Nice Guys Bite, Page 2

  The Cake Walk was another one of Ashland’s downtown restaurants, the place to go if you wanted a good cup of coffee and a dessert the size of a dinner plate. It used to be little more than a hole in the wall, but ever since Gin had remodeled the Pork Pit a couple of months ago, many nearby restaurants had followed suit, trying to keep up with her. The Cake Walk was one of the few places that had actually succeeded, namely because the food here was almost as good as it was at the Pork Pit.

  I often wished that Gin owned the dessert shop instead of her barbecue joint. I sometimes got tired of barbecue, but I had a sweet tooth the size of Texas—something that Gin had discovered and used to her advantage, plying me with chocolate-chip cookies, cakes, and cobblers whenever she thought that I was being too serious and grumpy.

  I stepped inside the restaurant. The Cake Walk was set up cafeteria-style, with customers moving down the line with their red plastic trays and telling the servers what coffees and desserts they wanted. The restaurant featured everything from your typical espressos and cappuccinos to Southern specialties like blackberry cobbler and thick, golden slices of Mountain Dew cake. You could also get soups, salads, sandwiches, and the like, if you wanted something a little heartier. I breathed in, enjoying the light, sweet aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and other baking spices mixed with the dark, rich scent of the thousands of cups of coffee that were brewed in here every single day.

  I scanned the crowd, but I was a few minutes early for my twelve thirty coffee date, and Martin wasn’t here yet. So I moved past the cafeteria line and over to a table in the corner. I stripped off my coat, hat, and scarf, hung them on the back of my chair, and sat down. Since Gin wasn’t here to threaten my electronics, I pulled my phone and tablet out of my briefcase to check my messages.

  Yes, I knew that I was a bit obsessive, but a good assistant always kept on top of things. Gin had given me a second chance at life, and I was going to pay her back by being the best assistant ever.

  But I hadn’t received any new, important information from my contacts about underworld shenanigans and other potential threats. Things had been slow this past week, with lots of folks out of their offices, and I knew that they wouldn’t pick back up until after New Year’s. Even criminals were busy with the holidays.

  I glanced around, but Martin still wasn’t here, so I hooked my keyboard up to my tablet and opened a secret file on my screen.

  My book.

  No one knew that I was writing a book, not even Gin. It had started as a lark, really. After Gin had killed Beauregard Benson, I was no longer at the vampire’s beck and call 24-7, and I’d found myself with a lot of free time. One night, I’d been watching an old noir detective movie on TV, but I’d been a bit bored by it, so I’d grabbed my laptop and started typing up a little story about a mild-mannered personal assistant who stepped up and became the hero when his private investigator boss was murdered. The assistant might have borne a slight, passing resemblance to me, and the murdered boss might have been quite similar to Beau.

  Cooking was Gin’s therapy, and I’d discovered that writing was mine. I enjoyed picking out just the right words, coming up with just the right kind of strong, quirky, lovable characters, and arranging them all into a fun, action-packed story. At least, I hoped that it was fun. I hadn’t let anyone read it yet, and I didn’t know that I ever would. Regardless, typing out the words helped me relax and take my mind off my problems—and Gin’s problems too.

  But that one story had steadily gotten longer and longer, until now it was almost a full-length book—except for the ending. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a fitting finale to my story. My mild-mannered assistant had had a breakthrough, realizing who had killed his boss and why . . . except for the fact that I didn’t know who had killed his boss and why.

  Hard to finish a book without the ending.

  I read through the paragraphs that I’d written last night, but unlike my character, I didn’t have any brilliant new insights.

  I looked at my watch. Almost twelve thirty. Martin would be here any minute, so I saved my work, set my tablet aside, and grabbed my phone. I glanced around again, but no one was watching me, so I switched the view on my phone so that I could see myself on the screen.

  Gray hair, gray eyes, bronze skin, nice enough features. I had on my best dark gray suit, and I’d been sitting ramrod-straight most of the day, to keep the wrinkles out of the fabric as best I could. All put together, I would say that I looked distinguished. Dignified. Perhaps even dashing, if I was being generous to myself. Either way, I was here now, and there was no changing my suit—or backing out of the date. Canceling at the last minute would be exceptionally rude.

  I smoothed down my gray silk tie, and my fingers caught on the sharp edges of my tiepin, a small circle surrounded by eight thin rays. A spider rune, the symbol for patience, and something that told everyone exactly who I worked for.

  I grimaced. I always wore Gin’s rune whenever I was at the Pork Pit, so that all the underworld bosses and their minions would know who I was, if they didn’t already. But having your date realize that you worked for a notorious assassin probably wasn’t the best way to start things off.

  Oh, Martin might have seen my spider rune before at the restaurant, but I didn’t think that he’d ever paid any real attention to it, and I certainly didn’t want him to start asking questions about it now. So I set my phone down and removed the tiepin. But of course, I was in a hurry, and I stabbed myself in the thumb when I was trying to put the clasp back on the pin.

  “Damn!” I muttered.

