HANS: Alliance Series Book Four, page 4
The next time I ran into Karmine at a hit, she had four other women with her. And they were out for blood. So I introduced them to my arms dealer.
And the third time I saw her, she was running a crew fifteen deep. All bad-as-hell women who’d clawed their way to freedom. So when Karmine asked if I’d like to share intel and take on some hits for her, I said yes.
I’d been on my own for so long that it was nice to have someone else do the hunting. Nice to not have to do every damn step on my own. Only they did more than I ever could. They gave the women they found safety. They gave them options.
I was always so focused on destruction, knew I was only ever good for killing.
Karmine’s army is so much more.
And I’m happy to be a weapon for them to wield.
“Can’t say I was expecting the girl next door.” My friend breaks her stunned silence.
“It’s not like that,” I admit, sure she’s jumping to all sorts of wrong conclusions.
“Right.” She drags the word out.
“It’s not. I don’t even talk to her.”
Karmine narrows her eyes, and I press my lips together.
“You were whispering when I called you earlier…” I watch uncomfortably as she puts it together. “Hans, tell me you weren’t in her house.”
“Look,” I start, and I already know I’m gonna sound like a fucking creep. “I’m not doing it to perv on her or anything. I’m just making sure she’s safe.”
“By skulking through her house in the middle of the day? While she’s there?”
“When you say it like that.”
Karmine snorts. “Man, I know you’re not like these assholes.” She gestures her hand toward the bar. “But maybe you should try to spend some more time with normal people. Because you can’t be doing that. You’re good, but she’s gonna catch you. And that’ll go down real bad.”
“I don’t—She doesn’t…” I scrub a hand down my face. “She wasn’t there before. I fell asleep…”
Karmine drowns out my words with her full-body laugh.
After several long seconds, she finally takes a breath, and I level her with a bored look. “You done?”
She brushes a tear away from her eye. “Christ, Hans. You can’t just Goldilocks this girl and expect a happily ever after.”
“Goldi—” I shake my head. “I might be fucked in the head, but I’m not delusional. I know that’s not where my story goes.”
“What? Happiness?” The sad look she gives me makes my stomach hurt.
She knows my past just like I know hers. She knows what weighs on my shoulders. She knows I was too late.
Karmine’s expression softens. “You’ve more than leveled the scales of justice. Shit, you’ve ended enough bad guys to single-handedly populate one of the circles of hell.”
“And that means I win a white picket fence?”
She sighs, having no patience for my self-pity. “It means you can think about, I dunno, maybe not being such a fucking loser. Retire. Get a life. Try talking to the girl you’re stalking. Ask her out.”
“I’m not stalk—” I cut myself off because, by the definition of stalking, I think I probably am. So I change the topic. “Did you just tell me to retire?”
“I mean, not entirely. I still need you around on occasion. But why not go call up The Alliance bros? Throw hands with those fancy fucks. Change up the scenery a bit. You didn’t have us help you save that mafia asshole for nothing. I know you always have a plan.”
I lift a shoulder.
There wasn’t really a grand plan other than wanting to help out those who have helped me. True, The Alliance hadn’t realized they were helping me, considering they were hunting me, but they still helped to dispel human trafficking deals in their territory. And that was helpful to me.
Getting a life debt from Dominic Gonzalez was just a perk.
“You gonna retire?” I ask, deflecting the attention.
Karmine scoffs. “Fuck no. But I’m not as old as you. And, unlike you, I’m still getting some.”
“Bravo,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t be a dick because you’re jealous. Human interaction is good for mental well-being. I don’t care about your fucked-up backstory; any girl would be lucky to end up with you.” She loosely flaps her hand in my direction. “Assuming they like the ruggedly handsome bad boy type.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime, sport,” she snarks back, then pauses. “I’ve heard some chatter. People looking for you.”
“People are always looking for me.”
“Yeah, but not like this. This sounds close.” Karmine’s voice is serious.
“Noted.”
She’s right, of course. This newest ring of assholes has been more active than ever. And that means they have someone with lots of money funding them.
And it’s all the more reason to leave Cassandra alone. If someone’s after me, I can’t have anyone else around me to catch the shrapnel.
“Alright.” Karmine straightens from the side of the truck, hand on the duffel bag. “You want a cut?” she asks, like she always does.
“I’m good,” I answer the way I always do.
I don’t need it. I already have more money than I could ever spend.
CHAPTER 8
Cassie
A moan yanks me out of my sleep, and it takes me a second to realize it was my own.
I stare at the ceiling, and the frustration is instant because I can already tell I won’t be able to fall back asleep. But I want to so badly because I want to finish that dream.
And let Hans finish me.
Groaning, I drag the bedspread over my face and press the soft fabric against my eyes. As though I might visually smother myself back into unconsciousness.
