HEY!!!
So, I just uploaded another new story-Looking Forwards. It currently has 11 reviews for two chapters (from the last time that I checked it.) If this story BEATS the 11 reviews mark (through two chapters) of Looking Forwards, I'll write this instead of Looking Forwards. If it doesn't, though, I'll delete this one and continue on with Looking Forwards.
THANK YOU FOR READING.
And if you liked this story,
PLEASE REVIEW!!!
(And I don't own anything. HAHA.)
SUMMARY: She was a backing singer by day and a spy by night, sent to protect the singing group she was in. He was the co-leader of a triad and was under orders to kill everyone in her group. And that was all before he fell in love with her. SMITCHIE. AU.
NOTE: I wanted to say that I'd read a story called Killing me Softly on Youtube about a male (Joe Jonas) who loved someone (Demi Lovato) but had to kill her. The author had started a couple chapters, but never finished it. I just want everyone to know that the story is ALL MINE and has not been copied, but the idea of someone in love with someone they'd had to kill (Mr. and Mrs. Smith, HAHA) was from "Killing me Softly." Thank you.
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We develop as humans
By choosing our life's choices.
There is right.
There is wrong.
But here-
There is only one rule.
Breaking the group's rules
Will mean certain death.
And breaking the group's rules
Is the right choice.
So.
What will you choose?
-
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Shane
Light filters in from the barred windows, shining around so that you can see every particle of dust. There are six gloomy faces in the room-six marred, skinned, ugly faces, their eyes glancing everywhere in case of a surprise attack. Their expression matches the dreary, concrete walls that surround us-sad and uninviting. But in this very room, there is no happiness. There is only the realization that once again, our hands will be stained with blood, and there is no tweaking out of it. There is only the forgiveness God knows will give stand in a half-circle, bracing ourselves, watching the triad leader with weary eyes.
What is it now?
The only thing I can think of at this moment is that we have a new mission. A new job. A new, innocent life that will vanish "accidentally" when it was us, us that had killed them. While no one in here likes to kill-for killing is a horrible, terrible thing from which only the cruellest would love. But we all have something at stake here. And we know, we know, that our leader will do anything to hurt those that are our weaknesses to gain what he wishes for.
"Gentleman."
His sultry, soft voice, like a Kurt Cobain's, slices into the silence. It's polite, but the politeness always ends up masquerading as terse, clipped, and hurried. His blond eyebrows crinkle and he stares at us with his sapphire eyes, which gleam maliciously in the light. He didn't look any older than mid-forties, but from his vast knowledge of gangs and illegal substances, he could possibly be sixty or seventy. A line of blond hairs form from his chin to his ear, creating sideburns that look immaculately manicured, and his muscular body is covered in a black Armani tux, giving the impression that he is a normal businessman in the wrong place.
Even though I have been addressed, I do not speak a single word, as there is no need to. Once he knows that he has our full attention, he starts to speak once again, talking of our mission. His pale hands grip a glossy magazine filled with all the crap on celebrities-the expensive kind that groups of frenzied, star-struck girls love to fawn over. He takes a black marker from his pocket, brushing off some dust from the shoulder of his suit, and flips open to a page in the magazine. He brandishes it in front of our faces and I glance at the faces he has circled.
Why do these girls look so familiar?
The first girl circled in the ugly color of black had waving red hair, blue eyes, and ginger freckles dotting over her nose and cheeks. She had an intricate fashion sense-apparently at this photo shoot it was something vintage, Gucci, and Chanel. Her slim figure was struck in a pose in front of a wrought iron mirror, her profile revealing nothing but confidence, courage, and beauty. As I looked at the photo harder, I realized I knew her name-Isis. Isis Montgomery, a singer. But why did she seem so familiar-
And then I knew.
I quickly glanced at the two other faces-and realized that my prediction was right. There were two more other girls-Margot Lien, a gorgeous Asian/English with green eyes and dark hair, and then the plainest of them all-Mitchie Torres, who had brown hair, brown bangs, and brown eyes. Nothing quite special there, but she was still quite pretty. Seville and Mitchie were the backup singers and the guitarists for Isis. As I quickly figured out their status-
"Gentlemen, I'm sure you know of these girls. In case you haven't, they're part of the latest girl's group to top the charts-Billboard and Rolling Stone alone have progressed and tracked every single record off their latest album. Kerrang has ten pages in their latest issue dedicated to these five teen pop sensations and they're more famous than Britney's latest scandal.
