Hannah and the Hitman

JACK

“Flying commercial is bullshit,” Jorge grumbled, eyeing the row numbers along the overhead bins.

Jorge was also known as El Cejas, or Eyebrows. He was built like a keg of beer, all barrel-chested and squat and had a dark, furry caterpillar for a unibrow. I’d spent years dealing with guys like him–and his partner, Joe, who followed me–and pretty much ignored them. Today it wasn’t so easy to do. Not on the packed commuter flight to Denver.

“Isn’t this the plane type that crashes?” Joe asked.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. His nickname? Joey Brains. Not because he was smart, but because he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

I wasn’t too thrilled about this flight either, but complaining or saying a trigger word like crash or bomb or peanut allergy wasn’t going to get the private jet we were supposed to be on fixed.

“It’s your boss who wanted you to go to Denver with me,” I reminded Joey Brains. “Would you rather still be in the desert sweating your balls off?”

He grunted in what seemed like agreement about the sweaty balls, although I didn’t want to think about his. Or if they were sweaty.

Me? I’m Jack Hollister. My job? Hitman.

I just finished a hit for their boss, Sal Reggiano, the mafia head in Vegas. I’d taken out Tony the Tuna Shemansky. Who came up with those nicknames? Besides skimming a few mil off the top of their racing venture, he liked to dope the horses in ways I didn’t like. I didn’t give a shit out about the debt, but he got a bullet to the brain because of his animal cruelty.

Since this had been my first job for Sal Reggiano, I wasn’t going to argue when he wanted two of his men flying back with me to start working with his son, Paul. Maybe Paul was tired of sweaty fucking balls because he moved to Colorado to spread their business into new territory. Since I was also from Denver, I did a bunch of jobs for him on a consistent basis. He was a decent guy, all things considered.

We’d be flying Sal’s private plane right now except it broke down. Now I was flying in coach with them. My name wasn’t Joey Brains. I knew when to keep my mouth shut and deal.

Did I like any of this? Fuck no. But Tony the Tuna was dead, I got paid a shit ton and as soon as we were back in Denver, I’d be rid of Eyebrows and Joey Brains. Tomorrow night, I’d be on to my next job. The hitman business was booming.

When Eyebrows found his row, he dropped into the aisle seat. After glancing at my ticket to confirm, I settled into the other aisle seat in the same row. With a wince, I shifted my ass and moved the seat belt, then sighed. The thirty-something Black man in the middle seat beside me gave me a chin lift, then went back to a game on his phone.

“I’m in C. You have A. I’m not sitting at the window,” Eyebrows said. “You are.”

“No fucking way,” Joey Brains countered. “You take it.”

“Why doesn’t he take it?”

Eyebrows meant me.

I frowned. Annoyed as fuck. I took in the line of people waiting behind Joey Brains, more and more impatiently by the second.

“You’re holding everyone up,” I snapped at the two of them. “Sit your ass down. It’s a two-hour flight.”

Eyebrows stood to let him in, grinning like a sibling who got to ride shotgun instead of being stuck in the backseat.

“Getting capped in the knee would be less painful than this,” Joey Brains grumbled as he slid over to the window, accidentally pulling on a woman’s hair in the row in front of him as he went.

If I’d had my gun on me instead of having to put it in my checked bag, I’d have shot him myself to find out if he was right. This was flight 265. I couldn’t even kill a guy with my bare hands with this many witnesses. Especially not Eyebrows or Joey Brains.

Boring.

The sooner we got back to Denver, the sooner they’d be out of my hair. I felt like a babysitter. I closed my eyes, thinking a nap would make the flight go faster.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my seat.”

My eyes popped open at the soft voice. All that filled my vision–thank fuck for a narrow aisle–was a perfect ass. Right there in my face. Jean clad. Round. Full. The perfect peach. Wide hips that itched to be gripped hard while… holy fuck. What the hell was wrong with me, getting a semi on a plane for another passenger? Not any passenger, this passenger specifically, who it seemed had the middle seat between Eyebrows and Joey Brains.

“Sure, doll,” Eyebrows told her.

She moved back so he could stand. Unfortunately, all that did was bring his crotch right in my face.

The chub was gone.

“Can you put this in the overhead for me, please?” I heard her ask.

“Sure, doll,” Eyebrows said again, making me wonder if he knew how to talk to the ladies.

He stepped back to make room for the bag, but the woman started hefting it herself. “Oh, um… it’s not as hard as I thought. That’s weird. Nevermind.”

I took in her ass once more–as amazing as the first time–as she stretched and set the wheeled suitcase into the overhead. Eyebrows put his hand on it and helped her shove it the last few inches into place.

She slid into her seat and Eyebrows followed.

The woman–who I could now see had dark hair and a pert nose, leaned forward and shoved a backpack under the seat in front of her. Over her stooped back, I couldn’t miss how the guys were eyeing the sliver of skin above her jeans where her t-shirt rode up.

While they couldn’t kill anyone on the flight, I wouldn’t put it past them to bother the woman wedged in the center seat between them. As amusement. I watched as they crowded her as she settled in, took away both her armrests and had their elbows pressing into her on each side as she set a book in her lap.

“Oh, um. You two are big,” she commented, glancing between them warily. “Can I maybe, um… armrest? No? Okay.”

She sneezed.

The assholes grinned.

Yeah, no innocent woman belonged stuck between two Reggiano goons. She was innocent, that was for sure. It was statistically impossible for her to also be a killer, right?

She squirmed, then reached to pull the seatbelt from beneath her, which forced her to shift and her tits–fuck were they high and full beneath her t-shirt that read My TBR is Bigger Than Yours, whatever the hell that meant—pressed unintentionally into Eyebrows’ arm.

He leered and reached down to adjust his dick in his pants. I growled, loud enough that her gaze skirted around Eyebrows’ barrel chest to meet mine across the aisle. At our continued staring, her cheeks turned pink. Her lips were plump and kissable. Hair a little wild. Freckles across her nose. If she had on more than shiny lip gloss, then it was really fucking subtle. She didn’t need it. She was the girl next door and every one of my darkest fantasies settled uncomfortably in seat 7B.

Yeah, she was innocent. Sweet. I didn’t do sweet and innocent when it came to women, or at least one who looked like she baked cookies with her grandmother and went to brunch with girlfriends after yoga on Saturday mornings. Hell, I didn’t have much time for any kind of woman. Or relationship. Sure, I was employed. Owned my own place. Had a very hefty savings account. I was thirty-three and had all my hair.

On paper, I was a catch.

But I killed people for a living.

Not many women were down for that.

This woman? She had no clue that she was seated between two bad men. While I’d probably racked up more kills than Eyebrows and Joey Brains, I only killed bad guys. Those who very much deserved to die. I was discriminate. I had a code.

Those two fuckers Eyebrows and Joey Brains? Zero code. Zero morals.

I popped my seat belt. Stood. A teenager with a hoodie and huge headphones took one look at me on his way down the aisle, then scurried past.

“Move,” I growled at Eyebrows, adding a jerk of my thumb.