The Girl Who Wants Read online

  The Girl Who Wants

  Amy Vansant

  ©2020 by Amy Vansant. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by any means, without the permission of the author. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Vansant Creations, LLC / Amy Vansant

  Annapolis, MD

  http://www.AmyVansant.com

  Copy editing by Carolyn Steele.

  Proofreading by Effrosyni Moschoudi.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Other Books by Amy Vansant

  &&&

  Chapter One

  Three Weeks Ago, Nashua, New Hampshire.

  Shee realized her mistake the moment her feet left the grass.

  He’s enormous.

  She’d watched him drop from the side window of the house. He landed four feet from where she stood, and still, her brain refused to register the warning signs. The nose, big and lumpy as a breadfruit, the forehead some beach town could use as a jetty if they buried him to his neck...

  His knees bent to absorb his weight and her brain thought, got you.

  Her brain couldn’t be bothered with simple math: Giant, plus Shee, equals Pain.

  Instead, she jumped to tackle him, dangling airborne as his knees straightened and the pet the rabbit bastard stood to his full height.

  Crap.

  The math added up pretty quickly after that.

  Hovering like Superman mid-flight, there wasn’t much she could do to change her disastrous trajectory. She’d felt like a superhero when she left the ground. Now, she felt more like a Canada goose staring into the propellers of Captain Sully’s Airbus A320.

  She might take down the plane, but it was going to hurt.

  Frankenjerk turned toward her at the same moment she plowed into him. She clamped her arms around his waist like a little girl hugging a redwood. Lurch returned the embrace, twisting her to the ground. Her back hit the dirt and air burst from her lungs like a double shotgun blast.

  Ow.

  Wheezing, she punched upward, striking Beardless Hagrid in the throat.

  That didn’t go over well.

  Grabbing her shoulder with one hand, Dickasaurus flipped her on her stomach like a sausage link, slipped his hand under her chin and pressed his forearm against her windpipe.

  The only air she’d gulped before he cut her supply stank of damp armpit. He’d tucked her cranium in his arm crotch, much like the famous noggin-less horseman once held his severed head. Fireworks exploded in the dark behind her eyes.

  That’s when a thought occurred to her.

  I haven’t been home in fifteen years.

  What if she died in Gigantor’s armpit? Would her father even know?

  Has it really been that long?

  Flopping like a landed fish, she forced her assailant to adjust his hold and sucked a breath as she flipped on her back. Spittle glistened on his lips, his brow furrowed as if she’d asked him to read a paragraph of big-boy words.

  His nostrils flared like the Holland Tunnel.

  There’s an idea.

  Making a V with her fingers, Shee thrust upward, stabbing into his nose, straining to reach his tiny brain.

  Goliath roared. Jerking back, he grabbed her arm to unplug her fingers from his nose socket. She whipped away her limb before he had a good grip, fearing he’d snap her bones with his Godzilla paws.

  Kneeling before her, he clamped both hands over his face, cursing as blood seeped from behind his fingers.

  Shee’s gaze didn’t linger on that mess. Her focus fell to his crotch, hovering a foot above her feet, protected by nothing but a thin pair of oversized sweatpants.

  Scrambled eggs, sir?

  She kicked.

  He howled.

  Shee scuttled back like a crab, found her feet and snatched her gun from her side. The gun she should have pulled before trying to tackle the Empire State Building.

  “Move a muscle and I’ll aerate you,” she said. She always liked that line.

  The golem growled, but remained on the ground like a good dog, cradling his family jewels.

  Shee’s partner in this manhunt, a local cop easier on the eyes than he was useful, rounded the corner and drew his own weapon.

  She smiled and holstered the gun he’d lent her. Unknowingly.

  “Glad you could make it.”

  Her portion of the operation accomplished, she headed toward the car as more officers swarmed the scene.

  “Shee, where are you going?” called the cop.

  She stopped and turned.

  “Home, I think.”

  His gaze dropped to her hip.

  “Is that my gun?”

  &&&

  Chapter Two

  One Week Ago, Miami, Florida

  “He isn’t dead.”

  Tyler Vale stopped toweling his wet hair and scowled at the mirror, his cell phone pressed against his ear.

  Something about his eyes...

  I’m starting to look like my father. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “You know who it is,” said the unfamiliar voice.

  This caught his attention. Tyler lowered the towel and turned away from his image as if it were spying on him. He glanced at the closed bathroom door and lowered his voice.

