Page 2 of Trigger Happy

A wet laugh bursts from his lips, foghorning out toward the blazing sun. “You’re a funny one.”

“I’m really not.” The only person who laughs at my jokes is my pet Betta fish.

Bryce trails his fingers higher up my thigh. I clench my fist so I don’t break them. I need tonight to look like an accident.

“I knew you’d be impressed,” he murmurs. “Everyone loves The Tub.”

He presses his moist lips to my neck, and I fight a cringe. Disgusting. This is another thing I hate about my job. I could strangle him, but I don’t want to leave any signs of a struggle, so if that means suffering through a beer-scented make-out session until the cyanide hits his system, then fine.

I’m a professional.

He starts clawing at my fit-and-flare midi dress, yanking it up with zero care. On second thought, a little strangling sounds like a great plan. I got this dress at Paris Fashion Week.

I grab his wrists. “How about we slow down a little?”

He ignores me, dragging his wet lips up my neck. “Why? C’mon, we’re having fun.”

Fun?

I’m not getting paid extra to be felt up against my will, so I shove him hard enough that he stumbles off the lounger. “My idea of ‘fun’ involves a cup of matcha and lavender Epsom salts, not getting harassed on a date.”

A switch flips, and I see it then, the criminal lurking in his blue eyes.

Bryce grabs my wrist hard enough to cut off circulation to my fingers and growls, “I don’t consider getting played by some bitch ‘fun’ either.”

That’s it. Someone’s getting his hand broken.

A gun cocks.

“Those are gonna be your last words,” a gritty, syrupy drawl slinks through the coastal air.

That voice.

It settles into every crevice of my body, and I go rigid.

A second later, a gunshot slices through the air, muffled only by a silencer. Every muscle in me tightens, bracing for the pain, but Bryce hits the pool with a splash, right next to Popeye, the flamingo floatie.

I stare down at the blood rippling through the water. Maybe I should feel something, but all I’m thinking about is how annoying it’s going to be to drain the pool. After you’ve had to separate bones from liquified intestines, things like this tend not to faze you.

Some people hate doing taxes, I hate bone removal.

With a hefty sigh I finally look up and get reeled in by brown eyes darker than the cinnamon I sprinkle on my morning Americano. My pulse quickens.

There he is, outlined by the setting sun as he glares at me beneath that black cowboy hat. He never takes that fashion faux pas off. His cognac leather jacket is sculpted to his broad chest, biceps straining against the sleeves, and as much as I hate to admit it, I need his tailor’s number, because those Wranglers were carved for his ass.

A scar slices through one dark eyebrow—courtesy of moi. I threw a decanter at his head after he stole one of my targets in Dubai. Dark waves tumble across his forehead, and he has enough scruff to make a woman wonder how it would feel to have his head buried between her legs. I’ve seen him pick a lock with his tongue, so probably incredible.

Not that I would ever let him between my thighs. There’s too much bad blood between our families.

My dad used to say my smile has teeth, and that’s exactly the one I give him. “Lawton Montoya.”

“Sabrina Chastain,” he drawls, pulling out that ridiculous pack of toothpicks from his pocket and stuffing one in his mouth. His eyes drag over my dress languidly, then again. “We have to stop meeting like this, darlin’.”

2Sabrina

If you’re here to steal my mark again, Montoya, you’re going to end up floating next to Popeye,” I threaten, pointing to the glittering pool streaked with red.

Lawton and I are both freelancers on the dark web app, Onyx, so sometimes we get requested for the same job—and only one of us can get paid. Onyx is basically like Amazon, but instead of paper towels, you get an assassin, sniper, or con artist delivered to your door, and bonus, we don’t come in cardboard packaging, so there’s no breaking down boxes afterward.