The End of Me

I shot him a glare.

He put his hands up, "What? It's the truth."

"You're an asshole. I don’t look thirty-six, and even if I did, that’s not old." My palms started to sweat. I shuddered and looked around, anywhere but at him. I was ready to strangle him, but I was doing forty over the speed limit. I needed to focus.

He laughed, "I'm not an asshole."

I snorted.

"Okay, I am an asshole, but I am really trying to make you better at this. You've been hibernating for a long time. I seriously have a bad feeling about this whole thing." His voice changed when he spoke again, "You’re sexy for thirty-six and I don’t think that’s old. I was messing with you. Trying to get you feisty. Trying to get your blood boiling. I’m not sure you’re going to be able to do this, Evie."

I scowled, "Well head-gaming teenager, I don’t get feisty with the old hot and cold, for one. I get shut down and less confident. Not to mention, I am a pretend widow, this is new to me. I've been with the same person for a long time. I'm not playing this game with you. I'm here to save my kids and the last time I checked, you need me. I am fine running with my kids."

I felt something and looked down. His hand was hovering above my thigh. “Liar.” He chuckled.

I shook my head, "Coop, I'm not kidding around. I’m not interested in playing games with you."

He laughed and trailed his fingers up my leg, lifting my skirt, "What if the old fat guy touches your thigh like this."

Tingles covered my leg. I nervously laughed and pressed the pedal to the floor. The car shot ahead.

He chuckled but didn’t take away his hand. Instead, he grabbed a handful of my inner thigh. I jerked.

"Wrong response, Evie."

I bit my lip and forced myself to relax again.

My chest was rising and falling rapidly.

His fingers were scorching against my thigh. The way he grabbed was rough and not expected, after how lightly he traced his fingers.

"How do you kill him?"

I was lost. My brain wouldn’t turn on. All the blood in my body was sitting in my tingling and pulsating underwear.

"Evie, how do you kill him?" he asked again and let one of his fingers brush against my panties. I almost took the car off the road. I swerved and shouted simultaneously, "I DON'T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! STOP! JUST STOP!"

He ran his finger across my panties once more and then pulled his hand away. "You just blew the whole mission."

I almost told him it wasn’t the only thing I almost blew. Fuck.

I was panting and feeling like an idiot, when I pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked. I turned and face him. He sat up and scowled, "We need to get there." I could hear the mocking tone.

I was trying to get my breathing and heartbeat under control. I wanted to kill him. He was toying with me.

I felt burning tears creeping into my eyes; there was a ton of rejection inside of me that had been brewing. I hadn’t let it out yet. I hadn’t let myself feel the fury and the shame of my husband never actually wanting me. The playful head games of the boy in front of me were what was going to break me. Not the ten-year marriage. Not the friendship I thought I had with Mel. No, it would be a boy rubbing my underwear.

I refused for it to be the straw that broke the camel's back. I took a deep breath and pulled the car back on the road.

"I will kill him, how the fuck I am told to. I will do whatever the fuck Servario asks me to do. You will keep your hands to yourself. I am not a teenage sorority girl. I am not playing your games." I looked at him severely, like his mother would and shouted, "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, COOP?"

He licked his lips and nodded, "You’re hot when you're pissed. This is a good look for you. Try to maintain this the whole time, okay?"

My nostrils flared as I looked back at the road. I was going to have to kill him when I finished with the fat man. That was a given.

I parked in the parking lot and grabbed my small purse. I had brought nothing else.

I was about to close the door when he smiled at me and spoke, "The code for evac is floor 17, room 723. Dial 9-1-1 and tell that to Jack and I will meet you out front of the hotel, and we run for it. See you in Vegas."

I snarled and slammed the door.

The parking lot was dark. I couldn't help but wonder, how alone I really was. I entered the airport and immediately started to look around. Would they come for me? Would they give me plane tickets? They had frozen my accounts so buying tickets would be hard, unless I used the Visa from the envelope. I had that in my clutch but if I used it, how would it look? I grumbled and looked around. My paychecks from the government hadn’t exactly kicked in yet. I knew, well enough, how missions worked. I never paid for anything with my own money or my own credit. We only ever used untraceable currency, cash. Of course the problem with not being a real agent anymore, was that I didn’t have any cash.