Maybe I need to hire someone to come sage my house. Or maybe I just need to go out into public more. Or join a dating site. Because this crush I have on my hot neighbor is getting out of control.
I know it’s my brain playing tricks on me, but it was like I could feel his presence all afternoon. And I blamed the empty zucchini cookie container. But when I came up to bed, I swear his scent was blanketed across my room. As though I was conjuring him with wishes and hopes.
I squeeze my thighs together and groan again.
I can’t even bring myself to scream into my pillow because that smells like him too.
Which is crazy. Because I know it doesn’t. It can’t.
Giving up, I toss my bedspread off and climb out of bed.
I slowly walk through the dark to my window and pull the curtains back, seeing that the sun has barely started to rise.
I look across the street, wondering if Hans is in there now, but I can’t tell. I can never tell when he’s home.
The drapes or blinds or whatever he has over his living room windows aren’t blackout ones. Often, I can see a glow inside, but after the first few months of living here and trying to figure out his schedule, I came to the conclusion that the lights in his house are on random timers. Or at least some of them. And I only know about the random timer lights because my dad always tells me to get them. He worries about me as a female living alone. I appreciate that worry, I do, but I spend a lot of my time at home, and having lights randomly popping on and off would drive me crazy.
Crazier than I’m already going.
Feeling a little too much like a creeper, I step away from my window and try to put thoughts of Hot Hans out of my mind. And the only way to do that is to start my day.
With my hip leaning against the kitchen counter, the aroma of brewing coffee fills the house, and I feel a little of my sanity returning.
I’m scrolling through my phone, deleting emails, when I come across one telling me my self-purchased birthday present arrived yesterday. Or at least one of them. The other one should be delivered any day now.
Not caring that I’m still in my pajamas, since I won’t see anyone anyway, I head to the front door and slip on my sandals.
It’s been hot this summer, but the early morning air isn’t stifling. I take my time making my way down the driveway to my mailbox.
I was in such a hurry to get on that call yesterday that I forgot to check the mail.
I spare a glance at Hans’s house, wishing I knew the layout, specifically wondering if his bedroom window is the one on the far front corner, next to what has to be his living room, or if it’s on the back side of the house. I’m assuming the single narrow window closest to the garage is his kitchen, so the house must go garage, kitchen, living room, bedroom—possibly plural—and bathroom.
Okay, wow, time to get a hobby.
I almost chuckle at my inner voice.
Getting a hobby has never been my issue. It’s sticking to a hobby that’s the problem. Bringing me back around to the point of this outing.
Pulling open my mailbox, I sigh when I see that the box is clearly too big for this rusty old thing, but the mail delivery person jammed it in there anyway.
“Would it have killed you to bring the box to my front step?” I grumble, knowing damn well my ass wouldn’t have walked it up to the house either.
I work to wiggle the box out, one corner, then the other, getting it caught on the lip around the opening of the mailbox.
I wiggle it some more.
The one hobby I’ve found that I really like to do is baking. So I bought myself personalized recipe cards, multicolored pens, cute little food stickers, and other things I don’t want bent or wrinkled. It would be great to just mash the corner of the box to release it, but I can’t. I need to finesse it.
When finessing doesn’t work, I give it another hard tug, and finally the box slides free, scattering a handful of envelopes onto the ground in the process.
“Crap.”
I tuck the box under my arm as I bend down to pick up the rest of my mail.
CHAPTER 9
Hans
I watch through the window over my kitchen sink as Cassandra’s front door opens and she prances out.
“Seriously?” I question the universe as she skips down her driveway, wearing practically nothing.
Each step has her tiny yellow silk shorts riding up her thighs, exposing the expanse of jiggling pale skin.
Cassandra takes the last step from her driveway to the road, and her foot comes down a little harder than before, which is highlighted by her unrestrained tits bouncing under her matching yellow silk tank top. The thin straps are barely enough to hold the soft fabric across her chest.
And I know the fabric is soft because I’ve touched it.
I’ve held it in my hands.
My fingers tighten around the glass I’m drinking water from, and I have to force them to loosen. But I don’t look away. Even when she looks in this direction.
The kitchen is dark, and I have a film over this window that blurs the view of anyone trying to look in, so I know she can’t see me. Which is why I continue to stand here staring while she turns her back to me and starts to struggle with something in the mailbox.
The wiggling. And shaking. And bouncing… It’s too much.
This woman is too fucking much.
And when she finally yanks the item free and mail falls to the ground around her, she finally does it.
She bends over.
The tiny shorts are no longer shorts; they’re barely underwear as Cassandra flashes me with an unrestricted view of the bottom half of her ass cheeks. The material pulled tight across her pussy. The bunching fabric right where I want to put my face.
I’m across the kitchen, across the living room, and have my hand on the handle of my front door before I realize what I’m doing.
I close my eyes.
I just got home. Walked in my door five minutes before she walked out hers. I just needed some water and a slice of bread before I crawled into bed.
