FINAL WARNING:

Lots (TONS) of cursing/adult language and suggestive themes, including references to violence/murder.

A/N: Great guessing, Hummingbirdgrrl! Thanks Mrskroy for being my awesome beta!

Also, please note that a prelude and a prologue are not exactly the same thing. Happy Reading!

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If I don't look like the kind of girl who would sooner kill you then kiss you, congratulations – you have been lulled into a false sense of security by my deliberately misdirecting appearance, my carefully crafted persona punctuated by an air of confidence, lightly curled waves of strawberry blonde hair, and a well-practiced sparkle in my eye.

You're so fucked.

I've been called lots of names – some of them more explicit than descriptive – but I still prefer when someone spits "honeypot" or "bait" at me venomously right before I depress the trigger of my 9mm – with a smirk on my face and a song in my heart – the barrel pressed snuggly against the guy's temple. They never actually think I'm going to go through with it – dumbasses; I love being underestimated and marginalized – in truth, it's what makes me really fucking good at my job. And I really fucking like my job. Before you go thinking I'm a monster, I'm not killing people for sport – or for fun – if I've got a bullet with your name on it, it's because you deserve it – trust me. I mean I don't know exactly what you've done, but I know it's an atrocity or I wouldn't waste my breath – my bosses know my moral code.

It's not an intricate or elegant system; I get a contract, it has your name on it, so I come for you. And you don't survive – because I am that good. End of story. If you think that makes me an awful bitch, good news! – that's another name I don't necessarily mind being called.

In fact, some days I think I should get it tattooed on my ass – heinous bitch – so that when I slip off my pants, waggling my cheeks as you waggle your tongue – my thong on display – you eye the plain, harsh truth of what I really am, catch a quick glimpse of my non-sweet angelness right before you spy the gun tucked into the holster at my hip. The thing you're about to get fucked with – and NOT like that! Ugh, I'm not a sadist or a sick freak. Masochist? Up for debate.

No, I just enjoy saying 'fucked' – a fucking lot. In fact, I allow myself many many vices, cursing being the least of them.

Now before you guys go thinking that I work for the mob, it's not the mob. Let's just say it's a highly organized group of vigilantes who well incentivize ordinary-looking citizens like myself who have an aptitude for blending in, going unnoticed, who seem innocuously innocent and weak. When I'm not doing this, I'm pretending to be Miss Susie Sunshine herself, the dutiful wife – not yet mother – to a man I'm most definitely not married too.

Welcome to my parlor show of tricks and illusions.

I'm not a black widow, or a heartless jerk – fake hubbie's my handler – and while I'm sure he hopes one day I'm gonna break down and fuck him, it's not like that. He and I were actually working as grifters for years – taking advantage of undersexed men who thought they'd hit the ever-loving mother fucking jackpot as I sat down beside them in a bar, crossing and uncrossing my legs in a way that screamed sex, while demurely sipping on a virgin Shirley temple. Men maybe don't jump up and down at thinking they'll your first, but hells yeah if they aren't dying to be your second – makes them feel like they don't have to break you in, but they can still get you to do all kinds of vile things that seasoned women know to say no to.

Poor delusional men – so simple, so gullible – carrying way too much cash on their person too, but I guess I shouldn't complain since it was to my benefit.

So I hear you, over there, asking what of the fucking moral code I claimed? Yeah, well, it's not like they were good guys! Hell, to find your way onto my shit list, to become my prey – at least before I got into this contract gig – you basically had to pretty openly be a lecher, a sick sad little fuck who groped at women as they passed by you or did that gross thing some men think is flirting when they essentially waggle their tongue at you, simulating oral sex (I guess?) – has any women ever been like, OH MY GOD! He's amazing and I want to fuck him! He has a tongue and everything – my only requirement! NO! We don't look away to blush; we turn our heads to upchuck every decent thing we ever tried to think about the opposite sex.

I don't pretend I don't have issues – so don't bother judging me.

Robbery? Yep, that was my primary source of income, but killing people? I'd never done that before – you know, until I had.

Yeah, murder for hire wasn't exactly the kind of job I was looking to find. It's a newish development to have jumped on the contract killing train – my faux hubby and I – joining an already in-progress world hidden under regular society that strives to cull out the evil and wretched advocates against goodness and virtue. It's sort of like we hopped sideways onto the straight and narrow path, if you want to call it that. I know I do. I'm not gonna lie – it wasn't exactly a choice; well it was but the choice was shit: life sentence or hired assassin.

Guess which one I picked?

It was a stupid fucking mistake – the thing that got me here – and one I don't wanna talk about right now. Maybe later, but prolly not. I'm sure I'll pay for it sometime or another in spades, but it's just simply not that fucking time yet.

