Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Page 2

  Meanwhile, Carraby gets paid doing jack squat.

  But the financial data I’d run on Isabella Turner had seemed dry and unimportant, just a list of bills she paid off each month like clockwork. This moment with Carraby feels decidedly more threatening than a monthly invoice.

  “What do you want, Russ?” Isabella asks, her shoulders slumping as Russell gets closer. “I already paid you for the month.”

  “No, you paid me catch-up money,” Russell says, his ferret-like eyes clearly undressing Isabella even as he smacks the large wad of gum in his mouth. “Not all of it either. Late fees can be such a bitch.” He shakes his head like he’s sad, but even from across the street, I can see the joy he’s taking in this moment. “Long story short, you’re still behind.”

  Isabella isn’t ready to back down, though. “You need to check your books. I paid you extra last time.”

  “Nope . . . you still owe,” Russell says, smirking. “I got it all in my computer back at my place. If you’d like to come see?”

  “There’s no way in hell I’ll ever go inside your house, Russell,” Isabella growls, her anger flaring. “And trust me, I keep my own records too. Of every single red cent I give you. So you can stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to whore myself out over a damned land lease I’ve already paid.”

  “Just being neighborly. If you can’t pay in cash, I’d be open to letting you pay another way,” Russell threatens with a shrug and a smile, like he’d be doing her a favor. “Hell, it might even be fun. And I know you haven’t had a man in a long time.”

  Even as that intel does dangerous things to my cock, my hand tightens on my pistol. I’m about ready to shoot Russell on principle when Isabella pokes a hard finger into the front of his dirty shirt, denting the doughy skin of his chest. She takes several steps forward, and like the coward he is, Carraby backs up under the weight of her fury.

  “The next time you mention something like that is the time I call the cops on your ass,” Isabella yells.

  The threat, combined with her pushing against him, causes Russell to take another half-step back.

  “I’m gonna give you one week, and if I don’t have my fuckin’ money by then, I’m going to take you to court,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me, Izzy. I know the sheriff. You might just have more problems than looking for another place to live.”

  But he’s adding to the space between them, already walking away without giving her his back. Coward. Smart man, considering the balls on this girl, but still a gutless way to try to intimidate her.

  “I bet you do know the sheriff . . .”

  She pauses dramatically. “Since he’s arrested you twice before,” Isabella calls after him. “As for court, you bring your records and I’ll bring mine.”

  She’s taking aim at his every threat, but I can see it in the way her shoulders slump a half-inch that the fire’s dimming. Still, she fakes it pretty well until Russell’s disappeared around the corner, and she goes inside her fence.

  This is the time I should be moving, taking advantage of her shaken state, but I can’t do anything but watch as she fumbles, trying to get the keys to her house into the lock before giving up.

  She drops her bag to the concrete stoop and collapses into the small, cheap plastic chair, discount lawn furniture at its finest, next to the door, burying her face in her hands.

  She doesn’t sob or cry loudly. Instead, she just sits there, her shoulders shaking quietly, her body looking like she’s exhausted. She’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders and she’s tired out from doing it. I can almost see the scrabbling grip she has on the end of her rope, but still, she fights to hang on.

  I watch, my soul touched. I want to go to her, to take her into my arms and tell her that the world isn’t so hard and cruel, even if it’s a lie. I want to . . .

  Do your fucking job!

  I clear my throat, blinking slowly as I pick up my ski mask, slipping the breathable Lycra over my head and then down my face, leaving just my eyes peeking out.

  I pull up my hoodie, but I’m frozen, unable to move as she finishes her moment of weakness.

  Then, in a show of resilience that makes my mouth dry, she stands up, wipes her face, and glances at her watch before opening up her front door enough to drop her book bag off and leaves immediately.

  You need to finish this.

  No.

  I rip the mask off, stuffing it in the console. I need to find out more. I can’t risk violating my most cardinal rule, that I don’t kill the innocent. This is something that I could never come back from if I’m wrong.

