Killer Crush

  Contents

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also by Ella Goode

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  I left a job I was very good at to seek a better life. The new life is boring. I get up. I go to classes. I avoid people. That last one isn’t a new thing for me, though. I never much liked people before and now that I’m in college, I’m finding that it’s for good reason. People knock on my door, play their music loudly in public, and ask me invasive questions that I pretend I don’t hear. I shut it out because I need to stay on this new path.

  Then I saw her and found myself slipping back into bad habits that I thought I packed away with my black gloves, camouflage scope, and special weapons case. But what’s a reformed assassin going to do when he develops a killer crush?

  Chapter One

  Daman

  “Hey, seatmate, I’m Trinity, but all my friends call me Trin.” The girl next to me sticks out her hand. I stare at it for a half-second and then return to packing my bag.

  Next to me, the girl with the pink lipstick and extra-large forehead gives off an exasperated breath. “I was just being nice. You don’t have to be a prick about it. God.”

  I zip up the backpack and get to my feet. “Sorry, just plan to study.”

  “I am, too,” she insists, jumping to her feet.

  Unwillingly, my eyes return to her forehead. She’d be an easy mark. I wouldn’t even need to worry much about the wind cuz the target’s so big. I wrench my eyes away and force myself up the aisle. I’m not that person anymore. The time for looking at people and determining the best way to kill them is past. I’m Daman Patrick, a twenty-five-year-old non-traditional student trying to get his landscaping degree. I thought about getting into accounting but then remembered all the mob CPAs I offed in my eight years as a paid assassin. I think the number was around fourteen by my last count but those are old figures. I stopped tallying a couple of years ago because it was messing with my head.

  “I wouldn’t have said anything but you were staring at me the entire class. I get that I’m intimidating to people and you’re older, but if you want to buy me a latte or something I’m open.”

  Guilt slows my footsteps. I was staring at her, but who wouldn’t? The target landing was as wide as a runway. If I joined one of those killer group chats, her forehead would be the type I’d share. If I did those things, which I didn’t because what a dumbass way to get caught. One time, a couple years ago, Interpol infiltrated a group on Instagram. Instagram! How fucking dumb could you be? I had to go and kill all of them. He’d paid me a fuckton of money for it and inadvertently jump-started the idea of retirement. He says that’s his biggest regret and if he had to do it all over again, he would’ve hired someone else. I was the best for the job, though, and we both knew it. No one else could’ve carried out the five hits with as much efficiency as I did. To be fair, I caught two of them in bed with each other. It was literally killing two birds with one stone.

  “Are you listening? Can you hear me?”

  I look down to see the girl at my shoulder. What was her name again? Three? “I heard you, but I don’t drink coffee.”

  Her large forehead crinkles into about eight lines. “Your loss, asshole,” she snaps and storms by me.

  I scratch my chin. That interaction didn’t go great. Maybe I should’ve bought her a coffee. What did my book on making friends say? Oh, right. Act interested. I try to remember exactly how. The book had examples in it, but I don’t remember a section on how to deal with people you don’t care about. I’ll have to review it at lunch.

  I cross the wide, green campus lawn where students sit under the low canopy of the cherry trees. The leaves are falling off and it provides less cover. I always had this love/hate relationship with trees. They provided good cover but also interfered with my long-distance shots, particularly on days that were windy. Wait. Fuck. I’m doing it again. I give myself a mental slap. I’m not an assassin, I remind myself. Every scene I come across doesn’t need to be dissected for sight lines, obstructions, and the best vantage point for a kill shot.

  I reach under my fake lenses and rub an eye. This civilian life is harder than I thought it was going to be, but if I don’t make a harder effort, I won’t blend. And if I don’t blend, then someone like me will come along and put a bullet in the middle of my forehead.

  The cafeteria slash bakery slash coffee shop place in the Anderson Center is packed and loud—so loud, I wish I had my semi-automatic Glock with the thirteen bullet magazine to wipe a few of these shouters out. I’d be doing a favor for the whole of the student union.

  “Watch where you’re going, dude,” says a guy sitting at a table to my left. His hand is clutched around a book that I almost knocked off with my hip. There’s a small speaker on his table and music is blaring out of it. If I were that man before, the one who killed for a living, I’d pay myself to off this guy. A speaker in a public place? That should be a firing-line offense. I’ll deal with him later. After ten minutes, I finally get up to order. There are always too many options which I don’t like. Give me a binary choice—coffee or tea; ham sandwich or turkey sandwich. There doesn’t need to be twenty different kinds of coffees, cookies, desserts, and sandwiches.

  “What do you want?” The student impatiently taps her fingers against the register.

  “Coffee and ham sandwich.”

  “What do you want on your sandwich?”

  “Ham.”

  The student cocks her head to the side and rolls her eyes. “Duh. What else?”

  “Whatever comes on it.”

  “Fine.” She angrily punches in my order. “But you don’t get to come back here and complain about the sandwich having mustard when you don’t want it.”

