Page 5 of Rent an Enforcer

I’ve spent my entire life around fear. I read it, I use it. I cause it. I know every shape it comes in.

I have never once found it sweet, but that’s the only word to describe her. There’s something so open about her. Undefended. This small, bright person handing me the map of everything that scares her while leaving out the one thing that should.

“You’re not scared of me,” I point out.

“No.” She tilts her head, almost like it’s news to her, too. “I know I should be. On paper, you’re…” She gestures up and down with her hand at all of me—the head, the ink, the size of me. “You’re a lot. But no. I don’t feel any fear around you at all. Honestly, I think it’s kind of rude of my nervous system.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” I tell her. I mean it in a way I don’t usually mean things. I’ve met thousands of people. I remember most of them, because remembering people is how you stay alive. I’ve never once wanted to keep someone. That’s the difference I’m wrestling with while I stand here, and she sits there and our eyes meet across a very tiny living space.

Her cheeks turn red, and her mouth opens, but whatever she was about to say is stalled by my phone buzzing against my chest.

I know better than to ignore it. The message on the screen tells me I was right. It’s from Dorian. Need you. Now.

Dorian doesn’t say now unless it’s now. He doesn’t say need you unless the thing he needs is the specific set of things I’m good at. The entire world I’ve spent the past half hour pretending I don’t live in is back, and it’s demanding my attention.

“I have to go,” I tell her. I hate the words. I don’t think I’ve ever dreaded leaving an apartment before.

“Oh.” Disappointment flickers across her face, but she does her best to hide it. “Right. Of course. You have a life to live.”

She scrambles to her feet as if she needs to walk me to the door, when it will take me all of three paces to get there. She’s too close, her chin tipped up, and I should go. I know I should go. I should leave before I do anything I can’t take back.

Instead, I take her jaw in my hand—careful, so careful—and I kiss her.

She makes a small sound against my mouth, surprise maybe. She doesn’t pull back. Instead, she grabs a fistful of my shirt like she did in the alley, and she holds on, and for a moment, there’s only this. Her sweet, plump mouth and her hand fisted in my shirt while a rabbit watches us from the corner. The text from Dorian fades away. Everything ceases to matter.

I have to make myself stop. It costs me more than I would ever admit to anyone, but I pull back, breathing surprisingly hard considering it was just a simple kiss. But there is nothing simple about her or about any of this. I understand that now.

A sense of possessiveness comes over me before I murmur, “Lock the door. The one on the street is garbage, but make sure you lock yours.”

“I... yeah. Okay.” Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are shining, and I already know I want to see this expression on her face again. I want to be responsible for it.

“I’ll see you.” It’s not a hope. It’s a fact. I will see her again. There’s no way in this world I’ll be able to stop myself.

I’m halfway down the stairs, already sliding back into my familiar role as Dorian’s right hand, before I realize I never got her name.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to know her name to know I’m not going to let anything happen to her.

3

STELLA

Two days.

Two freaking days.

Ever wonder how much a girl can curse herself in two days? Then you’ve obviously missed the past two days in my apartment, when no matter what I’m doing, it’s not enough to distract me from how I totally screwed up.

I didn’t get his name. I didn’t get his number. I literally have no idea who rescued me in that alley or how I’m supposed to go back to living my normal life when I know he’s out there in the world somewhere.

The man kissed me until I was sure my panties completely melted, and I didn’t get his number. I let him leave without asking for a single piece of information that would let me find him again.

And I’ve been furious at myself for two full days over it. I’ve been angry painting, which is not usually a very good idea, but it seems like my anger at myself is actually useful if I channel it into my art. I finally found the shade of green I was looking for... and now, all I have to do is paint the canvas instead of stabbing it with the brush, which is essentially what I keep doing when I let my thoughts wander. And they keep wandering.

Socks has started giving me a look that tells me he’s concerned about my well-being. That makes two of us.

The third morning, I stand at the window and look down at the street without really seeing it because I’ve officially turned into the nosy lady who watches everyone else’s business. In my hand is a cup of coffee, instant, the kind that tastes like it was brewed in a tire. Caffeine is caffeine, though, so I sip it and pretend it’s not an affront to my taste buds. The glass is cool against my forehead. Outside, a dog walker goes by with too many dogs. All of the leashes are tangled. It’s basically my worst nightmare. There’s a woman carrying a baby on her hip and a grocery bag in the other hand. Normal morning. Normal street.

And then my eyes land on the car.