A woman in a beige dress suit walked up to me. She had sandy-colored hair and bright-red lips. She looked about my age, if not older. She was tall and thin with very high heels. I wondered if her back hurt in them.

"Evie, it's so wonderful to see you." she beamed.

I frowned and then smiled back, "Of course it is. How are you?"

She embraced me and slipped something in my pocket.

"Say hello to James and the kids for me," she muttered and walked off. Her words stung but she smelled nice, like expensive French perfume. I tried to focus on that more than anything.

"I will," I called after her. I slipped over to the woman's washroom, not checking my pocket until I was in a stall, with the door closed.

The thing in my pocket was a ticket and ID and a piece of paper with a gate number. I crumpled the paper and flushed it.

I walked to the sink and gave myself a once over. I didn't look convincing as a hooker. I was definitely more mom than prostitute.

Leaving the bathroom, I noticed Coop. He was across the way, watching me from a payphone stall for a hotel.

I scanned by him and walked on. I passed through the security and walked through the domestic gates, until I got to the door I was meant to go through.

"Let me get that for you," a man's voice spoke suddenly.

I turned to see Servario's guard from the hallway in the hotel.

"Thank you," I muttered and walked down the hall with him.

"You seemed a bit lost," he said, still keeping his voice low.

"I was."

"The plane is just ahead." He pointed and walked a bit faster than I did. He was meaty, they always were. It was such a cliché. Dark hair, olive skin, beefy bodies. They never just got a skinny, pasty guy named Steve to do their dirty work. It was always the one guy I would pick out of a crowd as a possible mercenary.

"What's your name?" I asked, mostly because I wanted to see if he really was a mercenary.

He glanced back at me, flashing me dark eyes and thick lashes. He even had a scar on his left cheek, "Steve."

I laughed.

He frowned, "What?"

I shook my head, "Nothing. Where you from, Steve?"

He grumbled, "Wisconsin. Where you from, Evie?"

I laughed and pulled the ticket and ID out, "Today I am from Seattle. Are you ex-military?" I asked, certain that had to be it. He reached over and grabbed the fake ticket and ID from my hand.

He shook his head, "No. I worked as an English teacher in Taiwan before I got this job."

My jaw dropped, "You did not. You're from somewhere like Belarus and you are named Serge, and you worked as a mercenary. Stop the lying."

He laughed, "I don’t know what that means. I met Servario in Macau. I lost a ton of money to him at the poker table. He offered me a job, instead of killing me. I was on the wrestling team and shit, so I took the job. Better money than teaching little brats English."

I pointed, “What about the scar on your cheek? Bullet graze from saving Servario’s life in Monaco?”

He gave me a horrified look, “No, dog attack when I was eight. Thanks for bringing it up.”

It was unbelievable. Steve, the teacher from Wisconsin who was scarred from a childhood horror? Wow.

I sighed, "Does your mom know what you do?"

He looked at me funny, "What do I do? I travel and keep Servario safe. He had me trained with VIP Special Forces in France. I haven’t actually had to do anything."

He was chatty for a gorilla. I kind of liked him.

"Do you knit too?" I mocked.

He gave me a sideways glance, "Just ‘cause I haven’t had to do shit, doesn’t mean I won't. Are you going to be trouble, Evie?"

I smiled, "Oh yeah, Steve. Tons."

He grinned, "You do sort of look like my eighth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sanderson. All sweet and kind. You probably have fresh-baked cookies at home."

I scowled, "I do but, please don't call me old, Steve. I'm having a rough week with that one. I’ve counted at least twenty ma’am’s in one week."

He sighed, "I'd say you're just having a rough couple months. But don’t worry ‘cause Mrs. Sanderson was hot and she was young."

“God bless you.” I laughed as he opened the door at the end of the long corridor and held it for me. I walked past him and looked at the jet in front of us. "Wow." It was beautiful. Long and white and sleek.

A lady in a uniform stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at me like a normal attendant. I knew she probably wasn’t normal.

I walked to her smiling.

"Welcome aboard." She was pretty—fake, but pretty.

"Thanks," I said and climbed up the stairs. The jet made it real. Steve climbed aboard after me and pointed to the back, "Go get comfy.”

I looked around, wanting to whistle. The jet had its own pods in a row in the back and a few rows of seats. It was the opposite of a normal plane. I walked to a pod and sat. I fastened my seatbelt and folded the bed back. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">