Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0) (32 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Camille was still drunk, hovering at the edge of sleep, when the banging at the hotel room door made its way into her consciousness. She half-slid, half-stumbled her way to the door before she flipped the lock and ripped it open. There was a greasy looking man in a polo shirt standing there who pulled back when she appeared. “What?”

“It’s check-out time, we need -”

“What.” She blinked and ran her hand over her face, trying to clear the fog from her eyes before she glared at him again, flinching at the light from the hall. “You want money?”

“If you’re planning to stay another night -”

Camille let the door fall shut as she turned back into the room, digging in the wallet Smith had left behind that had
John
Smith’s fictional driver’s license and a bunch of cash. Snagging two hundred dollars she moved back to the door and offered it out. “Is this enough?”

“Yeah, uh, are you okay?”

“Do you think that’s any of your fucking business?” she growled.

“Look, did that guy -”

“He’s gone.”

“Your -”

“He’s fucking gone, asshole. Now leave me the fuck alone!” Camille shouted and slammed the door shut. Then she kicked it for good measure and turned back to the room as rage washed up out of the emptiness like a tide coming in at tsunami speed. “FUCK!”

A raw scream ripped out of her and she grabbed at her hair, fisting it at the root as if she could hold herself together if only she could get control of
something
– but it didn’t work. The empty bottle of vodka was on the floor in front of her and she kicked it, still in her shoes, and it broke as it slammed into the metal leg of the bed.

It wasn’t enough.

She threw her suitcase, clothes raining down over the bed, the luggage snagging the edge of the lampshade, denting it before it went careening to the floor. Stomping forward she started to rip Smith’s clothes from his bag, hating every passing memory that bubbled up as she caught his scent on various items. She fell to her knees and upended it, leaning back so she could kick it away from her. The chair fell on top of it when she tried to throw it, and when she stood and flipped the table she heard her own broken breathing, the hiccupping sobs that ripped out of her as she alternated between screams and wails.

Smith. Smith. Smith.

“How the fuck could you leave me like this?!” Her scream was almost indiscernible as real language, but there was no one to answer her anyway. There was no one left at all.

No one on the list.

No one waiting for her.

No one
.

A sharp sting on her forearm made her look down as she hissed air through her teeth – she was dripping blood. The dark crimson rolling down to drip off her fingers onto the mottled carpet.

At some point in her temper tantrum she had leaned on the broken shards of the vodka bottle, and – fortunately or unfortunately – there was no more alcohol left in the room. Whether to clean up with, or to drink until she blacked out again.

“Fuck…” she whispered, the rage leaving her as swiftly as it had come, washing out with the wreckage of the storm it had brought. Stumbling, she made it into the bathroom and turned on the water to rinse the cut.

Not deep.

It would heal fine.

She dug out the backpack from the night before, seeking the first aid kit she had brought in a fruitless hope that she would be able to do something – because if she were honest with herself, she had known before she’d ever left the hotel room the night before what she would find. Smith never broke a promise to her, never lied to her.

There were no tears as she swabbed antiseptic over the cut and slapped a bandage on it. There were no tears left inside her. The wall she had depended on had melted and left her in a deluge of grief that she’d drowned in with the help of bourbon and vodka.

From somewhere in the wreckage of the room, she heard the familiar buzz of a phone. It took her a minute or so, nudging broken glass and clothes and furniture out of the way until she found Smith’s phone.

Missed call.

But she knew the number, and she called it back as she sat on the edge of the bed.

“Smith?” Donovan’s voice was a lot more awake now than it had been at three-thirty.

“It’s C.”

“Where’s Smith?”

“Unavailable.”

“Fuck, did he find Eric? Is he dead?” The question felt like someone striking a match inside the darkness.

Eric.

“No. Are the locations you gave me last night still accurate?”

“How the hell should I know? Lacroix tracked him.”

“What did Lacroix tell you? Be specific.” Camille felt her focus returning, surfacing under the haze of the alcohol as the rage dissipated, and she turned to find her backpack to dig out the hastily scribbled addresses. “The bar, the first address, why -”

“Yeah, that was the first one because Lacroix said the asshole had been spotted there several nights in a row.”

She placed a mental star next to that address, further seating the location in her memory as she moved to the overturned table, and located the envelope that had caught her attention the night before. Three surveillance photos of
Eric
. Hawk-nosed, dark haired, pale. “And what about the third address, the factory?”

“Supposedly he was meeting people there. Why, did you guys find him and fucking lose him?”

“Listen, fucker. I’m handling this so don’t be a dick.”

The bar. She could find him at the bar if Smith hadn’t scared him out of the city completely.

But leaving would take time, planning – there was a chance, because as far as Eric was concerned he’d killed the man hunting him.

“Alright, well, I don’t have anything else. Call Lacroix if you want more info. You finish the job, verify it with me, and we’re good. I’ll pay you, or Smith, or whoever. If you don’t, don’t fucking call me again.” The line cut off, but she didn’t care.

She had a plan.

One more act of vengeance and her slate would be bloody, but clean.