  Ever since I was given the contract to end Isabella Turner’s life, I’ve broken myself trying to find something she’s done wrong. She’s not perfect, but she’s done nothing deserving of death.

  And Blackwell’s reason for hiring me doesn’t carry enough water with me. I know everyone is a pawn in someone else’s game, but I refuse to the be the Grim Reaper for a soul that doesn’t deserve it in some way.

  My gut is telling me there’s something more here, a puzzle piece I don’t have yet. And I won’t make a move until I have the full picture.

  Isabella gets on her scooter, tucking her hair into her helmet again before taking off. I let her get a good block away before following. The streets in this neighborhood aren’t busy and I already know where she’s going.

  The Gravy Train is that rarity to find anymore, an honest to goodness old-fashioned diner. The long silver bullet-shaped building resembles an old train car, and the inside decoration is a color I swear only comes when you take white paint and expose it to ten years’ worth of fried onions, splattering greasy meat patties, burps, belches, and other bodily emissions.

  I park in the lot, watching through the huge windows as Isabella goes inside and talks with another worker, who nods and clears away a spot at the counter for her. She brings her what looks like a grilled cheese while Isabella consumes it in four large bites before heading to the back, and I make my move.

  So far, I’ve never gotten close enough to actually let her notice me, but something about her is calling to me, promising answers.

  I push my hoodie down, not wanting to look suspicious, and my hair springs free, sticking up every which way, but I don’t give a shit. I lock my pistol in the truck and head inside.

  Taking an open booth, I pull out my cellphone, pretending to be obsessed with the screen while I surreptitiously watch for Isabella.

  “Hey, honey, you orderin’?” a waitress asks, all sass and big hair and saucy attitude. She looks like she’s about to tell me I need to order or move along, but one look at my face tempers that.

  I’m used to women softening at my looks. I’m not arrogant, but I know that I’m easy on the eyes, and I’ve used it to my advantage more than once.

  “Just a coffee for now,” I order. “Decaf, if you have some ready.”

  “Honey, of course we’ve got decaf,” the waitress says, turning around.

  She gets me my cup before Isabella comes out, the two obviously swapping out as one goes off shift and the other comes on.

  I nurse the coffee for a good half hour, watching Isabella at work. She’s exhausted, almost sleepwalking through her shift, and while she keeps a smile on her face, it looks nearly painted on.

  Still, as she keeps working, I find myself drawn to her more and more. It’s not just physical attraction. I felt that the first moment I saw her picture in the office of the man who hired me to kill her. No, this is more than that.

  How could he? How could he hire me to kill a pretty woman who mostly seems to be desperately struggling despite working her fingers to the bone?

  She can’t have any bearing on a man like that’s life, they’re literally worlds apart. There must be something I’m missing. There must be something he’s not telling me. Surely, even he’s not this cruel, this reckless.

  “Hey, Izzy!” the cook in the back yells, banging on the little chrome bell next to the pickup window. “
Come on, you got plates waitin’!”

  “Yeah, sorry, Henry,” Isabella says, grabbing them.

  She hands them out to the three guys waiting at the old-fashioned sit-down counter before going over to the register, where another waitress, an older woman in her fifties who looks like she’s done this her whole life, is tallying up a bill. I’m close enough that I can hear them.

  “Hey, Elaine, I’m gonna grab another coffee. You mind?”

  “I don’t say nothin’ about drinking the mud,” Elaine says. “Don’t let Henry get on ya, honey. Just his ulcer acting up again.”

  “No . . . no, I’ve been shit so far,” Isabella says, yawning. “I can’t keep going on three hours of sleep a night. But I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You keep busting your ass, you’re gonna end up like me, fallen arches and all,” Elaine says encouragingly. “Seriously, what could have you scraping for every dime like you are?”

