Page 71 of The Hitman’s Final Job

I open my inbox and see the information.

I ran the photo through every facial recognition database I have access to—and you know how many that is. Government records, corporate databases, law enforcement systems, immigration. I ran it all without leaving any trace of the inquiry.

He doesn’t exist.

No match anywhere. No passport. No driver’s license. No employment record. No social media. No digital footprint of any kind. He is either living completely off the grid, which almost no one does successfully, or he’s a ghost. Someone who has been professionally erased.

In my experience, Silas, the only people who look like nobody are people who are very specifically somebody.

Be careful.

I read it twice, then put the phone face down on the nightstand.

A ghost.

The man I saw at the festival with the family. Were they actors? Hired to provide a plausible cover? But why would a hit man need cover when we’re not meant to be seen?

The threat is no longer abstract. It’s here. In this town. It watched us at the pumpkin weigh-in yesterday.

I have more questions than answers, which pisses me off, because usually I’m the one with the answers. I have all the information, I go in, I kill.

There’s too much restless energy inside me and only one way I know to get it to settle. I get up, pull on my underwear, and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth because Vaughn doesn’t deserve morning breath when I’ve drunk more than I should the night before.

The kitchen smells like coffee and eggs. Vaughn is at the stove with his back to me, so I stand in the doorway for a moment, just appreciating the broad line of his shoulders, the silver hair, and the way his butt looks in those black boxer shorts.

I need this man more than I need coffee right now. He hears me in time to turn and open his arms. I walk into them and hold on tight, breathing in the smell of his shower soap mixed with the natural scent of his skin.

He holds me for a moment and then pulls back a little. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” I say, “is that we still haven’t christened the kitchen.”

His expression changes immediately. He reaches down and gets his hands under my thighs and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me to the kitchen table, kissing my mouth, my jaw, my neck.

He sets me on the table, and his hands move over my chest and my stomach. His fingers catalog each ridge of my abs until he’s right where I need him to be. I lie back on the kitchen table and close my eyes.

He replaces his hands with his mouth, then pulls the elastic of my boxer shorts down just enough to expose the head of my cock. His warm tongue licks over me, but then he pulls off just enough to blow on it.

“Fuck, Vaughn. Just suck me, please.”

“Is that what you want? I don’t think that’s what you want, baby.”

I open my eyes. If he’s shocked by the term of endearment he just threw at me as if we’re really something, he’s not showing it.

He pulls my underwear the rest of the way down and out of the way before his mouth engulfs my cock.

I say his name, several times, in registers probably only audible to dogs. I dig my fingers into his hair in case he stops what he’s doing, but a stronger desire eventually takes over. “Your fucking mouth is fucking sin, but I need you to fuck me right now.”

He lifts his head, and his smile is one hundred perfect smug. “We don’t have lube.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “I just need you. Right now. Please.”

He stands up and pulls me up to a seating position. He kisses me, and then says into my mouth, “Don’t move.”

I may have just died, because that voice could tie me to a bed and have its way with me and I’d come back for more.

The problem is that sometimes I’m not that good with orders. I slide off the table, turn around to face it, and lean forward with my forearms on the surface and wait.

“I thought I told you not to move, Silas.” He crosses the kitchen and comes to crouch down in front of my ass.