I don’t need to accost my neighbor in the street.
Releasing the doorknob, I move back into the kitchen and watch her sexy ass walk back up her driveway and into her house.
After I sleep, I’ll replay her walk on my security feed.
For research purposes.
To make sure she locked her front door.
And the next time she leaves the house, I’ll go back over and relock her bedroom window.
I don’t need the temptation of knowing it’s open.
CHAPTER 10
Hans
Leaving my truck in the driveway, I grab my groceries and take the dozen strides to my mailbox.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I watched Cassandra get her mail, and I’m still on edge.
Mostly because I can’t get the sight of her bent over in those fucking shorts out of my mind. Probably doesn’t help that I’ve watched the video of her doing just that two dozen times. And it definitely doesn’t help that I’m severely lacking in sleep after the last couple days.
I keep my eyes firmly on my own mailbox, not sparing a glance at the box across the street.
There’s more mail in mine than I expected, but half is probably garbage.
With the pile tucked under one arm, I walk through my garage and into the kitchen.
The cans in the bottom of my grocery bag clunk against the counter when I set it down, but there’s nothing cold in the bag, so I ignore it and turn my attention to the mail.
I sort out the typical junk mail and find one flyer for new shingles that came from my man with connections to Italy, so I set that to the side. He’s old school and doesn’t like to use phones, but his information is usually good, so I don’t mind the Cold War approach. It’ll give me something to do tonight as I sort out the coded message.
The last item is a plain brown envelope with something thick inside.
I lift it, ready to take it to my safe room to check it for explosives, when I see it’s addressed to Resident of 1304.
This is Cassandra’s mail.
I pause.
This isn’t mine.
I shouldn’t…
My fingers are already pulling the little plastic thread to rip open the envelope.
I know I shouldn’t, but this is for her safety. The packaging is suspicious. The address is not personalized. The contents…
I tilt the large envelope, and a book slides out.
It’s square, maybe seven by seven inches, with a hardcover covered in a soft black fabric.
I tilt it in the light coming through the window, causing the silver lettering across the cover to shine.
Lust Shots.
And my blood thickens with an emotion I can’t pinpoint.
Anger? Jealousy?
I open the book, and my stomach clenches.
Definitely jealousy.
It’s Cassandra. On her knees. On a bed that isn’t hers. And the gauzy little nightgown she’s wearing is pretty much see-through.
I turn the page.
She’s on her back, her head hanging off the foot of the bed, her arms draped down toward the ground, her dark curls pooling between her hands. She’s not looking at the camera in this one; she’s looking to the side. And she’s wearing—
I grip the book tighter, and the spine creaks.
She’s in a bra and panties. That’s it.
The angle of the shot highlights her giant tits, mounded on her chest, held in place by black lace and underwires.
I turn the page.
She’s standing in front of a full-length mirror. The shot is from behind, and she’s still just in her underwear. This one is in black and white. And…
My breaths are coming faster.
My chest rises and falls as if I’m fighting for my life.
I turn the page.
Again.
Again.
All her. All my Cassandra. Spread out like a fucking centerfold.
For someone else.
My vision tints an ugly shade of green, and I storm out of my house, book in hand.
CHAPTER 11
Cassie
When the popping starts to slow, I hit the button to stop the microwave and yank the door open.
Popcorn steam plumes out, but I fan it away and lift the bag by the corner.
It’s Friday. I’ve logged off from work for the day. I’ve put my hair up and I’ve got my not-for-public little cotton shorts on, along with the worn T-shirt I got at the Grand Canyon years ago. This is my definition of comfort, and my plans consist of becoming one with the couch while I catch up on the newest season of my favorite true crime series. Because what’s more relaxing than murder?
Pinching the bag tight so I don’t drop it, I carry it over to the dining table, where I have my big red plastic bowl ready.
I’ve burned myself more than once opening these papery bags, so I carefully grab opposite corners with my fingertips and start to pull gently.
Then a loud pounding on the front door startles me so badly I jump and accidentally rip the bag in two.
Popcorn showers around me.
Dropping my grip with one hand, I slap my palm over my heart.
“What the hell?”
I stand for a second, wondering if I really heard someone knocking, when it sounds again.
I set the bag on the table amid the scattered popcorn and head toward the door.
“Cassandra!” My name booms through the closed door.
Wait.
Is that…?
A fist pounds against the wood again, and it shakes in its frame.
“Cassandra, open the door.”
My heart keeps galloping but for a new reason.
Is that Hans?
And did he call me Cassandra?
Popcorn crunches under my slippers as I hurry to the door.
CHAPTER 12
Hans
If I could force myself to let go of the book, I’d pick her lock and let myself in.
But I won’t let go.
“Cassandra,” I bellow a third time.
The deadbolt clicks, and the handle turns, and I step through the door as Cassandra opens it.