  “No, I don’t know who this is. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The voice on the opposite end of the line continued in its steady deadpan. “Yes, you do. I just wanted to give you a heads-up why the package didn’t show.”

  “The package—”

  “Consider your services terminated. Goodbye.”

  “Wait—”

  He looked at his phone.

  Disconnected.r />
  Dialing back, he heard a single ring before the call ended. He tried again with the same result.

  Blocked.

  Dread dumped into Tyler’s veins. He dropped the towel and strode naked into his bedroom.

  “Where’s my laptop?”

  A girl with a nose too large for even her cherub face looked up from where she lay sprawled like an abandoned off-brand Barbie. Her thumb twitched, swiping across the screen of her own phone.

  “Huh?” she asked, eyelids at half-mast, mascara smeared on her cheeks.

  Tyler’s lip curled.

  I should maybe try harder.

  He had a nasty habit of picking girls in the bar who didn’t turn heads. They were more responsive to his charms, rarely inspired competition, and in the end, provided what he needed the same as prettier girls. Often, more enthusiastically and with less chatter about themselves and their boring, ridiculous lives.

  Still. There was something to be said for pretty.

  He sighed.

  No time for soul-searching now.

  Jerking open the door to leave his bedroom, he moved into the main section of his tiny apartment. Contract-killing was lucrative, but he didn’t spend enough time in Miami to rent a more expensive place. He preferred seeing the numbers in his bank account and stock portfolio.

  His ancient laptop sat perched on the kitchen counter, plugged into the same loose socket powering his coffee maker. Flipping it open, he typed in his password and navigated to his offshore online banking account to type in yet another.

  He’d been expecting payment for killing the old dude for weeks. He scanned to his totals.

  Nothing new.

  Shit.

  Tyler grabbed his cell and dialed his handler.

  “Casey Plumbing Supply,” answered a gruff-voiced man, though no plumbing supply in the world kept hours after midnight.

  “It’s Deathshot.”

  Tyler winced. He’d chosen his codename during a different time in his life—the cheesy ramblings of an over-enthusiastic baby assassin.

  Brett sighed. “It ain’t here yet.”

  “No, I know. Someone just called to tell me the job wasn’t finished.”

  “Called you?”

  “Yes. Me. Directly.”

  “Well, was it?”

  Tyler scowled. “Was what?”

  “Was the job finished?”

  “Of course it was.” Creeping doubt crawled around the base of Tyler’s skull.

  I didn’t check.

  The guy accompanying his target was so big. He’d seen the old man drop. Knew he’d scored the headshot. Hadn’t been paid for two dead old men. He’d packed up his stuff and headed home.

  Dammit. Rookie mistake.

  “You want me to check on it?” asked Brett.

  “Yes, I want you to check on it.” Tyler tried to mask his misgivings with anger, as much for himself as his handler. “And tell me how the hell the client got my number.”

  Brett’s voice lowered to a growl. “Not from me. And you better watch your tone, Deathshot. This means I’m out a piece, too, y’know.”

  Tyler huffed. “I know.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Brett hung up.

  Tyler raised his hand, preparing to dash his phone to the ground. He thought better of it and instead shook it in his fist, as if trying to choke the life out it, before collapsing into a kitchen chair.

  “Whachu screamin’ about?”

  Tyler looked up. The girl stood in the bedroom doorway, squinting at him, scratching her beak.

  “Get out of here,” he muttered.

  She laughed. “Yer naked.”

  He tried again, this time with an expression he hoped would convey just how serious he was.

  “Get. Out. Now.”

  Her dopey grin dropped.

  The cell in his hand rang and before she could protest, he put his finger over his lips and pointed to the exit with as much venom as he could muster.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. She whirled on her heel, lost her balance and smacked the side of her face against the wall.

  Tyler rolled his eyes.

  Great. Just what that face needed.

  He would have laughed if he hadn’t been so pissed.

  Using the door frame for support, the girl righted herself and stormed into the bedroom.

  Tyler answered the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Sink’s still leaking.”

  “What? They’re lying.”

  “They’re not. Not the type of client who lies to save a couple bucks. You missed.”

  “I didn’t miss.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. The sink’s still leaking.”

  Tyler ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Nope. They’re getting a new plumber. And you’re not gonna see any jobs from me for a while.”

  “What? Wait—”

  The line went dead.

