MAYA, a girl who goes through life with an unwavering smile-around other people that is. While juggling four jobs to support her father and a side hobby of modelling, Maya is rarely at home-to her content. Even through the mental and physical turmoi...
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MY PHONE RINGS, and I shoot a glare at it.
No caller ID. That means it's a job—a hit—a chance for money. But right now, I can't bring myself to care about work, not with the internal battle I have going on inside my head.
"Why do you care?" She had questioned me.
Truth is, I don't. I don't care about her, about the fact that she's taking enough drugs to kill herself. I don't care about the bottle that belongs to Miss Olivia Puckett. I don't care.
Except, it's been two days since the incident, and I can't shake the thoughts from my mind. I've gone out of my way to avoid Lacey, dodging her like the plague whenever I'm at the club. It's been tough, she's always around.
Ideally, not going to the club would've been the solution to avoid her. Before I bumped into her, I only visited once a month for quality checks. Now, I'm there almost every day.
Not that the two events are connected—she just happens to be there when I am. The moment I learned Micah had served a minor, I realized I wasn't involved enough in the club's operations. If we got caught selling to minors, the police would target us, and given the illegal activities here, the last thing I need is a drunken sorority girl bragging about the booze she got without a fake ID from Velvet Dolls.
My phone's relentless ringing forces me to answer and silence the noise. "What?"
"Mister Ricci?" The voice on the other end is distorted, likely through some app.
"Speaking." I find his attempt to conceal his identity amusing. I couldn't care less about the identity of this man or anyone who hires me for a hit. And if I did, I had means to bypass any measures in place.
"I'd like to order a hit—for three hundred thousand." I almost chuckle. Instead, I hang up, toss the phone into my truck's cup holder, and drive off.
Within two minutes, the device resumes its cacophony. No caller ID. I pick up with an annoyed tone. "What?"
"Five hundred thousand." The voice remains distorted, a deep and scratchy tone that suggests cheap voice-altering software.
"Fuck no." I don't take hits for less than a million; it keeps the clients selective—only people of significance. Mostly mafia, occasionally corrupt politicians, but never just any random Joe from the street. "If you can't afford me, find a cheaper hitman. I don't do charity."
