Dodging The Bullet, page 1
Dodging The Bullet
Octavia Jensen
Published by Flower Bone Publishing, 2023.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
DODGING THE BULLET
First edition. October 9, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Octavia Jensen.
Written by Octavia Jensen.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Content Advisory
Chapter One Just Broken
Chapter Two Game On
Chapter Three Just Like Riding a Cock
Chapter Four How to Dodge a Bullet
Chapter Five Dry Like the Sahara
Chapter Six Joey’s Last Day
Chapter Seven Checked Out
Chapter Eight Clown Search
Chapter Nine Swan Song
Chapter Ten Two Trees in a Park
Chapter Eleven A Little Sensory Play
Chapter Twelve Smashed
Chapter Thirteen Boy, Interrupted
Chapter Fourteen One Day I Wanna
Chapter Fifteen Yoga
Chapter Sixteen Let Me In
Chapter Seventeen F for Fuck Off
Chapter Eighteen Sharing is Caring
Chapter Nineteen The Thin Line Between Heaven and Hell
Chapter Twenty The Hitman
Chapter Twenty-One Adrenaline
Chapter Twenty-Two Secrets
Chapter Twenty-Three Dead and Gone
Chapter Twenty-Four Even if it Hurts
Chapter Twenty-Five Vinyl
Chapter Twenty-Six Playing Dirty
Chapter Twenty-Seven Who’s The Bigger Monster?
Chapter Twenty-Eight Robbie Jones
Chapter Twenty-Nine Unconditional
Chapter Thirty No Ending
Epilogue Two Years Later
LOOKING FOR YOUR NEXT OCTAVIA JENSEN READ?
About the Author
To all those who struggle to orgasm and need a sexy, protective, patient hitman in their lives to help them get there.
You're valid, too.
Content Advisory
This book is about a hitman and his target. As such, it contains themes of unaliving, secrecy, dubious consent (in the sense that the FMC likely would not have agreed to sleep with the MMC if she had all the facts first, but it is not ever written with a non-consensual tone), violence, explicit language, and other potential triggers. Those include mentions of/implied domestic violence, attempted murder, unsafe sex, use of the morning after pill, and mentions of familial death.
Ultimately, it’s a spicy, banter-filled, suspenseful romance between a broken woman and a fiercely protective man with an eventual HEA. Kinks include public sex, oral, anal, a little light breeding.
Chapter One
Just Broken
Olivia
“Sorry, are you a divorce lawyer or not?” I snap, sitting back in the wide armchair with my arms crossed. “Why are you trying to talk me out of this?”
Rebecca Sanchez sighs like I’ve somehow missed the punchline of a great joke, tucking her iron-straight black hair behind her ear. “Yes, I am, but I’m also your friend, Olivia. Divorcing Ben after fifteen years together just seems so... rash. All I’m saying is that you should give it some more thought before jumping ship.”
Honestly, I’d like to jump off the ship and then blow it up just to be sure I can’t ever get back on it, but whatever. What Beck fails to realize is that while I’ve been with Ben Daley for fifteen years and married to him for twelve, I’ve wanted to divorce him for twelve years minus one day. Our wedding day was fine — but every single one since has been a struggle. That’s what happens when you let your boyfriend’s parents talk you into a shotgun wedding after one teensy-weensy pregnancy scare.
It should’ve never happened.
“I’m sure, Beck. Surer than I’ve ever been in my life,” I promise her. “I think he’s cheating on me.”
Her night-dark eyes narrow. “Yeah, right. Ben’s a lot of things, but he’s not a cheater. What makes you say that?”
“I’m not paying you for this,” I mumble, knowing it’s irrelevant. Even if I’m wrong, it won’t change my mind. “He’s just been secretive as hell lately. Sneaking out at odd hours, slamming his laptop shut when I walk into the room. Getting tons of calls from private numbers and barely talking to me at all. I know marriage is supposedly a poisoned dart to your sex life, but it’s been almost two years since he’s touched me at all. Two. Years.”
The pointed look I give her seems to just confuse her more. “That doesn’t sound like him. Are you sure he’s not planning a surprise anniversary party or something? And I know he’s busy with the campaign and all, so it’s probably just that. I’m sure things will get better after the election.”
Groaning, I sit forward and thread my fingers through my hair, tugging hard. “If I never hear the word ‘election’ again, it’ll be too soon. I’m not cut out to be a Senator’s wife, Beck. I’m thinking I’m not cut out to be anyone’s wife, but especially not his. The death threats were bad enough when he was just a lawyer defending murderers and rapists, but now? People hate politicians more than they hate criminals. Not a week goes by that someone’s not threatening one of us.”
“So he’s being threatened on a regular basis and working to get re-elected. It sounds like all of your concerns can be explained by that,” she pushes. “I still don’t see why you’re calling it quits on your marriage.”