  No second thoughts this time. Tyler hurled his phone at the far wall, chasing it with a string of profanities. The cell shattered, peppering the girl with bits of plastic as she returned to the bedroom doorway.

  She yelped and covered her head with her purse.

  The largest chunk of the phone clattered to the ground. The girl glared at him.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Tyler sniffed. “Really? And I had such promise.”

  She huffed and left the apartment without another word.

  Tyler dropped back into his kitchen chair.

  Well, thank God for little favors.

  Alone again, he had nothing left to do but obsess, Brett’s words echoing in his skull.

  You missed.

  How was that possible?

  He couldn’t leave this black mark on his resume, but he didn’t even know the name of his target. The client had provided Brett with the old man’s location and description. Nothing more.

  How could he find the target before the new shooter?

  He straightened.

  The big guy.

  Certainly, the old man had been at his buddy’s house before heading out to lunch? They’d arrived in the big man’s truck. The target’s friend was local.

  Tyler smiled.

  Last minute airplane tickets back to Minneapolis wouldn’t be hard to score in March.

  &&&

  Chapter Three

  Monday is red.

  Wednesday is green and it sits in the center of the row of boxes Shee saw in her mind’s eye whenever someone mentioned a day of the week.

  If someone said, “Show up on Wednesday,” seven imaginary boxes appeared, like the row of a calendar grid, starting with Monday and ending with Sunday. Wednesday occupied dead center, which was impossible. Its center position was as much a trick of her mind as the row of calendar boxes itself, because to the left of Wednesday, sat only Monday and Tuesday, while Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday all fell to the right. If her mental calendar’s row was a seesaw with Wednesday as its fulcrum, there’d be a little girl with bones like a bird’s sitting high in the air on the left, and a football squad’s offensive lineman squatting on the dirt to the right.

  Still, Wednesday felt in the middle.

  Maybe because Wednesday sat in the middle of the work week. The theory made sense, except Shee had never held a Monday-to-Friday job in her life. Maybe the thing that centered Wednesday in her mind was the same thing that made her confuse her left and right.

  That mental block had nearly gotten her killed more than once.

  When it came to direction, she preferred military parlance.

  “Check your nine!”

  Left. Duh.

  If someone screamed left! more often than not she looked right. That’s usually when something clobbered the left side of her skull.

  Negative feedback didn’t prevent her from making the same blunder the next time, though.

  Even rats change their behavior if shocked often enough.

  Not me
. Ole ‘dumber than a rat’ Shee.

  She fared better with time than direction. Time was a thing. A clock. She saw her internal clockface, white with bronze serif-font numbers. She faced toward the twelve, and she could see nine to her left and move without hesitation.

  On your nine!

  No problem.

  Unfortunately, the rest of the world hadn’t received the memo. Joggers approaching from behind who barked on your left! a moment before collision usually ended up on the ground in a tangled ball of limbs.

  It didn’t matter. And luckily for the joggers of the world, at the moment, Shee sat in a restaurant booth in Jupiter Beach, Florida. Very few joggers in the booth.

  “Sigh-oh-fra?” asked the server with Alyssa on her nametag, squinting at Shee’s credit card. The girl’s nose wrinkled as if she smelled something off. Something like the seafood at the next table, for example. One of the oysters had a bad attitude. Shee had smelled it as the platter passed by.

  I should really say something.

  “Shee-fra,” she corrected the server, the sound of her own full name, Siofra, jarring to her ear. She hadn’t used it for fifteen years. Most recently she’d been Hunter. Before that she’d picked Charity to see if men treated women with stripper names differently.

  They did.

  The waitress appeared dubious about Shee’s real name. “Really?” she asked.

  Shee dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Pretty sure.”

  “What kind of name is that?” The girl’s tone suggested Shee had to pass a quiz to claim her own name. Maybe after fifteen years, she did.

  “Irish. Siofra was my grandmother’s name on my father’s side.”

  “Oh, neat. Are you Irish?”

  Shee blinked at her.

  Does she not know how grandmothers work?

  She couldn’t help herself. “Nope, One hundred percent Mexican.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I’m Irish. Grandma was from Ireland Irish. I’m plain-old American Irish.”

  “Oh. Cool. I’m part Irish on my mom’s side.”

  Shee nodded and cocked an ear toward the slurping behind her.

  Uh oh.

  She flashed Alyssa a smile hoping the girl would sense the end of their conversation, but the server’s hip cocked and Shee knew she was in it for the long haul.