I wasn't fucking eager to pick up a gun – at first. I remember shaking with the metal death device in my hand like it was a bomb ready to explode. When I first fired it – the shot ringing like hell in my ears; fuck them for not warning me to wear protective gear – I fell squarely on my ass and got quite the nasty bruise. Sore for weeks – WEEKS! But then I started feeling like it was some extension of my hand, and I itched when the cold steel wasn't warming itself against my naked skin. I guess I sorta took to firearms like a fish takes to water. Funny, since I always loved to swim. Guppy; they called me guppy when I was little squirt, flying through a pool like I was a dolphin in a past life – maybe I was; who fucking knows?

Prolly not; dolphins don't seem like natural predators – but I am.

My childhood's not the fucking point of this story, nor is it any of your goddamn business. But if you must know – if it'll help you to untangle the enigma that is me – it wasn't a happy one – as if you couldn't have guessed that. I lost my parents when I was barely a squeaker, got shoved unceremoniously into foster care, and raked through a system that held no comforts – or fucking benefits – for a little disturbed girl as old as I already was. No one's real excited to house the child of serial-killer's victims, the young girl found by police bathing in her parents' blood, screaming her tiny lungs out – terrified out of her mind. You know, no one except my child-molesting son-of-a-bitch uncle.

There. Aren't you sorry you were even the tiniest bit curious?

I ran – by the way – far away from the monster of a man who saw me as a convenient check and soft body – nothing else, no familial affections there; not the aboveboard kind at least – knowing he'd struggle to explain my absence, and to feed his fucking perverted addictions to young flesh. Shoulda killed in him in sleep – fuck all I should have! And you might even agree – but you've gotta know that at the time I still believed in the universe, in the goodness of people. Even if that piece of filth had definitely had eroded my last shred of faith in any kind of merciful God.

Of course that fucktard hadn't done that all on his own – the monster who had stolen everything from me definitely contributed to that cause.

In truth – because I'm human after all, even if you don't believe it – I left to look for my grandmother, who I was sure – so sure! – would come for me the first couple of days I was stuck sleeping in a government building, while the supposed world searched for my next of kin. She lived in Monroe, Louisiana; I told them so! How fucking hard was that!? I yelled it over and over as officers shook their heads at me, casting their eyes away, patting me on the shoulder like a goddamn charity case.

How was I supposed understand their unspoken meanings? Body language wasn't exactly my forte – I was seven!

It's not like any of them bothered to tell me she was dead – slaughtered by the same madman who killed my parents, or at least that's what I think – or really what everyone fucking thinks. I know because I read the file, many years later, after Sam – my faux husband and I – traveled back to my hometown under the cover of night and broke into the police station, rifling through files – flashlights held by our teeth – until we found the manila folder I was looking for.

"M. and C. Stackhouse, parents to one Sookie Stackhouse (fuck off, it's a real name, look it up!) murdered in their privacy of their own home (crime scene pictures as proof, in case descriptions of the carnage weren't enough – ick and puke-inspiring), their son Jason Stackhouse kidnapped – never recovered."

Oh yeah, I had a brother too. HAD – presumed dead by all, and I guess me too – never resurfacing alive or dead, even after fifteen years passed by – agonizingly on-the run; not in the blink of an eye. But whatevs. Everyone gets dealt their own shitty hand at the game of life and there's not one fucking day that doesn't pass that I even the slightest tinge of guilt for being the only one to survive. Fate's got a wicked sense of humor – to this day, I can't tell you why I fucking thought I should sleep outside in the tree by my window that night; I don't think I'll ever remember, but it happened.

100% the only reason I'm alive today.

UGH! Things I don't wanna talk about. Done! No more mopey, sad Sookie talk. I kill people for a living for Christ's sakes! You think I'd be able to stomach a little heartache and sorrow – I sure as hell cause enough of it. (But. Nope. Inside, I'm still just that little girl shaking her cold mother's body by the chest, begging her – BEGGING HER – to wake up.)

Exhibit A, my dear jury; those are just some of the issues I warned you not to judge me for.

Sam says I'm a little too aggressive – abrasive and cold – and I'm not exactly disinclined to agree – but what the fuck of it? He's always handled his demons, his darker self, better than I do – which is why I let him handle me, point me in the right direction and guide me in and out of danger on our quest to meet the unknown quota we've been given to secure our freedom. Don't misunderstand this arrangement; he doesn't use me to do his dirty work – if that's what you're thinking – if anything, I use him because we're damned because of my fuck-up, not his.

Lesson of the story, kids – don't fuck with the wrong people.

Backstory done. I think you've got the gist of it, the fucking joyful mess I find myself – and my only friend, even if I don't trust him too much more than I could throw him (not that I trust anyone other than myself, and some days, even that's up for debate) – in. My life is so ass backwards, I don't know if I'm coming or going anymore. Not gonna lie – the only time I feel alive at all is when I'm peering through the small sight on my 9mm, finger poised at the trigger, during the microcosm of a second before I tug at the metal and divest the world of one more worthless piece of shit that we're all better off without.

