off like a rat.
The bar was deserted, so you could easily slip behind the counter when no one was looking. People were mostly clumped on the dance floor and at the tables where the guest-to-waiter ratio was two-to-one - why the hell would those lazy bums then bother to lift a finger, or walk all the way over to the bar for a fiesta?
You plugged in your Bluetooth. You would only have five minutes before a waiter found you, in desperation, to make a Sex On The Beach you wouldn't promise not to sip from.
'Finally online, bitch?'
'Narcs are here,' you huffed indignantly, moving past her affectionate greeting.
'What?! Impossible! Do they know we bribed the pilot?'
'I don't think so,' you frowned, collecting bottles of alcohol on the platform so you could appear to be working.
'And you're sure they're cops?'
Your eyes lifted to Mark on the singles table (you knew every inch of this party while he'd just sat on the first seat he'd gotten), scanning the room for suspicious activity. You didn't tell Justine about Mark, though, your hands landing on a champagne bottle that was marked with a note. It was exactly what you'd need for Plan C, if it came to that.
'Is this my first day on the job, bitch?' you retorted instead, putting the bottle at the back of a drawer and locking it in with a key.
When you rose, your gaze veered to Mark again, without your permission. His eyes were frequently fixing upon a point on the opposite end of the room; you followed it. There was a tall man of colour serving as a lookout; even Mark would be dwarfed in front of this muscular man whose persona screamed "police".
'The place is crawling with them, chica. Someone tipped them off.'
'Shiiiit,' your hacker friend said. 'Now what?'
You puckered your lips.
You'd stalked this place way in advance, working the joint as an employee for two months before you got "fired"; right before this wedding, in fact. You'd cased all the exits and the cameras; that's also when you'd taped your gun to the back of one of the toilets.
All that planning and someone fucking tipped the police off.
Your jaw worked up a muscle. 'Who snitched?'
'Uhhhh, I can find out. Just gotta hack into the CAD system-'
'Gibberish to me,' you cut her off. 'Just tell me who it was when you find them.'
'You got it.'
She went static just in time for a waiter to meet you at the bar, sweating and winded. You didn't recognise him because there were several additional waiters present tonight, volunteering their time for a few extra bucks.
'Who the hell are you?' he demanded, sceptical of your dress.
'Filling in for Brad,' you answered, smiling. You rotated a drink-shaker on your palm to show off your skills. 'Don't worry, man. I work this joint,' you lied. 'Just took the night off for the wedding - should've fucking known it wouldn't last!'
He nodded like he couldn't care less. 'Well, can you make me a Sangria or not?'
'Coming right up,' you smirked.
No one wants to be hunted when they're the hunter. But you may have jinxed yourself by staring at Mark relentlessly.
Between drinks, your eyes had been wandering to him, so it wasn't a surprise when his eyes veered to yours like the pull of a magnet. You immediately averted your gaze, of course, but the attention had been attracted. The man was sharper than the boy you remembered, fully bloomed into the fearlessness and intelligence he always seemed to carry; he trudged his way down to the side of the room where the power of the music didn't pulse in the ground as much.
'Hey,' he said, lips spreading in a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.
You caught up for a moment, staring into them; the green of his eyes wasn't visible in the dimmed surroundings, but you knew that the mask seemed to sculpt his face in a way that his piercing irises stood out. You should be scared because he's obviously clocked your suspicious behaviour, but here's the catch: you wanted him to know who his prey was.
Unlike him, your smile was soft and melancholic. 'Hi, handsome.'
'What are you doing behind the bar?' he cut right to the chase.
Your expression wavered between disappointment and stoicism. The man you had spent hours learning had seemed to have forgotten you. Dismay flopped in you like a fish on land, and you got the urge to scream in his face; throw your mask at his feet and beg for forgiveness, beg him to remember you, beg him to take you back.
And yet.
It had been just a little more than twenty-five years since you'd last seen him.
'Miss?' Mark prompted with an edge in his voice.
Time to win some Oscars.
You used the time you froze as a part of your act, pitching in a swallow and letting your eyes skitter nervously across the floor at large before you signaled him to lean in.
'Can you keep a secret?' you asked, injecting desperation into your act.
Mark tilted his head like he could be convinced for a good enough reason.
'I stole the wedding champagne,' you whispered theatrically.