  “Russ came by my place again,” Isabella says quietly, recounting the confrontation at her house briefly. “I’ve got enough to pay the bastard but—”

  “But then you won’t have enough to live on. Don’t say anything else,” Elaine says. “Next week, you come in, you order what they allow us, and if it magically turns into a full chicken-fried steak and gravy dinner, well shit, I guess I just need to get my eyes looked at.”

  I see Elaine give a huge wink, like it’s a brilliant conspiracy, and Isabella smiles. “If you do your studying here, you can have my shift meal too. That’d get you two per day at least. Make one of them the Country Plate Special and you can take the toast and little peanut butter packets and get a sandwich later too.”

  It’s a kind gesture from the world-worn waitress, and with how quickly she throws that idea out there, I can tell she’s been through some rough times too. Isabella nods quietly, touched, but I can tell her pride is stinging that she needs to take such charity. “You know if it was just any old house, I’d say fuck it, move into an apartment or something, but—”

  “I know, honey,” Elaine says. “I know.”

  Isabella clears her throat and finishes off her coffee. As she comes around the counter, I clear my throat and she looks over.

  Our eyes meet . . . and inside me, I feel more conflicted than ever.

  Because in the first meeting of our eyes, I feel what I’ve thought doesn’t exist.

  The Spark.

  Chapter 2

  Isabella

  “Happy little clouds,” I murmur to myself as I swirl my finger along the top of my touchpad, wishing for the millionth time that I could do this again with real paints and canvases.

  But real art equipment costs money, and money is something I don’t have. So instead, I use GIMP, which is free, and pray my laptop doesn’t die again before I finish college.

  Right now, I’m working on my own version of the Mona Lisa . . . if Gal Gadot were posing for the famous painting. Well, that and my color choices are a little surreal, but I sort of like the idea of putting light green clouds in a lilac sky behind the eternally smirking diva.

  It’s a lot more colorful than my real life, and I can go for a little bit of that before I have to slog my way through another day.

  An insistent meow on my left gets my attention, and I look over to see Nirvash, my cat.

  Technically, it’s my best friend Mia’s cat, but her former apartment lease didn’t allow pets, so when she brought me the little ball of fur and begged for me to watch after it, I couldn’t help myself.

  Now, the miniature monster is mine, and I probably wouldn’t give her back even if Mia begged. Not that she would. She knows what this cat has come to mean to me.

  Sometimes, I wonder if Mia didn’t plan the whole thing to trick me into getting a pet for my own good.

  “Thanks, Vash. It’s that time?”

  Vash meows again, and I get up off the couch, stretching a little. Vash takes the opportunity to climb onto the keyboard, though she knows she’s not allowed, and looks at the screen before turning her nose up and walking away.

  “Humph . . . everyone’s a damn critic. Well, I’m not done with it yet.”

  Meow.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, feed you before you get angry,” I reply, heading into the kitchen and picking up the quarter-carton of nondairy creamer on the counter.

  It, like a lot of the food I’ve got, is scraps from The Gravy Train’s kitchen, since they can’t keep opened containers overnight. I’m not sure that’s a real rule, but Elaine had vehemently insisted it was true as she foisted the creamer and a large to-go bowl of soup on me.

  She means well, and though it was a hit to my pride, I had taken it, knowing it’d help. The creamer is Vash’s little treat and she loves it. “Is this what you want?”

  Meow.

  “Fine, fine . . . but you only get a little along with your real food,” I reply, filling the shallow bowl Vash uses for food.

  I check my clock and see I’ve got five minutes to be out the door before I’m late for my first class of the day. I toss the carton back in the fridge and hurry to the bathroom.

  It’s my own damn fault, really. When I’m painting, I’m able to escape, let my mind relax, and not worry about all the crap that’s weighing down my life, even if only for a few minutes.

  But that also means I let time get away from me, and as I quickly brush my teeth and pull a brush through my hair, I’m rushing.

  “Okay, Vash baby, be good and keep the mice company!” I toss over my shoulder as I grab my bookbag and rush out to my little scooter.