  “I’ll eat the mustard.” I’ve eaten the ham sandwich every lunch since I started two weeks ago. I know what’s on it. I swipe my student card and go stand in another line to wait for my food. A long blond ponytail sways in front of me. I resist the urge to tug on it, but it’s hard. Maybe the owner senses my yearning because the ponytail whips around and I come face to face with her. I actually lose my balance for a moment and stumble backward.

  “Oh no, did I hit you?” she cries out, trying to reach for me. I jerk out of reach.

  “No,” I say, almost too harshly.

  “Quinn, that’s the asshole from my chem class.” Just past the blonde is large forehead girl.

  “Him?” The blonde’s eyebrows arch up. I feel my knees go weak.

  “Yeah, he stared at me the entire class and when I invited him for coffee like a decent person, he acted like I’d asked him to kill my dad.”

  “Oh, well, I take my sorry back,” the blonde says, her small chin jutting out.

  “You can’t,” I find myself saying.

  “I can’t what?”

  “Take the sorry back. It’s out there. I have it.”

  “I can take it back. I was the one who said it in the first place.”

  I shake my head. I know I’m not going to have this girl. Not this one. She’s way too good for me but the sorry? The fact she spoke to me? I’m keeping that. “Nope.”

  And then I turn and leave because I can
tell if I stayed another minute, I’d throw her over my shoulder and haul her to my apartment and lock her in the safe room that I don’t have but plan to build—immediately.

  Chapter Two

  Quinn

  “The handsome ones are always jerks,” Trin says as she steals a French fry from off my tray as they hand it over to me. I nod in agreement as I watch him go, taking my apology with him.

  He was handsome. With his dark blue eyes and short dark hair. Paired with the glasses he reminded me a little of Clark Kent. It’s a big campus but I’m surprised I haven’t seen him around. He towered over everyone as he made his exit.

  He is hard to miss and not just because of his good looks. I take notice of other girls checking him out as he passes by. No wonder Trin has been going on and on about the guy from her chem class.

  “He forgot his food,” the boy who looks to be about my age says from behind the counter. His name tag reads Brandon.

  “Oh, it looks like he did buy me lunch.” Trin takes the tray with the sandwich on it. “Thanks, Brandon.” She winks at him, making him blush.

  “You don’t eat meat,” I remind her. I find myself looking back to see if maybe he remembered he forgot his food and was going to come back for it but I don’t see him anymore. Something inside of me tells me that I was hoping he would come back for more than the forgotten sandwich. I push that thought away because I’m unsure of what to do with it.

  “About that.” Here we go. In the short time I’ve gotten to know Trin, there’s one thing I know for sure. She changes her mind more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life. She goes through phases faster than they can come in and out of style. I’m shocked she isn’t done with me yet. I think it’s because she actually likes me and not because she’s stuck with me as her roommate. “I’m going to give up vegetables now.”

  I wonder if she knows that potatoes are vegetables. As her friend, I believe that this is something I should tell her. Or maybe I should let it go so that she stops eating my fries all the time. I weigh my options and decide to keep the information to myself. Even if she really is giving up vegetables, she’ll be back on them tomorrow. She’s an in the moment type of girl. As soon as she sees me eating those mouthwatering, salty French fries, she’ll be stealing them in no time.

  “Is this some new diet?” I ask as she finds us an empty table and sits down.

  “I’m just fucking with you. I’m not giving up vegetables.” She steals another fry off my plate. “I forgot about bacon so I’m back on the meat.”

  “Who forgets about bacon?” I pick up my cheeseburger, taking a giant bite. I haven't eaten all day. I stayed up way too late last night studying for the Algebra II test I had today. I slept through my alarm, causing me to run late. I had to skip breakfast in order to be on time for class.

  Math is so not my thing. I can’t wait to get my last math credit taken care of. It sucks studying so hard for crap I’m pretty sure I’ll never need. I am a language major. The only math I need to know is how to say my numbers.

  “I know, right?” She picks up her stolen sandwich. “I think I dodged a bullet. Who gets mustard on their sandwich?” She drops it back down onto the plate. “He clearly has no taste.” She smirks. I think her ego may have taken a small hit at the gorgeous man's lack of interest in her. She had stomped up to me in the cafeteria and started rambling on about what had happened with some prick as she’d called him from one of her classes.

  I was a little surprised myself. Most of the guys here tend to fall all over Trin. She is super outgoing and pretty. She’s got legs for days and shiny hair that she never has to fuss with. She’s not shy in the least and if she wants something she goes for it.

  She has no problem telling you exactly how she feels about you, whether it’s good or bad. When it comes to boys, if she likes one, she lets them know. She doesn’t play games or dance around it. I wish I had a tenth of her confidence. I am still feeling a little worked up over the argument I just had over an apology. I keep running the dialogue we had between us through my mind over and over again.