Easy for her to say. She married an NFL linebacker who worships the ground she walks on. She never has to wonder if she’s enough for him or if one day she’s going to get thrown out on her ass. “If you’re not going to help me, I’ll go somewhere else. I know he’s your friend too, but I thought if someone was going to profit from the end of my life as I know it, it should be you. Take it or leave it.”
She studies me for a long moment, no doubt counting up all the billable hours in her head. “It’ll be messy, Olivia. Ben won’t let this go. A divorce in the middle of a campaign? It’ll look bad, especially when you walk away with half. If he’s cheating, you’ll get more than that. It might cost him the election.”
There’s that fucking word again. Election. What a farce. We don’t really elect anything or anyone except for the next batch of figureheads who claim to give a shit about the American people but really only care about themselves. “Let me save you the trouble. I don’t want to fight him. He can keep all of his money, the house, the cars, the vacation properties, the stocks. There are no kids and no pets to fight over. I want the things I paid for with my own money and that’s about it. I’m perfectly fine keeping this quiet and lying to reporters if I have to; I just want it done. Will you do it or not?” I ask.
The wheels turn in her head as her long, beige nails tap the wide oak desk between us. I can tell how hesitant she is, but she’s known me for a long time. She knows I won’t be letting this go, so if she doesn’t help me, someone else will reap the financial rewards. “Fine,” she concedes. “Yes, of course I’ll help you. Just do me one favor first. As your friend, not your lawyer, I want you to go home and see if you can just talk to him. Have dinner with him, hang out a little. I’d hate to see you throw this away without trying.”
“Deal. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early when it fails.” Standing, I grab my bright red handbag off the floor and slink out of her office. I’m not going to fight her, even though that’s the most useless advice I’ve ever been given — I have been trying to make things work with him. I’ve cooked for him, followed him on the campaign trail. I’ve gone to his rallies, charity dinners, and schmooze-fests. I’ve blown him without having to be asked, kept his house in order and his staff under control. I’ve done everything a good wife should do... except for love him. That’s the one thing I’ll never be able to do. I’m not sure if it’s my fault or his, either. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with, so it’s not like I have a huge data pool to analyze or ex-boyfriends to compare him to. He’s all I’ve ever known, and for a while, I thought I loved him the way I was supposed to. But I don’t. When I look at him, I still see the pushy guy six years my senior who didn’t seem to care at all that I was underage when we met. I still see the guy who proposed to me like marriage was nothing more than a business transaction, and the man who followed up “Don’t ever leave me” with “Long relationships play really well with voters, and I want to make a White House run one day.”
Maybe I can’t love him because he’s never loved me.
Maybe I’m just broken.
Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter. The end result is the same, and I need off this ride before I spend my thirties the way I spent my twenties: as a bored trophy wife with friends as fake as my tan.
So yes. Whether Beck wants to help or not, I’m divorcing Senator Ben Daley and taking my goddamn life back.
I think I’ll suffocate if I don’t.
Chapter Two
Game On
CYPRUS
It’s been a while since I’ve taken a job. Not my regular job — hacking is easy and there’s never a shortage of desperate secrets businesses will pay loads for.
My other job.
The one I only started doing because I realized how fucked up the world is and how much better it would be if every garbage human was wiped out. I’m under no illusion that me stepping up to do what needs to be done will fix the world. I’m no hero or antihero o
Most people aren’t born with the natural capability to kill. Some are, and when I figured out I was one of them, I decided I may as well make some money while I’m at it.
That’s how I fell into my second job.
I have my own moral compass and lines. I don’t kill children or anyone elderly unless they’re a pedophile. In fact, I probably kill the instigator more often than I kill the mark because they’re usually the one that actually deserves it. It’s pretty easy to pick out which of them is shittier since one of them is hiring someone else to kill for them, but sometimes the hit is actually warranted. I’ve saved men, women and children from abusive situations they couldn’t otherwise escape, and every single time I do, I end up thousands of dollars richer. Regardless of the situation, I always walk away with my cut.
Like I said... I’m not a hero.
I’m just Cyprus Montez, a guy with the compartmental capabilities of a successful neurosurgeon that can aim really fucking well. Not really much to it.
I’ve lived alone the last nine years, my human contact limited to grocery store runs and coffee shops, and I find I prefer it that way. Before my step-mother cut me off I had a half-sister, but she didn’t like me any more than her mom did thanks to my tattoos and the general fuck you expression I seem to always don, so that didn’t feel much like of a loss when they moved even though I’d just lost my father. His was the only loss I’ve ever felt, which meant the lack of those two women in my life didn’t cost me a minute of sleep. Nothing ever does.
I’m on my way to bed when my email notification dings, and if it was any of my other laptops, I might just ignore it, but it’s the one I use least. The one whose only purpose is to be connected to my untraceable email. I’ll have to toss the whole thing the second the job is done, but it’s a necessary expense in this business. You don’t keep the smoking gun after you’ve pulled the trigger and bury yourself too; you get rid of all of it the second the cryptocurrency is transferred, and then you go on like it never happened. I don’t take risks, and regardless of who it is on the other end of that email, someone will die because of it.