So yeah, if there's anything I love, it's my fucking job.

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"Sookie!"

Sam's chiding me, stomping around the room as he fists his hands – not threatening me, mind you, but the wall maybe should brace itself for a potential impact.

Admonishment has become part of my daily life – not in a weird fatherly way – Sam just worries about me, a little too much for my own fucking taste. But in all fairness to my partner-in-crime, I did just tell him a story about narrowly escaping with my life while working our last contract – don't worry, I won (yay me!) But apparently the guy was into erotic asphyxiation – definitely wasn't expecting that – which made it a little difficult to call for help or do much of anything other than claw at his hands as my world turned to blacks and blues – such a strong and nasty son-of-a-bitch; his hands were the size of oven mitts!

Autonomic responses are a godsend by the way; my flailing legs finally swinging into the douche's nut sack before I lost consciousness entirely. He didn't even suspect I was there to kill him; he just really got off on choking people.

"Sam…" I spit back, "You know it's your fucking job to do the reconnaissance, figure out what these sick fucks like so I don't go in fucking blind!"

He winces – I win! (I'm childish, and I'm okay with that) – looking down to study the brown braided tassels on his shoes, kicking at nonexistent dust. He's been distracted recently – he knows it; I know it – and it's been affecting his work. Honestly, my guess is that he's just fucking tired of this life. I can't blame him, not really, but if he can't get his ass into gear, he'll have to go – I'm risking my life enough as it is without knowing in advance what these pervs are capable of – and I tell him so.

He doesn't take it well – no surprise there.

"What the fuck, Sooks? You just tryin' to get rid of me?"

He sounds mad, but I can hear the hurt in his words – he thinks I'm trying to push him away; he doesn't understand that you can't push someone away if you've never been close to them. But I'm not heartless – not a completely closed tomb – and while we've never been as close as he thinks, he is still the only person I've got on my side, in my court, watching out for me. I reiterate it in my impassionate speech, or at least the best I can; words are not my thing – neither are displays of affections… maybe I don't have a thing…

"Of course not, Sam! But if you're not watching my back, who's gonna be?!"

His face falls entirely, turning red and speckled. Check and mate. I'm not a user by nature, but Sam and I have been together – friendly-like, not romantically – for years and honestly I think I've become a little codependent. (It happens! – even to the stoniest of us!) I… don't wanna lose him; he's my security blanket. Especially after all we've been through…

"I'M NOT LEAVING YOU!"

He screams, not answering my question – that's called avoidance, for all of you out in the peanut gallery, cause we both know I have no one else. But what I spy in his timbre is his hesitancy – the jig is up, probably because he's found someone more apt for him. At his next utterance, I'm certain of it, "But don't you ever get tired of this?" He means our situation, and no I don't get tired of it – if anyone other than Sam is interested in my answer – "This life of killing and running?"

I wanna lie to him, really I do, because I am definitely afraid of being alone, especially after being 'with' Sam for almost fifteen years, but he's showing weakness – for the first time ever – and I can't abide it; it'll get us both killed. No, I won't let him suck me into whatever sinkhole he's found himself in that's apparently tearing him apart and pulling him under.

"No, I've never been happier."

And maybe that's sad, but it's true – even with the death threats and near death experiences, it's better than wishing for death – a hell of a lot better in fact. But Sam's not wishing for death; he's hoping for life – outside this, away from me. Who am I to deny him his freedom?

Fuck! I'm so torn right now between wanting to push him away for his weak-link nature or for his own good. Same outcome either way; easy response, and I figure the fucking rest out later, while I coddle myself and soothe my own fears.

"Go the fuck away!"

I scream at a dull roar, not so much a whisper.

"Sooks…"

Ugh! Answered: for his own good.

He's… aggravating, trying to protect me, keep me… Our relationship is important to me, but fuck it if I don't feel guilty – how can I pick me over him? Especially after I accidentally trapped him into this life.

"Run, Sam. Run! This is not your cross to bear, not your problem," My small heart is breaking – I'm going to be oh-so-fucking alone, "I won't tell them where you've gone; I swear it! They may not even bother looking for you since they'll still have me…" My fortitude and resolve belied by my wavering and pleading tone.

"I met someone," He cut me off – no fucking shit, Sam; OBVIOUSLY!

"Oh."

It's all I can say.

"She's pretty amazing; you should meet her – you'd like her."

