Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (9)
And we all know what they say about wishes.
Leander offers me a fresh dart on his upturned palm. I stare at it. Swallow my distaste. Catch an irritated sigh in my chest. Try to keep my apathetic mask from slipping. But Leander Mayes has known me since I was seventeen, when he appeared like an angel in my darkest hour.
Little did I know that angel would turn out to be the devil in disguise.
“Come on now, Lachlan. You know how much I love darts.”
“Right …” I say, taking my time to raise my glass to my lips and down a long sip of water. Goddammit. I wish it was something stronger, but I learned the hard way to not indulge in Leander’s extensive supply of thirty-year-aged whiskey on a Friday night when he’s in the mood for a “happy hour.” Last time that happened, I came to three days later, stuffing my face with watermelon as I sat on a curb in Carlsbad, New Mexico, with literally no recollection of how I got there. New Mexico. Motherfucker.
Leander grins like he’s crawled into my feckin’ brain as I pick up the dart and toss it in Robbie’s general direction without taking my eyes from my boss. Judging by the clatter of metal against concrete, I’ve missed and hit the wall.
Leander sighs and drags a hand through his silver hair. His eyes twinkle with amusement even though he tries to look disappointed.
“You know,” he says as he lays another dart on his open palm, “I’ve always kept my promise to you. I’ve never given you an innocent person to kill. And you know as well as I do that Robbie is no saint.”
He’s right. I do know. I’ve heard Robbie Usher’s name pop up over the years. My brother Rowan even brought him up once as someone he wanted to kill before the reckless little shit started his annual murder competition with Sloane and lost interest in drug dealer assholes like Robbie.
“Yeah, I just prefer to get these things done and over with. Cleanly. Not like … this,” I say, waving a hand in Robbie’s direction. When I glance his way, he tries to beg for freedom. Tears and snot collect blood in their rivulets as they streak down his pale skin. “My job is a contract killer. Not a cleaner. Not a torturer.”
“Your job is whatever I need it to be.”
When I meet Leander’s gaze once more, the amusement in his mossy eyes has burned away. Only a warning remains.
“As I recall, the last time you forgot your job and your manners, it ran you into a little bit of trouble. I definitely don’t recall instructing you to piss off one of our most valuable customers, did I?”
Though I often think I should be impervious to emotions like shame or embarrassment, sometimes they sneak up on me and burn in my cheeks. Just like now, when I remember the aftermath of the cleanup job he sent me to do last year on Halloween night. That particular contract shriveled up after that night, along with my hopes of getting out from under Leander’s thumb.
And the part that annoys me the most? I’m not even sure why I acted like such a prick to that woman whose mess I was sent to fix.
Maybe I was already annoyed that I had to leave Fionn behind at that goddamn party when he was a blubbering mess to do cleanup when that isn’t my job. Maybe it was the way she acted like the death and chaos she’d just caused were no big deal. Maybe it was even the fact that she was clearly injured when I’d been told she was fine. She was definitely not fine. And that inexplicably made me almost as irate as being called out to scuba dive in dark and frigid waters on Halloween night. I’m not really sure what it was that tipped me over the edge. I just know that Blunder Barbie slipped right under my skin. And I fucking let her. Worse still, she slipped away and I don’t even know how.
I shake my head.
We stare at each other for a long moment before Leander’s expression softens. He lays a hand on my shoulder, the other still holding the dart aloft like a precious offering.
“Robbie’s the one behind that latest batch of rainbow fentanyl that the cops discovered in a raid last week. Rainbow fucking fentanyl. He made his drugs look like candy,” Leander whispers, a dark melody that rings in my ears. Leander’s brows raise as Robbie squeals his protests from across the room. “He’s purposely targeting kids, Lachlan. And this time, he just happened to reach kids whose parents can hire the kind of people who will actually deliver justice where it’s needed the most. People like you.”
I turn my attention to Robbie as he struggles against the cable ties that trap his wrists and ankles to a metal chair. His wide eyes are not innocent. His muffled protests are selfish pleas, not words of remorse. Though I didn’t bother looking up the details on Robbie’s latest escapades before we grabbed him, I know Leander isn’t lying. He never does.
My eyes don’t stray from Robbie as I pluck the dart from Leander’s palm. There’s no need to turn and look at my boss to gauge his reaction. I can feel it. His smile is a breath against my skin before he steps back.
I take my shot. Robbie cries out as the dart hits his forehead and ricochets off bone to land in his lap.
“Oof, good try. Almost a bull’s-eye. But I’m winning,” Leander declares as he lines up to take his next shot. He’s about to let the dart fly when a security alert dings through the speakers. We turn in unison to the screen hanging behind the bar. A rugby game is on mute and the security feed in the upper right-hand corner shows the front gate of Leander’s estate. There’s an old Honda Civic waiting to be let in.