His brows smushed in confoundment, and his lips turned down slightly like he was being made to hear something he wouldn't give two shakes of a rat's ass.
'Please don't tell anyone,' you hurried to add. 'I can't afford another warning!'
'. . . A warning from the police?'
You made an exasperated expression. 'The police? Fuck, no. Much worse!' you said with urgency. 'My parents can't find out about this.'
From that point, it could spiral in two ways. Either a good-mood Mark would smirk because you were a beautiful woman he found amusing, or the bad-mood Mark would roll his eyes. Today mustn't be a good day for him because he did the latter, subtle all the same, because he wanted to be "respectful".
Well, you have a script ready for both scenarios.
Mark had an aversion to rich bitches, men or women, who sat up in their ivory towers looking down on folks. If you were pretending to be one, you would infuse some emotionality into it so you didn't push him away completely.
'I know how this sounds,' you insisted. 'Okay? But I just—I just can't fucking take this anymore!'
That brought his eyes back to your face. There was a certain tint of assessment in the way his face was screwed up with concentration.
It made your heart pound because, innumerable times now, he'd projected that expression on you, bypassing all your shells like you hadn't spent several lonely years encrusted in them.
You just hoped to fucking God he didn't see through your drama completely.
'I just need to prove to my father that the all-fucking-precious Linda,' (the bride), 'isn't fucking perfect!'
The on-call tears didn't fret when you wanted them to gloss over your eyes. It was easier to feel awful when the love of your life was standing oblivious to you, in front of you.
As expected, Mark thawed - more out of discomfort and forlorn sympathy, but it was a break, and you were going to crack it wide open.
'These deserve Hell, okay?' you sniffed, looking down like vulnerable people tended to. 'They owe me a bottle of fucking champagne!'
'Sounds rough,' Mark said in condolence.
'I swear, I'm not a murderer though,' you lied earnestly, wiping the tear that streamed down as soon as it touched the skin since you wanted to seem strong, too, and just a smidge embarrassed.
'I didn't say you were,' Mark said, half-amused and half-sceptical - that's how you knew you'd finally hooked him into conversation.
Time for a joke.
'No, I know, but like,' a well-placed sniffled, 'isn't stealing liquor, like, a step away from murder or something?'
His lips twitched upwards. 'And how would that happen?'
'I don't know,' you shrugged. 'Aren't most murderers durnkards?'
He chuckled!
'You obviously know nothing about crime, sweetheart.'
Bingpot!
Hook, line, and sinker, my love.
'Oh, and you do?' you huffed over a low chuckle like his smile was getting to you (which it was).
'I've dabbled,' he replied smugly.
'You better mean like movies and shit,' you said despite knowing otherwise.
'When in LA . . .' he winked, not correcting you either.
'I wouldn't know,' you said. 'I haven't watched many crime thrillers.'
'Shocking,' he teased with a shit-eating grin.
'Just because I like light-hearted television, I don't become a loser,' you wagged your finger at him.
Before he could respond, a waiter came with an order.
You were incredibly aware of Mark's gaze as you whipped up a Mai Tai, quick and seamless, sending the waiter on his way.
'Impressive skill,' Mark commented.
'When you have overprotective parents, you learn to make the drinks yourself,' you claimed. 'Besides, I figure the waiters would run around like headless chickens if I didn't hand them the drinks.'
'Speaking of, where is the bartender?'
'I distracted one of them, sent the other on a fool's errand,' you answered "honestly".
'For the grand larceny,' he snorted.
'Yep,' you popped your "p", beaming at him mischievously. 'I have no one to blame but myself for this job.'
'That's how the judge is gonna see it,' he joked.
You snickered, placing two shot glasses on the bar. 'Although . . . it comes with perks.'
'Drinking on the job?' he tsked. 'Not very professional of you.'
You filled the glasses to the brim with vodka. 'I plan to fire myself later,' you assured him. 'Bottoms up!'
You followed that with a quick downing of your drink. When your glass touched back down, Mark's was still untouched. You raised a brow.
'I'm working, too,' he admitted. 'And I don't wanna get fired.'
'More for me,' you shrugged, slamming the drink back, allowing the pleasing burn to calm your mind. You hummed, then sighed as you put the glass back down. 'Man. Never have a father.'
Mark's smile grew even more amused, and more importantly, it had a sweet tinge of empathy. 'I know a thing or two about those,' he said.