Of course, he wants me to like her because Sam's never recognized what it's like to twist the knife in – even when he was the one doing it. He's always been a little 'glass house' that – can't throw stones and shatter things cause he's in his own world. Things will be harder without him, but maybe it'll be nice not to live worried about breaking his sweet-natured sensibilities – keeping all my dark thoughts to myself, letting them consume me – he's never really taken to this life.

He only really liked it – suffered it easily – when we were hot and heavy into pretending to be a couple – something not exactly needed in Las Vegas, our current haunt, like it was in Middle America manicured lawn, white-picket-fence suburbia. I'm not quite sure that to him it was any less of a real marriage, even without papers, than it would have been with them – not at all what it was to me; a fucking cover story.

"Sure, Sam," I agree through gritted teeth – literally biting my tongue, metallic liquid spilling into my mouth and down my throat; I choke it down without coughing – "Sounds great. Pick the when and where and I'll be there. I'd love to meet her."

Yep, I'm a fucking masochist; I'm sure of it now.

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Hours later, we traipsed across town to Sam's new girl's apartment, but that little introduction didn't go as planned; in fact, the scene is a royal clusterfuck if ever there was one.

Sam's reduced to a shriveled mess, bawling his eyes out like an infant on the floor; while I'm patting him on the back, sitting on my knees beside him, counting in-between each touch – one Mississippi, two Mississippi... – I don't know why; it just fucking feels like the right thing to do. Comfort's never really been my strong suit, and I'm certainly not going to hold him, so this is fucking option number two.

Option one is off the fucking table.

Until Sam practically climbs into my lap, willing me to coddle him like a child. Fine, just this once, I tell myself and then him. He ignores my chilly response to his need for physical closeness - that's probably for the best; he did just lose someone he thought he could grow to love and I'm not excelling at showing any modicum of sympathy for his pain. Best I've got to offer is a monotonous "there, there" as he sobs into my chest. This shirt is ruined; fuck, I really liked this shirt.

What the fuck is wrong me? How can I be such a bitch to a man who acts as my second and tries – oh so very hard – to take care of me? I'll answer that one for you:

I. Don't. Fucking. Know.

Mostly, I'm numb I think – definitely in general, but currently? Because there's something eerily familiar and fucked up about the scene before us. She's fucking dead, Sam's girl – oh, so dead – eyes bugged out and hollow-looking, glassy. Foam's clinging to the sides of her lips and dribbling down her front, staining her black tank top white. A long-ass needle's protruding from the artery inside her elbow, barely hanging on to her rigor-mortised skin, positioned just below a shoelace tourniquet that she must've been using to help her shoot-up.

Yep, her day sucked a million times worse than mine.

When we walked in a couple of minutes ago, Sam let loose a howl of a scream at the sight of her, and although I could tell he wanted to – my hand flying to his shoulder to pull him back – he knew better than to touch her. He collapsed to the ground instead. I however circled her like a coroner studying a body. Then I joined him on the fucking floor, where I pet at him like a dog – that calms people down too; right?

What did I find? Nothing fucking good.

To sum up the scene, classic drug overdose; textbook. STAGED. Perfectly, like freaky perfect.

Professionals, but Sam doesn't see it, and I'm not keen on bursting his bubble – he's got enough fucking problems right now without adding an extra one to the shit sandwich he's just been served.

Who's behind it? Dunno. Not sure I wanna know.

Why? Gotta shrug on that one too, but damned to all hell if the fucking nagging voice in my head isn't telling me this is my fault. For dragging him into this shitty life, for making him part of this contract bullshit that binds us to one another. Sam was going to leave – WAS going to – but now he's got nowhere to fucking be, no warmth and tenderness to go home to. Can't say how she got dragged in, but fuck-all if I can't shake the feeling that she was cannon fodder, a warning to me and mine – Sam. Killers don't exactly live without copious amounts of enemies; we rack them up like bullet casings.

It's a fucking message – a threat – I'm sure of it.

"We've got each other. We've got each other," It's more for me than him, but Sam appreciates it all the same – a little too much – crashing his lips into mine. I push him back harshly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, and he apologizes, puppy dog eyes looking into mine, crying profusely, silently begging me to forgive him his trespasses. He crossed a fucking line and he fucking knew it.

And geez do I wanna kick him while he's down, but his dead girl's less than twelve feet from us and we've gotta go. Plus, I'm not a total monster, and he's distraught – on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"Don't make eyes at me, Merlotte," I chuckle, trying so crazy hard to bring even the tiniest bit of levity to an overwhelmingly awful situation, "We don't have fucking time for waterworks anymore; we gotta get the fuck outta here, and fast."

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We peel our car away into the night – fucking bosses know how to reach me next time they need me and it's time to relocate; we've overstayed our welcome in this shitty town.

Never lived in the South before, so that's the direction my little car flies out of the bright lights of Sin City and into the desolate desert beset and bespeckled by cacti and the starry night.