And here I thought it was about to be another boring Thursday night.
With a sigh, I pull out my chair and plop down to crack the code only I can understand.
You don’t know me, but we have a mutual acquaintance who goes by Rabbit. He tells me you have a knack for making certain problems vanish, and I’d like to hire you to do a little... fixing for me. Like Rabbit, I have a little bunny at home who needs to be exterminated. I’ve tried everything else and this is my last resort. I’ll pay double what Rabbit paid. Do you accept?
SBD
A bunny at home. My initial guess is he hasn’t tried anything else at all. This is a rich guy who wants to off his wife so he doesn’t have to pay alimony, but there’s always a slim chance his bunny deserves it. I try not to hold too much judgment at first contact, but this email is pretty standard, and him offering to pay double what Rabbit paid only tells me this guy is important.
Nah, buddy. I think you’re gonna pay triple.
An hour later, I have all his information in front of me. Defense-lawyer-turned-Senator Ben Daley comes from old money and is trying hard to get re-elected, so I imagine a messy divorce in the middle of a campaign would be catastrophic for his mediocre numbers. As far as I know, he’s all talk and too many broken promises that he’s trying to guarantee he’ll fulfill if he’s re-elected. I may not vote, but if I did, I wouldn’t vote for him and his measly 46% approval rating. He does nothing for the people in need in Brisley, Colorado, and although I normally never take jobs in my own state, this one has me intrigued.
Why would he do this now? Why not wait until after the campaign when he has fewer eyes on him?
I have to assume he’s crunched for time, which means his little bunny has had enough of his bullshit. She’s probably looking for a way out, and Senator Fake-Smile Daley can’t afford to have a scandal this late in the game.
Pulling up some photos of him and said bunny, I take in her natural olive-white skin tone and perfect eyebrows. She’s dressed to impress in the first few I scroll through, but when I come across one of her running some marathon for cancer research, I find her even more attractive. I’ve never been one of those guys who enjoys seeing women all dolled up. I prefer this. The sweat clinging to her gorgeous face while her honey brown hair seems to glow under the sunlight. Her full lips are pulled up into a smile, but unlike her husband, her smile is real. There’s a small glint in her dark brown eyes that tells me she doesn’t like all the attention people are giving her there, but she likes what she’s doing. Sure, doing donation runs is a great look for her husband’s campaign, but she also likes giving back. Olivia Daley isn’t your average trophy wife, she’s one that knows how fortunate she is to have money to spare and will do what she can to give back wherever she can.
It only takes five minutes of me researching her to see that clearly.
There are pictures of her reading to little kids at a hospital, news articles detailing donations she made to local museums to keep admission costs low, a dozen college scholarships she sponsors for kids who wouldn’t normally be able to afford to go and adults who want to follow their dreams.
The longer I sit here, the more I think Ben Daley is the one that deserves my bullet, especially when I tap into his computer and see he’s typed out a very similar email to another hired gun. He must really want her gone if he’s about to send a hundred thousand dollar down payment to two separate hitmen to take out the same woman, and when I try to look into my competition, I find absolutely nothing. Either he’s new or he’s even better at computers than I am, but time will tell. I will get more information on the killer who calls himself Clown. It’ll just take a little longer than it did to get to know the Senator.
Game on.
Taking Ben out would be easy seeing as he’s gotten more than his fair share of death threats this year alone, but before I make my decision, I’m going to have to see his little bunny in action. There’s always the chance my initial gut instinct is off and all that philanthropy was just for show, so regardless of it rarely failing me in my thirty-three years of life, I’m a thorough motherfucker when it comes to this. I have to be.
He defended the kind of criminals I enjoy taking out, so him becoming a criminal himself and bringing my attention to him feels like kismet.
I send Ben Daley my usual response, because I never want anyone to know how much I really know. It’s my greatest weapon, and I need him to believe he’s safe here. I ask about the target and their usual routine, request a clear photo, then sign it under my alias, Hades.
I thought it was cool years ago to be associated with the Greek God of the underworld, but each year that I’m still alive, it only reminds me how much closer I am to meeting him. If he exists at all, and I like to think he does.
Once my response is encrypted and sent, I take my ass to bed and sleep like a fucking baby. It’s a lucky side effect of being a cold-hearted bastard with no one around to judge me, and I don’t imagine that’ll ever change, even if I wake up annoyed the next morning because Ben’s bunny was in my dream. Something tells me she’d judge me... not that I care.
Your quick response is appreciated. I’ll speak a little freer now — your target is Olivia Daley, 31F. Picture attached. Here is her daily schedule:
0600: yoga on the back patio of our home, weather permitting. If it’s raining, she’ll be inside the sun room which faces east. A line of trees would provide cover for you. The glass is not bulletproof, and she holds each pose for a minimum of a minute.
0630: She showers and gets ready for work.
0700: En route to GoodLife Insurance, where she works as an actuary. She typically hits traffic on the interstate.
