Alright. So I'd like to start by saying that I own nothing you recognize. Nor will I ever. But if Dean is ever on the auction block, I call dibs.
This is kind of an expieriment in my writting style. If it's confusing or you hate, please, tell me. It'll get a little more in depth as it goes on (I think...I hope...) so, hopefully it works now.
And here's the deal. Three reviews per chapter to continue because this one's getting entered in a scholarship thing and it needs to be good! Please and thank you!
She spots him over the sinister rhythm coming through the loudspeakers. He's dressed nicely, not too noticeable, but enough class so that he stands out from the grinding crowd. This is not the first time she's wondered about a mark, nor will it be the last, but her job is not to question. The bass pounding in her veins serves as a reminder.
His name is Evan McKee. He is a twenty-six, blonde haired, hazel eyed man, and head of one of the largest recording labels in the country. He has a house in New York, one in Las Vegas, one in Malibu, and one in Hollywood. His favorite color is green, and he has a pit-bull named Gus. He works midnight to midnight, except for Thursday. Thursday he goes to every club within a one hundred mile radius, making sure his hits are being played.
It was eleven-twenty pm Thursday night, and she had a job to do. Rubbing her glossed lips together, she pushes off the wall that has been supporting her surveillance for the past few minutes and sticks to the shadows, making her way slowly towards him. She can feel the looks she's getting as she passes those the dim lights also harbor. Lust. Anger. Fascination. They're all tangible as she comes closer and closer to the man, all building up until she's close enough to see the veins in his neck, and…He turns, practically running into her. Sputters an apology, clearly caught up in the cleavage her dress reveals. Introduces himself, hoping to make a good impression. Asks her to dance, obviously dying to touch her. She smiles, accepts the apology, bats her eyelashes at his name, and presses herself against him. This one was too easy.
The charade is kept up for a few dance mixes (two his). In a flurry of 'I-have-to-go's, and 'follow-me-I-know-a-place's, she gets him outside, in an alley a few down from the bouncing club, and his tongue down her throat for a few short seconds before he's on the ground. Blood pools from a tiny hole in his forehead and stains his Armani suit. She sidesteps the puddle, shoves the small pistol back into it's holster on her thigh, and walks back onto the street. The funeral march her heels click out echoes in the alleyway.
XXX
She's good and she knows it. That makes her a little cocky from time to time, like when she accidentally slipped out a back door that turned out to be a connecting door for another apartment. Or the time she poisoned some Joe and left the bottle on the kitchen counter. But, overall, she was good. Just like she had been trained.
Looking at herself now though, it's hard to believe. The tiny motel bathroom is filled with steam, and she has scratched herself clean of the quaking music and dark night. In the harsh lighting her hair carries streaks of red, steaks of the blood she's spilled, but she stops herself from thinking about that. She can't think about that because when she does, it all complies until she can't breath. Until she won't breath. That's how all the greats do it though, right? Do what they do, step on who they have to, don't think about it, and get a great night's rest? A good night's rest is just what she needs.
She quickly slips on a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt, makes sure both a gun and knife are in easy reach, and slips under the thick blankets of the hotel bed.
She needs a vacation. No one has called her to take care of a job. No one has called her for anything the past couple of weeks. She checks her cell phone. Batteries still good. Maybe no one would call her. Maybe her name has been forgotten. Maybe she could get some rest…..
She is jarred awake by a drift of cold air that seeps into her skin. Don't move. Don't breathe. She grabs her knife tightly, her body tenses.
"Not tonight, girl."
The knife is flung out of her hand, and she is thrown against a wall. And held there. By no one.
"I was told you were the best. That no one could get the jump on you. Well," a dark chuckle permeates the room, "I guess that doesn't include me." A man materializes out of the darkness. He snaps his fingers and the lights flick on. She cringes against the brightness. "My name is Azazel, but that sounds so stuffy, don't you agree?"
She shifts her weight against what is holding her as much as she could, which is very little, and holds her chin high. Whatever he's doing here, he isn't going to get the pleasure of seeing her struggle.
"Of course you agree." He sits down in overstuffed chair and props his feet up on a cheap, wooden desk next to her laptop. "Why don't you call me, hmm, Al. That's a good, generic name. And what's yours, again?"
She clenches her fists. She refuses to deal with him.
"Eve. A good name, too." He sighs as if content. "Listen, Eve, I'll let you down on the condition that you don't try and kill me. You can't do it, and it's been a long day." He flicks his hand and she drops to her feet. "Skill," he nods, "I can see it. I have a rather challenging proposition for you."
"You broke into my room." It is the first thing she's said, and he seems please by her choice of topic.
"I did. Although, I wouldn't call it 'breaking,' it was more-"
"Only you."
"Only me."
She steps closer to him. "How did you do that?"
"We don't all need a lock pick to get where we need to be."
"How did you hold me there?" She gestures to the wall, "You didn't touch me."
He grins. It's a sick, seductive grin that draws her in. He can teach her. He can teach her more than even Carrie can. And Carrie taught her everything. "You aren't scared."
It's a statement. It doesn't need answering. "How?"
Another flick of his hand and her knife is floating in midair in between them. "I possess certain talents."
"Talents you can teach?" She is no longer concerned with the stranger in her room. In fact, she can't seem to remember when she was. It is like talking to an old friend.
He seems delighted by her questions, by her attitude, and he gestures to the bed in front of him. She sits down. "Talents I can teach to someone worthy. Your ring?"
She pulls it off her finger and places it in his outstretched hand. It is nothing but sliver molded into the shape of a snake with garnet eyes that winds itself around her finger, but the moment the metal warms to his touch, it starts to hiss and slither. She watches in awe, and holds out her hand as he places the tiny reptile back in it. The snake slithers its way around her finger and once again becomes cold metal. She's hooked.
"Would you like to learn?"
"Yes."
"Good." He sits upright, "But I need your talents first."
'Who?" She doesn't even think about the question. Doesn't have to. It's always 'who.'
"A boy with the name Winchester. He harbors something I need. Something I want. I want him gone."
"Give me a location and twenty-four hours."
Azazel chuckles, "No, I want it slow and drawn out. I want him to be betrayed, hurt, to suffer."
"How?"
"How else?" He reaches out to grasp a strand of her hair. It curls around his finger like the snake around hers, copper like silver. "He is prone to lust. Turn it to love. Break his heart, Eve. Break his heart and then break whatever else you like."
She looks up to find her reflection yellowed in his eyes. "What are you?"
His grin spooks shivers down her spine. "Do you question the devil?"
"If I ever meet him." She can hold her own.
"I'll send him your regards."