  Luckily, I managed to grab a napkin out of the dispenser on the table and wrap it around my thumb before I got blood all over my suit. But I was still in a hurry, and it took me two more tries before I finally slid the clasp back onto the stupid pin—

  “Problem?” a low voice murmured.

  I looked up at the man standing beside my chair. Martin Mahoney was in his early forties, which made him about ten years younger than me. I might be distinguished, dignified, and somewhat dashing, but Martin was downright gorgeous, with his wavy dark brown hair, blue eyes, tan skin, and perfect teeth.

  A camel-colored trench coat was draped perfectly over his light tan suit and white shirt, while an old, battered, brown leather satchel dangled from his hand. Martin was a college professor, but I’d always thought that he looked more like an old-fashioned movie star who had somehow stepped off the silver screen and into modern-day Ashland.

  He pointed at the bloody napkin still wrapped around my thumb. “Are you okay, Silvio?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I curled my other hand around the spider rune tiepin and quickly slipped it into my pants pocket so that he wouldn’t see it. Then I wiped the last bit of blood off my thumb, crumpled up the dirty napkin, and set it aside.

  Martin put down his satchel, shrugged out of his coat, and laid it across the back of his chair. “I’ll grab us some coffees. Black for you, right? Three sugars?”

  I smiled at him. “Black with three sugars. You remembered.”

  He smiled back at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course I remembered. I’ve watched you drink it often enough at the Pork Pit over the past few weeks.”

  Martin was an English professor who taught popular fiction at Ashland Community College. About once a week, he came to the Pork Pit for lunch between classes. One day, he’d noticed that I was reading the copy of The Maltese Falcon by Raymond Chandler that Gin had lying around the restaurant. Martin taught detective fiction, among other courses, and he’d struck up a conversation with me about the book.

  We’d been talking ever since.

  He had started coming by the restaurant more often for lunch, sometimes two or even three times a week. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him, and I thought that he felt the same way about me. Every day around one o’clock, I found myself watching the front door of
the Pork Pit, wondering if he would have lunch here—with me—today. Last week, he’d finally asked me out for coffee.

  I’d said yes on the spot, but I’d scheduled the date for this week instead, so I would have plenty of time to do a thorough background check on him.

  Martin Mahoney was exactly who he appeared to be: a guy who’d grown up in Ashland, gone away to college in Bigtime, New York, and then moved around the country, teaching at several different schools, before finally returning to his hometown. He’d been working at the community college for almost ten years now and was one of the most popular professors on campus. I hadn’t found any dirt on him. Not a single faculty scandal or ill-advised affair with a student, not so much as an arrest or even a traffic ticket. As far as I could tell, he was just an all-around nice guy.

  Still, with Hugh Tucker and the rest of the mysterious Circle out there, you couldn’t be too careful. At least, that was what Gin kept saying. Her rampant paranoia was one of the things that I admired most about her, especially since she was so often justified in her suspicions.

  So I wasn’t going to let myself get too fond of Martin . . . yet. He might not be a convicted felon, but he could still turn out to be a total waste of time.

  “You want anything besides coffee?” Martin asked. “Cookies, piece of cake, some cobbler?”

  As much as I would have loved all of the above, I didn’t want to get crumbs all over my face and my suit while we were talking. I shook my head. “Nah. Just the coffee is fine.”

  He smiled at me again, then got in line to get our drinks.

  A few seconds later, my phone beeped with a message from Gin: I know you have your phone on. How’s the big date going?

  I texted her back: Fine.

  I hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but of course, my phone beeped again less than a minute later.

  Fine? That’s very noncommittal. I want DETAILS.

  I texted her back again: I am NOT discussing this with you.

  Not yet. Now, turn your phone off and have a good time. Gin’s orders.

  I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling as I slid my phone, tablet, and keyboard back into my briefcase. Gin always claimed that I tried to mother her, but she did the exact same thing to me. Still, it was nice to have someone who cared, even if I preferred to keep my feelings for Martin—and pretty much everything else—to myself.

  Martin returned with our coffees, which he set down on the table. Then he dropped into the seat across from mine, leaned forward, and flashed me another smile. “Now that we have our caffeine fix, we can finally get down to business.”

  I smoothed down my tie again, grabbed my coffee, and smiled back at him.

  3

  The date went great—absolutely, positively great.

  Martin and I talked about books, movies, and music. We reminisced about all the places we’d traveled to, including our favorite vacation spots—his was Cloudburst Falls, while mine was Cypress Mountain. He told me funny stories about his students and fellow professors, while I regaled him with highly edited tales of my work for Gin, whom I painted as a simple restaurateur with an over-the-top love for all things barbecue.

  I felt like we were really clicking, really connecting, and it made me much happier than I’d expected. It had been a long time since I’d been this interested in someone. Or, rather, since I had let myself be this interested in someone.

  Beauregard Benson had murdered Derrick, the last guy I’d gone out with, right in front of me, and I hadn’t been with anyone since. Derrick had been a sweet man, far too kind and caring to be part of Beau’s ruthless crew, but he’d liked the easy money and fat paydays. More than once, I’d tried to persuade Derrick to leave Ashland, but he’d stubbornly insisted on staying, saying that someone needed to watch my back.

