Last Breath (Hitman #2)(42)
Author: Jessica Clare

“Yeah,” she answers glumly.

I wonder if she’s the most torn up about Mike or Becca or her parents? Girl has a lot on her plate. Guess she has the right to be upset about any and all things. I make what I hope is a sympathetic face and continue eating. It’s either that or get on a plane and shoot Mike in the nuts.

“I’m in college, you know. I’m working on getting my CPP.”

Taking the last bite of my chorizo, I look disapprovingly at Regan’s nearly uneaten plate. I wonder if she doesn’t like the food or the company. Too bad. She needs the fuel. “Start eating. We have places to go.”

She frowns but mechanically starts eating again.

I lean back into my chair and stretch my legs out. Man, I’m tired. Regan and I need to get to Luiz, and then we need some serious sleep. Or I’m going to make a mistake—like touch her the next time she licks my neck. My fingers curl into my coffee cup as I think about that and her wet body and her pussy-slicked fingers pressed against my lips. That non-sex was just about the best sexual encounter I’d had in far too long.

“What about you?” She gestures toward me. “Did you always want to be a gun-toting maniac?”

“Nah. Thought I would go home after I got out of the army and help my dad out on the ranch.”

“So why aren’t you?”

“Because I was a hothead. I got into a fight my senior year with some guy, and I broke a few ribs. Jackass was making fun of my sister. Judge told me I could have a blot on my record or I could go enlist for four years. I choose enlistment. My dad was pretty pissed off, and we exchanged some angry words about me not being good enough to run the ranch and him being too much of a control freak. I ended up staying in the army and then . . .” I trail off. “Then something happened, and I haven’t been able to go home. But once I right that problem I’m heading for the ranch, and I’m not leaving.” I change the subject because I’m done talking about me. “What’s a CPP?”

“Certified Payroll Processor. It’s a pretty intensive certification program that you take so you can work in accounting and human resources. Once I’m certified, I have a standing job offer from a company that provides payroll services to Fortune 500 companies."

“And you are going to do what?”

She shrugs. “Nothing anymore. I’m not going to be able to take the test in time, which means all my prep classes are wasted, which means I won’t be able to start my job, which means . . . I don’t even know anymore.”

“This is a fucked up world, darlin’. That you’re still breathing oughta be counted as a win.”

“It’s . . . how do I go back to that?”

“To what? Your dick-for-brains boyfriend? Your job that you talk about with all the enthusiasm of a goat herder?” I’m getting angry, and I can’t even pinpoint the real cause. Is it because I am pissed off that she still cared enough about her boyfriend to contact him? That she actually called him a boyfriend? That she didn’t care enough about herself to be with a guy who could give her a real life orgasm? That she is thinking about going back to Minneapolis, the coldest tit a witch ever froze, to take up a job that would turn her into a zombie in under three years? Or that she is so achingly goddamned beautiful, and that I want her so much my balls might fall off?

Even though my external word vomit doesn’t match my internal bloviating, Regan still looks taken aback, but she rallies quickly.

“You know, I’ve gone through a lot and am still standing, so you can dial back on the Robin Williams Die Hard inspirational speeches. You suck at them.”

“It’s Bruce Willis, and I know.” I grin at her because I’ve never been one to stay angry long and her confusion between Bruce Willis and Robin Williams is funny as shit. “Let’s go, fighter.”

“Fighter. I like that. You can keep calling me that one.”

“How about baby fighter? Or fighter doll?” I tease. I pay the bill and gesture for Regan to step out in front of me.

“You staring at my ass? Is that why you always want me to go first?” She sasses back, whatever hurt my incautious words may have caused apparently gone.

“You do have a fine ass, fighter baby,” I whistle. “It’s plump and bitable like a juicy piece of Brazilian fruit.”

“Yet you haven’t even attempted a taste. Maybe you don’t like Brazilian fruit?” she sashays out in front of me, her ass swinging back and forth, looking like a true Rio native. All the ladies in Rio seem to have a special hitch in their step that makes people-watching down here almost mandatory. But right now my eyes are glued on this one Minnesotan’s prime real estate, and my head’s reeling from her very obvious come-on. I don’t really know what to make of it.

“I love fruit,” I say. “I never like to eat where I’m not invited.”

“What kind of invitation is it that you need then? An engraved one with gold lettering?”

I want to pull her aside, maybe push her up against one of the concrete walls of the buildings lining the Rua Visconde de Pirajá and test out that invitation. She laughs and then snaps her fingers. “Better close your mouth, baby boy, or flies will land there.”

Snapping my jaw shut, I hurry to catch up with her. Who said we needed sleep when we got done with Luiz? I’m thinking there are a dozen other things we could be doing in a soft, warm bed between some cool, clean sheets.

Whistling, I wink at Regan, and she gives me a big smile in return. Life is easy when you don’t think about anything but the moment. We’ve got to get Regan papers, and then we’re checking into a decent hotel room.

“This is a pretty nice place,” she says as we walk down an avenue full of luxury brand stores. “I mean, I think these are nicer stores than we have in Minneapolis.”

“Ipanema is the second-wealthiest neighborhood in Rio.”

“And we’re going to see a forger here?” she asks.

“Maybe it pays well?” I stop at the address that Pereya gave me. It’s an art store—a high-end art store.

“This?” Skepticism drips from the word.

Opening the door, we step inside, the air conditioning almost too cool for our skin. Regan shivers noticeably, and I wrap an arm around her instinctively. She leans into my embrace. For the warmth, I remind myself, but I find myself pretty damned pleased.

“Tudo bem?” A lithe, model-tall woman walks toward us, her dark hair caught up in a heavy braid that lies like a thick snake on her shoulder.