  The morning air’s chilly, but until we get snow or rain, I need to be frugal, and using my scooter instead of my car saves me several dollars a day on gas.

  As the wind blows in my face, numbing my lips, I curse myself for forgetting to use Chapstick before leaving. I’ve got some in my bag, but it’ll have to wait until class. I just don’t have time.

  Like a lot of my life, I just don’t have time for a lot of things. I barely have time for friends. I don’t have time to take care of myself. I don’t have time for anything except work and school.

  I don’t have any family left. The closest thing to family I have is Mia, my other bestie, Charlotte, and a cat that earns a good portion of her food through keeping the neighborhood rat population under control.

  Other than that, my life’s empty.

  No time for self-pity though. I console myself with the idea that soon enough, I’ll be able to take the next step after I finish my degree. Just one more year like this and then everything will be better.

  The thought doesn’t comfort me much when I hear an approaching truck motor and see Russell driving up in his Chevy. “You’re up early,” I mutter, tugging on my helmet and palming my keys. “Must really be running low on meth.”

  Russell comes to a stop next to me, putting his truck in park but leaving the motor running. “Izzy, where’s my money?”

  I growl, buckling my helmet. “You told me last night that I had a week, Rusty.”

  I’ve known Russell since I moved into this house, and I know for a fact that he hates that nickname.

  Still, I’m just too tired and too hungry to think clearly about poking the bear, or honestly, to give a rat’s ass about his bullshit this morning, especially since I’ve got class soon.

  Russell’s face reddens at the name, and he rubs at his cheek, where it looks like he’s been doing the junkie shuffle all over his face. A shiftless kid who spent most of his teenage years trying to score beer and terrorizing the neighborhood middle-schoolers, he hasn’t improved with age.

  He scored his first drug conviction at twenty-two, but Russell’s father got him out of those charges. Russell Senior had owned a lot of land on the outskirts of Roseboro, and as the town grew, he flipped a lot of the flat, empty pastures that weren’t worth much to housing developers who needed easy plots for subdivisions. It’d made him bank, and money makes you powerful.

  By the time Russell’s parents died five year
s ago, a heart attack behind the wheel that resulted in a fiery crash that killed them both, Russell had inherited over a million dollars.

  And he’s burned through it all. Literally. A certified smoke hound, if you can put it in a pipe and smoke it, Russell Carraby’s put it in his lungs. Quite a few rumors say he’s moved on from smoking to straight up injecting poison into his body. All in all, it makes him unpredictable and desperate, which worries the shit out of me.

  But money buys you lots of friends, and since Russell hasn’t yet shit where he eats in terms of drug violence, the local cops don’t do anything to stop him. I have a feeling the influence his money has bought is coming to a firework-worthy finale though.

  He’s down to his house and the deed to the land that my house and a few others sit on. He’s like the slumlord of outer Roseboro, but with only the small pool of our row of old homes to dip into. And he’s digging in with a damn shovel, trying to squeeze out every last drop he can get.

  And that’s what I owe him, a freaking land lease that I never had to pay to his parents. They had charged a small annual sum, more for show than anything, but when Russell inherited it, he used his connections to get a court order saying I have to make up for back payments. Stupid me never had a contract with Russell Senior, having just continued the deal they’d always had on the property and trusting that would always be the case, an honorable verbal agreement between all involved parties.

  Russ isn’t nearly the reasonable businessman his father was though. He’s desperate for money, and I know it. He probably doesn’t even remember telling me I had a week just last night, whatever memory he once had ruined by chemicals. The fact that he’s back here so quickly tells me he’s looking for a fix before the next payment is due.

  Danger warnings ring in my head. Technically, I’m meeting the agreed-upon court ruling with my monthly payments to him, all documented carefully because I’m no fool. But the fact that I do owe him the money, at least legally, does cloud matters because if we go back to court, they could order me to pay it in one lump sum. And I’d be done for. So keeping him at bay is imperative, even if it means making smaller weekly payments rather than a monthly sum.