You knew he did.
You fiddled with a bigger glass, getting down to making a mocktail.
'Rough childhood?' you asked because that's how a stranger would.
'Got me here,' Mark vaguely said.
That only meant you needed to be better at poking him.
'Where? Tweaking your hips for some rich brats like a keyed-up toy?' you teased, filling the shot glass with vodka again for yourself while you worked on the other, more complicated drink for him.
He laughed. 'Not a fan of the money?'
'It got me here,' you threw back at him. It only had him more interested. 'As the cousin of the fucking bride.'
'What's your name again?' he asked.
'Chelsea,' you lied. 'What about you, handsome?'
'Detective Mark Meachum,' he said, sidelining his jacket to display his badge. 'LAPD.'
'No way!' you laughed breathily. 'You're not a detective.'
'Why not?' he questioned with a hint of a smile, wondering if he should be going down the road of offense.
You softened as one does when you're sharing an inside joke with your loved one. 'Because you look like goddamn mischief impersonified,' you quipped.
'And how would you know that?'
'Trouble finds its kin and kith, Mark,' you stated. 'I'm Trouble.'
His smile flickered on his face like he was reminded of something . . . Or someone.
'You good?' you queried, knowing exactly what you were fucking doing to him.
'Yeah.' He cleared his throat. 'Excuse me. I should get back to work.'
Ergo, you were in.
It was just a whiff of memory, but it consumed him whole. He was transported to twenty-five years ago, and the deep yearning he had buried under layers of grief, job, and forced pep talks of "I've moved on" came barreling at him like a freight train.
He wasn't supposed to miss you anymore. But then he would see an old man in a bathroom giving him a toothless smile, and he would be reminded of the old man from his hometown who used to smile at you both whenever you went to his restaurant for your dates.
The old man was now dead. Mark's sometimes his memories would be, too . . .
Then, there was the fucking word trouble.
He hated that word. Avoided it like the plague, but it seemed to haunt him like a swarm of locusts. He had tried not to speak it for twenty-five years, went silent whenever someone else said it - he often withdrew after one mention of it, and had to rescue himself from the conversation.
One would think it would get easier over the years. Missing you, grieving you - but it came with the hefty side of guilt and self-loathing. It came with a bag of "what ifs" and a self-sustained promise of comparing every woman who comes after you in his life with you.
Because you were Trouble; even in your death, you kept troubling him . . .
His phone vibrated with a text, and he checked it to see a photo of a young adult with a man bun. Light complexion, eyes bloodshot because it was probably taken when he was high. A message was attached to it: This is our hitman. I'm going to search the building.
Mark didn't find Finau in the room, so he assumed his friend had already left. His eyes swept the room for the criminal and came up empty. He was about to shrug his sadness off for his job's sake when:
'Hey,' a voice chimed in, cutting his chain of thoughts.
Mark hastily turned his phone off.
His eyes came up to Chelsea; his chest clenched tightly because even this new woman was reminding him of you.
There was a lilt to Chelsea's laugh that was like a punch to Mark's gut, an exaggeration of her hands that made him want to hold her, a pull in her eyes that made Mark's entire being thrum with attention.
It was maddening.
He was fucking addicted to it.
It was like taking a sip of alcohol or a breath from a cigarette after being sober for twenty-five fucking years. It was self-medicating for the permanent wounds in his chest.
Even the way Chelsea talked was making Mark think of you. The wisecracks, and the drama, the pouting - those damn lips!
He can't remember when he wanted to kiss a woman more in the last two-point-five decades.
She slid a glass towards him on the table, turning a chair to sit down in front of him. 'The bartender in charge came back and kicked me away.' Before Mark could remind Chelsea that he still couldn't drink, she spoke. 'It's a mocktail,' she said. 'Try it. You'll like it.'
He wanted to take a sip and dismiss her; get back to the job. But the flavours that sat on his tongue once the contents tipped over were . . . perfect.
'. . . Huh? Yeah?' she clocked the admiration in his eyes with the growing smile of satisfaction.
'Aw, shit,' he scoff-chuckled despite himself. 'Are you sure you shouldn't be owning this place? . . . What did you put in it?'
'You're the detective,' she teased, choosing to keep it as big a mystery as her face was under the mask. He secretly wanted the lights to stop flashing just so he could note the colour of her eyes. 'Like it?'
