Recalled (Death Escorts #1)(31)
Author: Cambria Hebert

He smirked and took his coat off the rest of the way and hung it on the nearby coat rack. Then he walked away, farther into my house.

“Did you not hear what I just said?” I told him as he went into the kitchen.

“Yes, I’m not welcome here. But you don’t make the rules,” he said as he lifted the lid to the pot on the stove. Then he glanced at me. “Honey, you cooked,” he said in falsetto.

“Get out.”

“Here’s the thing. You might live here, but this isn’t your house. Yet,” he said as he looked through all the cabinets. So he was an Escort, like me. Storm had been right about us being able to identify each other.

“What are you talking about?” I said, pretending not to hear the meaning behind his words.

He sighed dramatically and looked at me. “We have the same employer and since you seem to be having trouble completing the job you were assigned, G.R. sent me here to make sure you did it.”

“He gave me two months,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

“One of which is already gone.” He’d resumed his cabinet searching and made a face when he found what he wanted, reaching in to pull out a large white bowl.

“So?” I prompted.

He took the lid off the pot on the stove, grabbed the nearby ladle, and began scooping homemade chili into his bowl.

Where was Hobbs? Why had he suddenly disappeared? Clearly I was going to need help getting this guy out of here. Of course, I was also glad he wasn’t here to listen to the truth behind my income.

“So, a job like this should’ve taken a week, tops,” he said, smug. “My first job took me two days.” He spooned a huge amount of sour cream onto the chili and then added an equal amount of shredded cheese.

Part of me was curious. I wondered about the other Escorts and what it was like to essentially kill people for a living. I also had some questions that I hadn’t thought to ask when I was given my job. I’d been a little preoccupied with the new body and the shiny car. Maybe I could get some answers before I kicked him out.

I went farther into the kitchen and made myself a similar looking bowl of chili and sat at the opposite end of the island.

“So you’re an Escort and you were sent here by G.R. to make sure I did what I was told.” It wasn’t really a question, just me summing up the reason he was here.

In response, he shoved a huge bite of food into his mouth. He certainly didn’t have a problem making himself at home.

“How long have you been an Escort?”

He paused and glanced at me. “A very long time.”

“How many bodies have you had?”

He took another bite and seemed to think it over as he chewed. “A few,” he replied after a while.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, but there was something I really wanted to know. “How many people have you murdered?”

He lowered the spoon toward his bowl. “I’ve lost count.”

I digested that along with my chili. It was good chili, but I wasn’t sure how it would settle with death. Even though I’d tried to “Escort” Piper to her death several times now (and not very successfully), I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I was basically an assassin for hire. I had a pretty crappy life, but even to me, that stuff only happened in movies.

I mean, why would a man make a business out of killing people? What did he gain? How did he never get caught? Was this some sort of modern day mob? A crime ring? I’d lived on the streets long enough to know that this wasn’t a gang. It was too upscale to be a gang.

I put my spoon down and looked at my visitor. It was hard to really focus on him because all I saw was red.

“Did you die too?”

He stopped eating and put his spoon in the bowl. “All of the Escorts died at some point.”

“But why?”

He gave me an are you serious look and rolled his eyes. “How am I supposed to know why we all died? If there’s one thing I’ve learned all these years it’s once you’re fated to die, you die. You can’t outrun death.”

But that bus wasn’t aiming for me. It had been aiming for Piper. Did that mean she was really the one meant for death? Or had it been me all along?

“But why didn’t we end up in heaven? How did G.R. find us?”

“People that die violent or sudden deaths don’t cross over right away. I guess it’s because their spirits are too shocked to realize they’re dead. Sometimes they’re good candidates to be a Death Escort and G.R. finds them and makes them a deal, like he did with you.”

I made a good candidate because I was easily seduced by money. Anyone who never had anything would be. Add that to the fact I became a killer as a child and you had a perfect match.

“What’s your name?” I asked, turning away from the heavy topic for a minute.

“Everyone calls me Charming,” he said with a smirk.

“Charming,” I said, deadpan. “Are you serious?”

“I come by it honestly.” He got up and filled his bowl with another serving of chili.

“People think you’re charming?” I scoffed. I thought he was an ass.

“I have a way with people.”

I made a rude sound. “Do people thank you while you’re killing them?”

“I give the friendless a friend, the depressed hope, and the rejected acceptance. When their time is up, they go happier than they were.”

I looked at him again, looking past the red, trying to see what he claimed others saw in him. All I saw was white, perfect teeth, wide shoulders and a sarcastic grin. He was wearing dark jeans and a heavy grey sweater with a zipper near the neck. It had a collar, which was flipped up around his jaws.

To me he looked like a soap opera actor.

I watched one of those shows today and I thought it was ridiculously cheesy. But the ladies must like them, so maybe they liked him too.

But really, dude? You let people call you Charming?

“So basically you get close to people, get them to trust you—like you—and then you Escort them.”

“Pretty much.” He flashed me a grin that said he liked his job.

To do what he did, I wondered if he liked himself.

That thought brought me up short—I’d never thought about that before. About liking myself. I guess I always knew where I stood in the world. At the bottom. And I did what I could to survive. I never really had the luxury of self-worth. But sitting here now, it seemed self-worth wasn’t a luxury; it was something everyone should have.