Protecting The Bad Boy

Chapter One

I can't thank you enough for choosing this book and clicking 'read'. Enjoy the ride!  

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or produced in any manner whatsoever without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This book is a work of mostly fiction; names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or events that have happened to the author solely. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

(Translating to: don't risk copying, I'll hunt you down)

PG-13 (ish) - profanity, violence and sexual content (you're welcome!)

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Chapter One: Blood or Ketchup?

You see it's funny, I don't really believe in fate.

I don't believe that no matter what we do, we're tied to a destiny. How can a person believe that, a person like me? Am I just supposed to sit back and let the universe do its work? I don't accept that we get that happy ending, and I don't think that everything happens for a reason because really, why would it?

In my opinion, I say that it's our actions that define us, they are what determine our future. 

Now if that's the case, and I honestly believe that it is, then I am royally fucked.

Oh so royally fucked.

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Backpack, check. Notebook, check. Cardigan, check. Gun, check.

I stare into the mirror. Over this past few years it's been easier to make the gun, tucked inside my waistband, almost invisible.

You can hardly see the outline of the knife hidden in my sock anymore as well. I mean, it would be an easier task if I were to wear anything other than skinny jeans but what the hell, the MC Hammer look was not a good one for me.

Today I'd thrown on a faded pair of ripped jeans, a plain white t-shirt, a black cardigan and some black boots to match. My hair fell down in light blonde waves down my back; I hadn't had to spend long trying to achieve the look and I assumed that was obvious to everyone else who looked at me. Nothing too extraordinary, I'm meant to blend in and that's what I shall do. I have one job, and of course I have to make sure it's done well.

My name's Cynthia Gracelyn. I'm seventeen years old and I'm in my final year of school. Now at school, I was basically a nobody. As cliché as it sounds, I didn't reach the standards to fit in with the 'cool kids'. Well I say fuck the cool kids, most of the population of the school already has.

I hated that I wasn't allowed to do anything about the way that they treated me, if I had my way, their necks would have been snapped a long time ago. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't as if I didn't elbow the odd few rather harshly in the ribs sometimes.

You see I lead a double life; I'm like Hannah Montana (well the more kick-ass version) but with less singing and more blood. In reality? I'm a trained assassin that works for my parent's company that I was literally forced into. I'd been assigned with a case for a while now, along with other smaller jobs that I'm left to deal with from time to time.

I have to be quiet, act innocent. I can't shoot everyone that annoys me, but then again if I did, there would be no one left in the school. To hell with that, the universe.

I wander downstairs in my quiet house and pour myself a coffee, why do mornings suck so damn much? You see morning even rhymes with the word mourning, as in, I am in mourning over the loss of the bed that was keeping me happy not so long ago.