'Love it!' Mark could begrudgingly admit, spirits lifting with the sugar in his blood.
'Hmm. Knew you would,' she said, like she had a secret journal about him stashed somewhere - it held the map to his heart.
Mark's visage fell into doubt with that perspective, and like she had been all night, she seemed to have anticipated it.
'Okay,' she raised her hands defensively, 'okay, I know this . . . whatever this is - it's weird, right?' She chuckled nervously, and Mark's gaze eased on her.
Maybe he needed to stop psychoanalysing every person he met in his life. Not everyone's a criminal. Some people just have a natural chemistry.
Like the one he used to have with you.
'I mean, there's something here, right?' she gestured between him and herself. 'I'm not hallucinating it?'
Mark's eyes darted away from hers guiltily because it just didn't feel fucking right.
'Okay,' you exhaled slowly. 'Look, at the risk of sounding like one of those rom-com chicks . . . I think we were meant to meet.'
Mark's face hardened, and he hid it behind another sip; meeting her eyes with mountains of disbelief, trying not to be harsh with her. It wasn't her fault that he was damaged beyond repair.
'Don't look at me like that!' she groaned like she was reading his mind.
'Sorry.' It was his turn to raise a hand like a white flag. 'When you said you liked light-hearted television, I just didn't peg you to be the one sitting on your hands when two clichés kiss at the airport.'
What am I doing? his mind chimed in. His fingers tightened around his phone. There was a criminal he had to look out for.
'I'm an all-rounder,' she quipped pleasantly.
'By your choice, or is that another act you put up?' he snapped, having had enough of the polite coyness. It was clearly manufactured. If this girl could read him as well as she was, she was behaving like a barely surviving damsel on purpose.
'What act?' she asked, tensing a bit.
'The one you're putting on right now,' he finally called her out, having had enough of it. 'The one where you pretend you aren't clever enough to make sure your situations don't define you.'
She seemed impressed, leaning back in her chair after some thought and crossing her legs at the knees. Mark had expected her to be offended, waiting for her to snap while he took another sip.
The last thing he expected was for her to play ball.
She smiled.
'You're good,' she conceded. 'And when my own parents don't know me that well,' she smirked like she was sharing a secret. 'You have a gift of reading people, Mark.'
Except why would she lay down her defences for a stranger like Mark?
It distracted him. Again.
He had purposely encroached on her emotional walls to get her to throw a drink in his face.
Either she knew his strategy was to get rid of her. Or she was a psychopath.
But then, her head tilted, and he was struck with how eeriely familiar that gaze was. It was like he was almost staring into the face of his entire past - someone he thought would stay with him for the rest of his life; and you did, just not in the way he wanted you to.
'Can I be real with you?' she said, bolder now after Mark had outwardly noted her defenses. 'Sometimes . . . I do wish someone would scoop me on a horse and ride into the horizon. But I think fate likes to play with me.'
'I don't believe in fate,' was his sharp retort. 'Or all that magical, "whatever happens, happens for good" crap.'
'No?' Calm and curious.
'Nah,' he said, trying to bring back his rudeness. 'You do what you do, and you gotta deal with the consequences.'
She hummed. 'I suppose that's good,' she mused.
She read the question on his face.
'I mean,' she continued, 'if we're incompatible, I won't have to worry about getting my heart broken by you.' She included a Cheshire grin with that comment so he knew she was flirting with him.
'I don't know, sweetheart,' he said, almost like he was hypnotized. 'Maybe you got some heartbreaking to do.'
'Maybe,' you said, like you hadn't thought of that. 'And do you think your heart could use a little breaking tonight?'
God, he wanted to. A resounding "yes" echoed in his mind.
His brain made his mouth blurt something else, though: 'I'm engaged,' he said. Or rather, he realised at the same time as Chelsea did.
Her face fell like he'd announced her personal tragedy.
While Mark tried to understand why he hadn't stopped this conversation in its tracks much earlier, with this very fact.
Melinda Bates was a lovely woman. And he thought he loved her.
That's what he had to be doing, right? If he were marrying the girl, he had to love her . . .
Still, your memories were embedded deep in him. And recently, he'd been trying to convince himself that that's all you were - history, in all senses of that meaning.
Yet, talking to Chelsea had seemed like his personal reckoning.