Pause.
"We have a proposition from a particularly rich client of ours. He wants these three girls off the charts-and this means assailing their careers, making sure they'll never create another hot single. But he also wishes for an accidental murder."
Accidental murder my foot.
We were killing once again, and I'd be helpless to do anything about it. I couldn't say a word, I couldn't do anything, all because of my leader. Whatever he said went, and there was no opposition to it, unless you wished to withstand a hanging of you and everyone you loved. This was why I never loved, why I never cared anymore. What was the point, when you had to have it stolen from you? Especially when-
"I only wish for one person to do the job."
Not me. Not me. Anyone but me. Please.
The leader stared at us with his cold, blue eyes, gone of life and gone of mercy.
"Son."
My hazel eyes flickered. Son. Son. Son. Not Shane. Son.
Same thing.
"Yes, Father."
As soon as I said those words, I regretted them. Shane Gray, son of a triad leader, afraid to kill.
Of course.
-
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Love.
What a fickle thing!
It can end tragically.
Romeo and Juliet.
Wherefore art thou, Romeo?
Or it can end beautifully.
...
Didn't matter.
In a dangerous buisness,
It wasn't right, wasn't adequate
heTo love someone.
Because
You would, in the end,
Have to kill them.
-
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Mitchie
"Thanks, Alyssa. Yep, I'll tell Isis and Margot that we'll be there at five fifteen sharp. Stefan? Yeah, we'll be asking Stefan to drive us. No problem. Thanks! See you in twenty."
I, Mitchie Torres, work for SVR, or, the Foreign Intelligence Service which is based in Russia. I, Mitchie Torres, am also a backing singer and guitarist for Isis Montgomery, mega starlet and teen sensation as of this moment. And I, Mitchie Torres, am also Isis' maid. Presently, I am Isis' maid and collecting all the calls for her rehearsals and such. I knew that Isis was probably upstairs contemplating what shoes to wear to someplace, so I run up the never-ending spiral staircase that took up half of the whole hallway. I reached Isis' door and reached for the doorknob, when Isis pulled it open and held up two pairs of shoes-a pair of shiny patent flats from Chanel, or a pair of black and violet Stella McCartney slingbacks.
"Chanel or Stella, Mitchie?"
I silently stifled an inward groan. Was she really asking me, at the worst possible timing?
"Stella. Isis, Alyssa called, and said that we have a planned rehearsal at five fifteen sharp. I've called Stefan, and he'll be driving us. Come on, just jump into some sweats or something and let's hit the recording studio-it's already four fifty." Isis glanced innocently at me with her green eyes, but I knew better-she was probably setting me up for something.
"Oh, okay. But Stella's black, it doesn't suit with the dress like Chanel does-"
"Then Chanel." Oh, God, was she seriously doing this? This was the worst she could inflict on me as of right now-
"The Chanel flats are BROWN, Mitchie! My stylist says that purple and green look the best on me-"
"Isis, we have to go right now. Hurry up, take whatever you like. We have to go, and I'm heading downstairs to call Margot. I'll see you in three downstairs."
I knew that three would stall over to ten, eight, or twenty. She'd always chosen to pick on me at the worst possible timing. I quickly ran down the stairs and collected Margot (which was a whole lot easier than collecting the diva.) Margot flipped her long, blue-black hair behind her shoulders and glanced angrily at Isis. "Is she taking the long run again?" I glanced at Margot's flawless face-her pouty pink lips, her large eyes, her button nose, disfigured by the anger that was welling in her. She knew that I'd always had to put up with this and was sick of it, for her and for my sake.
"ISIS, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE, LIKE, NOW!"
Margot put her hands on her hips, waiting to hear the soft steps of her Isis' flat-backs or whatever. If there was one person who could regain order around here, it was Margot. Her profile was the definition of confidence and she was never one to keep her mouth shut. Isis was almost always controlled by Margot because of her impatient, in-control demeanor, (quite unlike my shy, quiet personality) and this time was no different. Isis started down the stairs and grabbed her black, gunmetal purse from the rack beside the ornate door. Her lips shifted into a frown as she saw Margot.