It felt good to have a mission, a job, something to focus on other than the hollow spaces inside her. She packed those with the cold in the air, with the years of training Smith had gifted to her, and the promise that she’d made to him –
survive
.

She would always survive.

Lacroix verified what Donovan had told her. Eric was frequenting the same bar, meeting with the same assholes over and over, drinking beer and enjoying himself. If she had any chance, it would have to be tonight.

After she cleaned up the room she knew that nothing in her suitcase would work for what she had planned, so she took cash and went shopping. It was irritating, but necessary. Just as early evening started to fill the hotel room with a burnt orange glow, night threatening in the shorter days of winter, Camille found herself applying lipstick in the bathroom. A skin-tight top, short skirt, thick tights and just enough room to tuck a blade into the back of her bra and still breathe.

Somehow, she looked human even though she didn’t feel it. Surely humans had beating hearts, and hers was located under three feet of cold earth and a layer of snow – not that it would matter. Men had never cared if she was empty, as long as she promised to let them fill her.

This taxi was driven by a different guy, dark skinned, and his eyes stayed forward the whole drive, alerting her to the ‘fuck off and die’ vibe she was putting out. It was accurate, but
you catch more flies with honey
and all that shit.

When she stepped out she ducked her head as if she were avoiding the cold and not the cameras, and plastered on her best dumb blonde smile as she walked into the bar. It was surprisingly busy, full of a younger crowd, heavy music pumping out of speakers that made the bass pulse in her chest. People crowded the bartenders, and she skimmed the crowd casually, seeking Eric’s profile –
there.

Near the back of the bar, at a table with two other men.

At least he wasn’t smiling. No, he looked intense, focused as he spoke to the others, his hand resting on a bottle of beer.

Verify. Aim. Wait.

Taking a deep breath she moved to the bar, ripping off the beanie as she approached, smiling flirtatiously at the man who leaned back to let her get to the bartender. “Hello there, sexy. You need a drink?”

“If you’re offering, sure.” It felt awkward at first, but she brushed off her old skills fast, and by the time she’d turned her smile back on at full wattage she felt cold enough inside to maintain it.

“Oh, I’m definitely offering. Hey! The lady would like a -” He paused and glanced at her.

“Vodka, with lime.”

“Vodka and lime!” He shouted and the bartender nodded and started to make it with quick movements. An instant later it was in front of her, and she was opening her coat to let her curves talk for her. She pulled the drink towards her as the tall guy smiled down, his eyes roaming even lower.

“So, what are you doing here alone?”

“I just wanted a drink. My friend bailed on me, my boyfriend is working, so I was bored.” She shrugged, keeping it casual, but he leaned forward.

“Can’t believe your boyfriend wouldn’t make time for you on a Friday night.”

Is it Friday?
That explained the crowd.

“He’s a cop. It’s like his shifts always correspond with anything I want to do. Bullshit, right?” Camille rolled her eyes like she was actually irritated with her fictional police officer beau, but the words did the trick. Flirty guy leaned back like she was suddenly toxic waste – which, she was.
You don’t want any of this, asshat, trust me.

“Oh, uh, that sucks.” He turned back to the bar, giving his friend a look. “Well, enjoy the drink.” Even his tone was disinterested, and she just smiled and took a sip.

“Thanks!” she replied, still chipper, but then she backed off from them. It took a while to casually move towards her target, but finally she knew she was within eyesight, and she tried a few times to catch his gaze, dancing to the music while keeping him in her peripheral – and then he finally saw her.

Mid-sentence he paused and it made it gloriously obvious the second she had Eric’s attention. She bit her lip and smiled at him slowly pretending to stumble on her next sway with the beat of the music, bumping into someone beside her and apologizing loudly. Playing the drunk girl with no difficulty.

Easy. Vulnerable.

Come on, asshole. Take the bait.

Tilting her head she waved him at him, and like she’d tied an invisible string, he rose up from the table and approached her. She carefully kept him between his friends and her when he walked up. “You all alone?” he asked. His voice had an irritating rasp to it.

“I guess I’m not anymore. My friend ditched me.” As much as it disgusted her she tugged at his coat, pulling him a little closer. “No one has even really talked to me.”

“That’s hard to believe. I’m happy to keep you company.” His hand slid to her waist, his fingers digging in.

She smiled slowly, suppressing the disgust with experience so that her gaze could look sincere. “Do
you
want to keep me company?” Her voice was false, drunken slur, but he didn’t care. He probably wasn’t even listening.

“Oh, hell yeah…” This time his eyes sliding down her body wasn’t even remotely casual, it was an appraisal.

“If you wanted to go somewhere, you know, have some fun… maybe this night won’t be a total loss for me?”
Take the bait, take the bait, take the –

“I’ve got a car.”

“Sounds like fun.” She smiled and he slipped an arm around her. Just to be careful she tucked her face against his chest, abandoning her drink on the edge of a table as they navigated through people towards the exit. Playing the flirt she nuzzled against his chest, her fingers tugging at his belt, which kept him sufficiently distracted and her hidden as they stumbled into the frigid night air. He wrapped his arm tighter around her when she pretended to slip on snow.

“Watch it, beautiful.”