  It is really something I’m going to have to work on. I am a freaking language major. I am going to have to learn to talk to others without being so shy. It’s part of why I’ve clung to Trin so much. I transferred here for my last two years. I am thousands of miles away from home and don’t know anyone.

  That was the point. To get away and out from under my father. I wanted to start a new path for myself. Spread my wings. Turns out that I’m not so good at it. Trin is still my only friend so far. I didn’t exactly score any brownie points with the handsome guy from earlier either. He probably thinks I’m strange.

  It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought that or the last. He didn’t seem to like that I tried to take my apology back either. I shouldn’t care what a stranger thinks anyway, but for some reason I care a tiny bit about what he thought of me. It doesn’t make any sense but I don’t want him to dislike me.

  “You think he’ll be mad you stole his sandwich?”

  “Who?” She looks up from her phone she’s now playing on, shoving more of my fries into her mouth. I glance at the time, seeing I need to get to my next class.

  “How many people’s sandwiches did you steal today?” I shove more of my burger into my mouth. The food here sucks but it beats going off campus. I don’t have a car and the idea of a bus or one of those Lyft things gives me anxiety.

  “Oh. Him. I hope so. Serves him right. I can’t wait to thank him for my lunch the next time I see him.” She smirks. I finish chewing the rest of my burger. “I think he’s playing hard to get or something. He’ll be blowing up my phone next week.” She rolls her eyes.

  She isn’t wrong. Men are always blowing up her phone. Yet I never notice her going out with any of them. She flirts and moves on to the next. I think she likes the chase or something. She gets as bored with them as she does with everything else. Still, the idea of him blowing up her phone has me abandoning the rest of my cheeseburger.

  “I gotta get to class.”

  “I’ll finish this.” She pushes the sandwich tray out of her way, pulling mine over to her. “Don’t forget you promised me you’d go to the Delta Kai party with me tonight.”

  “I have no idea what a Delta Kai is and I speak three languages.”

  Trin bursts into laughter. “Frat party.”

  I groan, grabbing my bag.

  “Lots of cute boys.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  Good. Maybe she’ll find a new target and give up on Clark Kent. Damn it. I think I’m the one who needs to stop thinking about him. He is a jerk. I don’t date or like jerks I remind myself. I don’t date anyone.

  “You promised.”

  “I’ll go.” I give her a wave goodbye as I dart out of the building through all the people, heading for my next class. I should go to that party. It’ll be a chance for me to get out there. To do new things and have some fun for once. It isn’t going to kill me.

  Chapter Three

  Daman

  “When are you going to be done playing around at that college thing and get your ass back to work for me?” barks Mr. Van. It’s not his real name. I label all my hires alphabetically. He wasn’t my first, but I’ve done repeat business with him. He pays well and most of the hits are ones that I would’ve done for free—gun runners and mercenaries with the occasional accountant who tried to run off with his money.

  I bite off a piece of electrical tape and wrap the strip around the bare wire. The mic and camera need a source of power so I almost always place my listening devices inside the lamp fixture.

  “The course catalog says it’s going to take at least three years.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” my old client screeches into my earpiece.

  I wince but I can’t take the headpiece off because I’ve got my perimeter warning alert hooked to it. If someone should walk down the hall toward this apartment, I’ll get notified in time to get out of here.

  “
No. I’m not.” I climb down off the chair and dust my footprints off. “I told you I’m done with that kind of work.”

  “Ha ha. Right. Sell me another bridge in Brooklyn. I’ve got seven cool ones ready to drop into your account. All you need to do is take care of one pesky little problem.”

  “Hit up the want ads. I’ve retired.”

  “You’re fucking twenty-five. You couldn’t have retired. If you were fifty-five, you couldn’t retire. It’s part of your makeup. When you walk down the street, you probably calculate how many of them you can pop off before someone even realizes a shot’s been fired.”

  I open my mouth to deny it but the toolbag at my feet stares at me in silent accusation. I kick the dumb thing shut. “Gotta go. My professor is calling on me.”

  “Are you in motherfucking class—”

  He might have said more but I hang up on him so I don’t have to hear it.

  “I’m not killing anyone,” I say to my bag. “I’m just doing...some background work.”

  The thing you need the most as an assassin isn’t good aim or an encyclopedic knowledge of poisons. No. It’s the ability to research. You have to get your mark in the right spot and then anyone with a scope and a long gun can take him out. In order to do that, you have to know your target like you know a lover.

  Before I kill anyone, I’ve stalked them for days. I know when they get up, who they’re sleeping with, where they drop off their dry cleaning. And most make it easy for me because people are creatures of habit. They go to work at the same time, eat at the same places, and then return home. Some go running before they work. Some walk their dog after dinner. But, generally, they all do it at the same time. Even the rich. Or maybe I should say, especially the rich. They’re actually the easiest marks because there are so many people involved in a rich person’s life. They’ve got housekeepers and drivers and stylists and assistants. Someone does their bookwork, another does their shopping. A good quarter of the hits I’ve completed were done under the guise of being a delivery or repairman.