  He’d died for his care and concern.

  I’d learned my lesson the hard way, and I hadn’t wanted to risk getting involved with someone else. Oh, Gin was nothing like Beau. She didn’t kill people out of spite or on a whim or simply because it amused her. And she would never, ever hurt anyone I cared about. But being an assassin’s assistant came with more than its fair share of danger, and I didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of my working for Gin.

  But even more than that, I didn’t want to get hurt again either.

  Watching Derrick die, seeing the horror in his eyes as he silently begged me to help him, and knowing that it was already too late, that there was nothing that I could do to save him . . . That had been worse than my own torture later on at Beau’s hands and fangs. It had knocked a big chunk out of my heart, and I was in no hurry to offer up another fragile, brittle piece of myself to someone new.

  But the more I talked to Martin, the more time we spent together, the more I saw him smile and heard him laugh . . .

  Maybe he was worth the risk.

  Martin drained his coffee and held up his cup. “I need a refill. How about you?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself, but I need another jolt of java to get me through my afternoon classes.” He winked at me, got to his feet, and went over to get his refill.

  And that was when I noticed the men.

  There were three of them, spread throughout the restaurant, each one at a different table. All giants, all wearing dark suits, and all carrying guns under their jackets.

  They were sitting at their tables, drinking coffee, and clutching their phones like everyone else. But instead of staring down at their devices, all three of the giants kept glancing around the restaurant, as though they were waiting for something important to happen. I knew hired muscle when I saw it, and these guys obviously worked for someone. But who?

  Thanks to my time with both Beau and Gin, I knew practically all of the criminal bosses in town, along with many of their employees. I scanned the restaurant, but I didn’t recognize anyone, certainly not anyone who needed three bodyguards. Most of the folks were college kids highlighting in their textbooks or corporate professionals taking a break from their skyscraper offices for their umpteenth latte of the day. None of them looked suspicious, and absolutely none of them gave off any kind of dark, dangerous vibe. Besides the giants, the only other real, obvious criminal in here was . . . me.

  Cold unease trickled down my spine, and a worrisome thought rose in my mind.

  Could they be here for me?

  I might be just Gin’s assistant, but I could definitely be used to send her a bloody, gruesome message. Gin had killed plenty of bad folks, and many of the criminals wanted revenge for their friends’ deaths, while others longed to murder her so they could take over as the big boss. Any one of them would be happy to kill me as a substitute, just to hurt her and get what petty satisfaction they could.

  The more I thought about it, the more sense it made, especially given what had happened yesterday with the Southern Shine biker gang. By now, the gang leaders had to have realized that their plan to kill Gin had failed. Maybe they’d seen me leave the restaurant earlier and decided to get some quick and easy payback, rather than facing down the Spider herself. I wouldn’t think that bikers would dress up in business suits, but maybe they’d traded in their jeans and leather jackets for something a little less conspicuous.

  One of the giants glanced over at me, only to quickly look away when he realized that I was watching him. That was all the confirmation I needed that I was indeed their target—and that I needed to get out of here before they pulled out their guns and started shooting.

  But of course, Martin chose that exact moment to come back to our table, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. “Now I’m ready to face the rest of my day.”

  I surged to my feet and grabbed my briefcase, along with my coat and scarf, and jammed my hat onto my head. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  Martin frowned. “What? Why? I thought we were having a
good time.”

  “We were. But my boss just sent me a message. Emergency at the restaurant. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  I didn’t wait for a response. I threw a twenty onto the table, more than enough to cover our coffees, pushed past Martin, and hurried outside.

  “Wait!” I heard him call out behind me. “Silvio, wait!”

  I ground my teeth and walked faster, trying to get away from him and the restaurant before the three giants stormed outside and caught up with me.

  But there was more to this trap than just the men in the restaurant. Two more giants stepped out of an alley and onto the sidewalk in front of me. One of them lifted his arm, just a bit, to show me the gun in his hand.

  “Come along quietly, and we won’t kill you where you stand,” he said, sneering.

  I didn’t have a choice. If I tried to fight them, they’d start shooting. Oh, I wasn’t worried about getting shot myself, but plenty of innocent bystanders moved past us on the sidewalk, oblivious to the danger they were in. I wasn’t going to be responsible for their deaths.

  “All right.” I held my arms out. “All right. You got me.”

  The giant stepped forward, grabbed my arm, and shoved his gun up against my side. He jerked his head toward the alley that ran between the Cake Walk and the next business over. An anonymous black van with its engine idling was waiting at the far end of the corridor.

  “We’re going to take a walk and get in the van. Nice and easy,” he said. “No tricks, or I’ll shoot you in the stomach and let you bleed out. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I muttered.

  The other giant plucked my coat, scarf, and briefcase out of my hands. The bastard even grabbed my hat off my head and plopped it down on his own, grinning at me, clearly intending to keep it for himself. Then the first man tightened his grip on my arm and started leading me toward the van.