"What now? I'm coming, Jeez!"
I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for Margot-we were leaving with at least a couple seconds to spare. The three of us dashed down to the limo, with Isis lumbering in behind, and we sped away to the recording studio.
...
"No, no, Isis, it's got to be like this-"
I leaned against the door frame of the recording box that Isis was in. The large black headphones were now in her hands, and she looked questioningly at the producer with her green eyes. Isis hated criticism-she thought that everything she did was right and perfect. I stifled a snicker as the producer called the writer of the song in to "sing the song like this." I watched as Margot winked at me from behind the large Gibson that was wrenched tightly in her hands. Suddenly, the producer called me over.
"Mitchie...Come, show Isis how to sing!"
Isis gave me the evil eye, while Margot clapped a hand over her mouth in excitement.
No one except Margot knew that I'd always tucked a book of songs in the back pocket of my jeans, that I'd always had a guitar stuffed in the depths of my closet, and that I loved to sing. Margot had stumbled in on one of my private "guitar-to-Mitchie" sessions and had never said a word about it, instead encouraging me to go for it. Well, it wasn't possible with Isis here, but I'd never given up hope.
"Um...Okay..."
I looked up and the lyrics, even though I knew this song very well-I was one of the writers.
Do you know what it's like,
To feel so in the dark,
To dream about a life,
When you're the shining star...
-
As I finished the fourth stanza, the producer looked amazed and the writer's jaw had dropped. "Now that's what I call your inner star, Isis. Mitchie's got it all in check!" The producer burst into a wide grin while Isis glared at me-and Margot brandished a huge smile that spread to her face. I bet I was glowing-I was immensely happy, as no one had ever given my praise like this, and this was my debut in a recording studio.
But the happiness faded as quickly as it had spread. I'd seen a shadow, slim and dark, slipping into the hallway. No one had seemed to see it, but I had. I wasn't trained as a Russian spy for nothing-I'd gone against some spies working for the Israeli Mossad and even M16, the agency that rose to fame under a certain James Bond.
I crept out the door and entered the hallway, my shoulders strained and my steps silent, sneaking stealthily. My brown eyes scanned the hallway, and I'd realized that I was only armed with a Swiss Army knife-no matter how well Switzerland crafted their knives, it wasn't enough, since I was used to the gadgets that commenced logic and complicity. Before I'd had time to run back and hope that the mysterious stranger was dangerous, I felt a breeze behind my back. I whipped around and saw a dashing young man.
He had long, raven hair, and was dressed in a slick black jumpsuit. His hazel eyes shone, and he stepped towards me. I wasn't scared, but I knew he was holding a serrated knife-there was something glinting behind those hands of his.
"Hello beautiful. Shame to have to kill you."
He was under orders to kill me, Isis and Margot. I'd guessed from the suspicious clothing choice-there was a mark on the left side of his chest, a shield with a black lion on a blood-red background and fleur-de-lis tracing the edges of the shield. I'd racked my brain trying to find out where the symbol was from, but before I could, I saw the movement in the hand half concealed behind his back. I slowly reached into the back pocket of my jeans, taking out the cool, sleek piece of metal.
Should I gouge it in his pretty hazel eyes?
I quickly flipped it out and slid it on the surface on the hand that held the knife, all whilst hiding my only defense in the shadows. That should take care of his weaponry-and, as I guessed, there was a clang and a surprised look on the young man's face. He snarled, and I thrust the knife deftly at his face. He caught the knife in midair and my eyes widened. Shit.
This boy was trained.
He pulled out another knife with a blade that was dangerously sharp.
He also had reinforcements.
I leaped to the side and ran down the hall. He kept chase, and I was quickly stopped, as I'd headed into a dead-end. I looked around me-just one hall, a killer coming my way, and another wall right behind me. As the male ran up to me and slashed with his knife, I ducked and rolled and ran, once again, in the other direction.
And then something yanked me from behind and I froze in horror.
"You're fast, beautiful. But you're not fast enough."
And then I saw a familiar, long blade beside my neck and stared at the tip, which was halted on my cheekbones.