Page 17 of Wasted Lust

“We don’t have time for good times,” Madrid says, her voice rising a little. “You’re a man. A somewhat attractive man. If you like blue eyes and blond hair. Which I don’t,” she says, her hand on her chest like she needs to clear this up right now. “I like them dark, understand. So don’t be all accusing me of inappropriate conduct when I have to turn you down ’cause you’re hot for me.”

I just shake my head. She’s always on this kick about how desirable she is and how I secretly lust after her.

“So get your move on, boy. You need a plan to seduce this girl into helping us. We have no time for pansy-ass, pouting girls and pussyfooting, ’fraidy-cat men who don’t know how to get a job done. Get your game on, Jax.” She opens her door, steps out, and then leans back in, dripping water everywhere. “I’m going back to the apartment to check footage. You wrap this shit up tonight and we’ll reconvene in the AM. Madrid out.”

And then she slams the door and walks away.

Fucking women. I sigh as I start up my car.

Moves. I have moves, but Sasha Cherlin doesn’t look like she takes kindly to moves. Plus she had a bad day. I need to make sure I don’t add to it, or it will set us back further.

“Well,” I huff, pulling away from the curb. “Just take a play out of yesteryear, Jax. Treat her nice and let the chips fall where they may.”

After I shut the alarm off I press myself against the door, a feeling of defeat trying its best to wash over me, but I square my shoulders and walk off, dropping my bag on a chair as I make my way to the stairs. My feet find the places on the old wooden steps where no boards will creak out of habit and I silently ascend to the upper bedrooms. There are three. I don’t need three, since I am alone, and this makes the place feel empty and cold. A shudder erupts in my body as I walk into the elegantly decorated master bedroom—which I don’t normally sleep in since I’m a paranoid freak—and throw myself face-first on the bed.

Am I stupid?

Yes. I am the dumbest girl alive. I am the biggest fool to ever live. I am naive and gullible in ways I can’t even describe right now. Because I believed that if I worked hard, got good grades, took the path most traveled, every step away from the broken-hearted thirteen-year-old who sat and cried over a broken promise would lead to something else.

Something better. A new life. A new family. A new opportunity.

And where do I find myself now? Not digging up dinosaurs—which is also the foolish dream of a child. Kicked out of the world of the legitimate. Take time off to think about things, that’s what Professor Brown told me. But I can read between the lines just fine, thank you. What she was really saying is, We don’t think this program suits you.

And since digging in the earth to find ancient bones so I could put the puzzle pieces of the past together was the only thing that ever made me feel a part of society at large—well, the words ‘complete devastation’ run through my mind.

Growing up the child of a man who trains shadow government assassins was not a choice I ever got to make. It was my fate. I did not come into this world declaring myself to be a killer. I didn’t teach myself to hold and shoot a gun. To throw knives and shoot arrows. I didn’t drag myself across this country in an RV knowing secrets that certain people might kill for.

My father did that to me.

And while I don’t blame him—he did his best and all that training saved my life over and over again—I fucking hate that this is who I am.

And I have regrets. I have big-time regrets. And I have questions. Like why is this my destiny? Why do I have to live on the outside, forever looking in at all the things I want but can’t have?

This career was obtainable. I felt it. I still feel it. I’m qualified, I’m smart, I’m inquisitive, I’m a hard worker, and I get good grades. I didn’t fuck up anything too big doing my lab work. I made mistakes, like anyone new to the process of discovery. But I had no major missteps.

And a lot of good it did me.

There is something about me. I feel it burning inside me. Something attached to my soul that declares me different.

I don’t want to be different. I want to be same.

I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling. Ford and Ashleigh did a good job as my parents after my father was killed and my fellow assassins and I fought our way into a tenuous illusion of peace. I traveled and made friends. Obtained a first-class education. Had a few boyfriends even. Nothing serious. And not because of Nick.

I was making progress in the love department. Steady progress. I had dates to dances in high school. One serious boyfriend freshman year of undergrad. Three one-night stands the rest of college.

All that came to an abrupt end in my senior year when I was abducted by a sick man looking for revenge over an old debt that wasn’t even mine. He did not rape me. It could’ve been so much worse than it was. I know that. But it affected me. It shut me down. Not right away. I put on that fake face I had practiced over and over again while I was adjusting to living the life of a normal girl. I went back to school after I was saved by my assassin friend, Merc. I finished up school in Colorado and moved here to this very house.

Merc and I never told Ford and Ashleigh anything about the abduction. Ford is a security freak and it was his idea to take most of the precautions. But once they left to go home—Ford holding me tighter that day than any other time in my life—I called James and everything just spilled out. He flew in specialists to fortify the house. He brought me guns and ammo. He even brought me some Kevlar clothing made special by a friend in Central America.

I insisted I wasn’t scared. The man who wanted to hurt me was dead. And I really wasn’t scared. I was terrified.

That realization was enough to rock my whole world, because I was always the fearless one. I was the one with all the answers. I was the one who would do the job no matter the consequences. And even though this thought I had today walking home with the FBI agent has been in the back of my head since that abduction—right now is the first time I will admit to it.

I am weak. I am small. I am a girl. Worse than a girl. I am a Company girl. And I have pushed all my fucked-up moments away into a place that hides the truth in order to protect this fragile part of me that lingers. The part of me that knows I will never be OK. I will never get over the things I have seen, the acts I have committed, and the violence I am part of.

I am damaged.

Terrified and damaged.