If nothing else, he recognised the noose tightening around his throat every time he thought about waiting down that aisle for a woman who wasn't you.
Could he really let his loneliness bully him into a marriage with a woman he only sometimes loved?
'Well,' Chelsea said softly. 'Guess I missed my window, huh?' There was a dangerous, reckless smile on her face as her eyes almost glared at Mark.
She rose. 'It was nice meeting you, Mark.'
That's good! excalimed the rational part of him. Finally leaving.
He was about to stand up, let the horrible experience roll off his shoulders, when she doubled back to whisper something in his ear.
'Also . . . your target is leaving,' she said, gesturing in the direction of the washrooms where the hitman was casually leaning against a wall.
'Shit!' he shot up, bringing his walkie to his lips to throw instructions in it.
He didn't even question how she knew; part of him assumed she'd seen it on his phone before he'd locked it. The guy he was after was Tony, the snitch. And you'd set Tony up by sending the police his picture - anonymous, like Tony had been, which made it so much easier for you.
'Goodbye, M&M,' you muttered to yourself, paying the last tribute to your love by uttering your nickname for him.
Now.
It was Murder o'clock.
You dunked the murder weapon in a toilet's flush tank to erase your prints.
You'd simply flirted with your target, and he'd gladly followed you to the ladies' restroom. You'd shot him with a silenced gun and were climbing out of one of the windows in the bathroom. The party was thirty floors up since the wedding was on the topmost floor, so you would be climbing down into a room on the twenty-eighth floor with the help of a rope you'd hidden in the washroom.
You landed on the balcony softly, massaging your arms to work out the kinks, walking past the floor-to-ceiling windows you'd left open into the lonely room. You place a bucket at some distance from a smoke detector, removed your wig and your clothes, along with the rope that you set a spark loose on. But you didn't have the heart to throw away your mask.
You changed into something more comfortable, like your gym clothes, while the fire slowly swallowed your fake personality of Chelsea, and then you left the keycard on the table, setting your hair in a pony and cleaning the makeup that had made you look like a different person. You wore your gloves and rubbed the room clean with a napkin.
A few minutes later, you were taking the stairs down.
When you were on the seventeenth floor, the fire alarm finally went off.
You smiled, and you'd only crossed one more flight of stairs down when people joined you.
In the mayhem, you belonged.
You made it out without fanfare. On the curb, you saw the kid you'd sent on an errand, staring at the chaos with a slightly ajar mouth, holding a six-pack of beers in his hand. It seemed like you'd dismissed him ages ago, but actually, it had only been a little more than half an hour - and knowing that this hotel didn't sell the brand you wanted, he must've had to find the nearest store for it.
An idea gripped you.
You fished out a pen and a paper and wrote a message on it with your non-dominant hand, a handwriting you'd acquired after being separated from Mark:
Dear Mark. From one assassin to another, I greatly admire your work. Don't be too hard on yourself. I had a significant advantage today - better luck next time! Until then, have a beer on me - it's Budweiser, my favourite. ~ Your actual target, Not Chelsea.
You paid the college kid a hundred bucks to get the note and one can to Mark. You took the rest of them from him, cracking one of them open and sipping on it, walking away from the crime scene to meet Justine a block away with the runaway car while the fire department zipped past with their blaring alarms.
'Hey, bitch!' she grinned, happy to see you. She was already seated in the driver's seat, the car parked in a blind spot.
'Good job framing Tony,' you complimented without an expression.
'It was your idea,' she shared the victory. 'He was so desperate to maintain his cover with us that he walked right into our trap. When Prince hears of it, Tony'll be glad he's in jail. Fucking safer for him there.'
'Let's get as far away from the crap hole as we can before the police realise they have the wrong guy,' you said instead of addressing any of that.
'Done!' she said, waiting for you to climb shotgun.
'Can I have a beer?' she asked as she pulled out of the park to drive in the opposite direction.
Your lips thinned; the idea of sharing beer with anyone but Mark irked you.
'No.'
'Oh. Okay,' she said, not minding it. She knew you by now. 'Who was that guy you were chatting up, by the way?'
You inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, staring out the window. 'Just some guy who knows how to master Trouble,' you confessed.
But Justine wouldn't understand it on the same level you had meant because no one but Mark knows the hold he had on your devoted heart.
A/N: Intrigued yet 🤭?
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