Killer Love

Chapter Two

I only end up sleeping for five and a half hours, which is more than the past three days combined. Early that morning, I am sitting on my hotel bed with papers spread all around me. I need to learn all about this Harry Styles kid beforehand. I don't want to slip up. Not that it has ever happened to me, but there is no such thing as being too careful.

I hold up the first page with a basic run through of his life. "What kind of name is Harry Styles anyway?" I mutter to myself. "Sounds like he could be in a stupid boy band or something."

I bite the end of my pen, taking a look at the description given to me: 18 years old, senior in high school, moved here from England at a young age, lives with his mother in a three bedroom apartment in a relatively normal neighborhood, has an older sister away in college, no other siblings, works bussing tables at a restaurant, no apparent sicknesses or injuries in the last couple of years.

The agency wants me to earn his trust so things won't get messy and people won't ask questions. This will not be a quick point and shoot. I rub my eyes as I come to the realization that I am going to have to take my time with this one.

Overall, Harry seems like he's a normal, high school guy. From my experience, they usually never are what they seem. I don't get in depth information about the people I kill. One, I know better than to ask. That would make things a tad harder. And two, I don't really care. These people are bad. That's all I care about.

I stare at a picture of this guy- this Harry Styles. Green eyes. Brown hair. Dimples. Long lashes. Kind of cute. I shake that last thought out of my head and close the file. I don't have time for those thoughts.

Now it's time to pack up my sorry-excuse of a suitcase and leave this less-than-adequate hotel. I've been in much luxurious ones. And I never have to pay for them. The rooms are usually already waiting for me to check in.

This is my life. Hopping from hotel to hotel, getting paid to kill people I'm told to. I won't go into the boring details about how I got to this place in my life. There is really no point after all. It's been done and nothing is going to change.

I shove what little possessions I have into the suitcase and go to the mirror to make sure I look presentable. Nothing that attracts attention. I fix my black wig so it looks as natural as possible against my tan skin. Check. Now if only I had a hair straightener. I would look killer. (Ha! Get it?)

I survey the room one last time to see if I am accidentally leaving anything behind. Everything looks clean from here. I wipe down various surfaces even though I can never be tracked back here. As I said before, one can never be too safe.

I lock the door behind me as I head out and leave my keys at the front desk, saying goodbye to the lady who's working there.

The drive to Styles's city is a couple hours away. Somewhere by the beach in Southern California. All I can think is that I deserve to get a scenic view at the house Louis has given me the address to. I should probably ask him about that before I start my drive.

I secure my things on my motorcycle and slide my helmet on, tightening it under my chin. I'm careful not to catch the skin. At least I don't have to ride all night. Even killers need their sleep. My stomach grumbles. And food. I should stop by McDonald's and grab some breakfast. Their hash browns give me life.

A half hour later, I'm in the parking lot for a McDonald's, taking a bite out of my McGriddle. I'm leaning against my bike slightly squinting against the bright sun even with my sunglasses on. I should have bought some sunscreen it seems.

***

I pull off my helmet and hop off my bike, shaking my legs out. They're a little sore from riding for so long without stopping. You would think that they would have gotten used to it by now.

I check my watch for the time. Louis wanted me to get to this town before sunset. The ocean breeze blows my "hair" around my face as I dial him on my burner phone.

"What's wrong?" he asks. I don't usually call him on a daily basis. We have other means of communication.

I stare up at the house, with its blue whitewashed panels and large windows. Palm trees of all sizes flank either side of the house and driveway while bushes sit next to both sides of the stairs leading to the front door. I can only imagine how the inside will look.

"Are you sure you gave me the correct address? This house seems a little big for me to live alone in," I tell him.

"I don't make mistakes," he sternly reminds me. "Besides, you have to pretend you live with your parents if you're going to be in high school."

I curse. "Do I really have to enroll?"

"It has already been done, Y/N. School starts in a week. Take that time to get a feel of things. Keys are by the door. Third panel to the right." And with that, he hangs up.

I stare at my phone for a sec before putting it away. "Well, shit. Thanks for all the help."

Shaking my head, I walk up the steps to the brown wooden door. "Third panel," I mumble to myself. I jerk the set of keys out and run through them. They're each labeled to their designated place. Front door, back door, spare car, mailbox, etc. There are also two clickers to open the garage doors labeled left and right.

I click on the right one and go down to the driveway to put my motorcycle away. I don't know how safe this neighborhood actually is. Maybe the crime statistics are in the papers, but I'm not itching to flip through each and every one of them.

Once I am inside the house, I remove my shoes, placing them to the side. The honey wood floors will thank me later. I pull off my wig and toss it on the table next to my suitcase.

I explore the house for a bit. It's all furnished and stocked with my gear. There are weapons hidden throughout the house. Under desks. Below mattresses. In drawers. One can never be too careful.

I go into what I assume is my bedroom. There are several pieces of clothing in my closet and not much else. I'll need to go shopping. It will give me a chance to explore the town.

I hop in the shower and watch as the dirt and dried blood swirl down the drain. My fingers run over my scabbed knuckles, and I spend the next few minutes praying that this water washes all my sins away.