Call me whatever you want, but don’t call me a murderer. I’m a hitman, and there’s a difference. 

At night, the city might look innocent with its twinkling lights as tourists take selfies at Fisherman’s Warf, but it’s very much like a panther prowling treetops for prey. In my world, a person would be foolish to marvel at the city’s wonders. It’s a distraction—a glittery cloak hiding the dirty underbelly of San Francisco's true nature. 

If someone asked if I’m proud of my work, I would say no. But, there is a balance to things, and people like the man I’m about to approach, deserve what's coming. Anyone who scams an elderly woman into falling in love with them to steal her retirement money is trash. 

And now I’m going to take out the trash.

Darkness fills the alleyway where I stand, hidden in the shadows against the masonry, waiting for Mr. William Anders. He’s a forty-year-old male who had a negative account balance a few weeks ago, but thanks to innocent Mildred Stone, he’s been depositing six grand from her account into his every month. 

Tonight that ends. 

Lights from the surrounding buildings glow against the obsidian sky like lungs expanding and contracting with life. There’s electricity in the air—a buzz along the power lines as prostitutes and drug addicts walk the street, oblivious of my presence. For the last few days, I’ve been following William, and he likes to visit his favorite hooker between nine and nine thirty PM. At this moment, they’re behind a dumpster further down the alley, and it sounds like their date is almost over.

“All done, sugar?” Candy says as she steps into view, smoothing down her mini jean skirt. 

“Yeah,” William grunts, adjusting his pants.“But I don’t know why we had to do it over here instead of at the hotel as usual?”

“I told you, sugar. I’ve got a busy night, so making love back here was easier.”

“But tomorrow will be at the hotel again, right?”

“Whatever you wish.” She grabs his face and gives him a quick peck.

They make their way toward me, so I press my back against the masonry, and the frigid stones nibble my spine, eliciting a shiver. The minutes leading up to a contract always have my pulse beating like a tambourine, and right now, I could pee like a racehorse from the anticipation. Neither Candy nor William can see me, but at least she knows I’m here, so she remains a few paces ahead of him. Smart girl.

“Catch you later, sugar. I’ve got another Jon to meet.” She emerges onto the sidewalk, where the streetlight bathes her in a yellow glow. Then she blows a kiss over her shoulder, and it’s the last time she’ll see William ever again as I lock my arms around his neck and drag him backward.

“Hey!” he yells and claws at my hands, but the Tenderloin is a loud neighborhood at night. No one walking past the alleyway twitches a brow at the commotion. “Let go, you ass—”

“Shh.” I cover his mouth.

Mildred Stone’s loving son is paying me handsomely to kill William, but being a hitman can be physically and mentally taxing. Especially tonight, since I have to work at Penthouse and need time to freshen up. I’m twice William’s size in the muscular department, yet the scam artist kicks and bucks like a bronco, and there’s a moment where I think he might overpower me as I lose balance. He knows it too, which is why he thrashes even harder. I maintain the chokehold around his neck, and we collapse to the ground with him on top of me. 

Like an MMA fighter in a cage, I lock my legs around him and tighten the chokehold. At this point, William is desperate, so he slaps my arms, hands, and anything he can reach as I squeeze harder. The trash on the ground digs into my back, and something sharp pokes me, but the pain centers me. This is why doing yoga most mornings comes in handy. As William continues to writhe, I stare at the sky and take deep, long breaths while thinking of the ocean. Then, with a swift jerk of William's head, his neck snaps, and his body becomes a lifeless sandbag in my arms. 

“Bloody hell,” I breathe and roll William’s sweaty body into the pile of trash bags next to the dumpster.

His death must appear as if he was robbed, so I empty his pockets and scatter a few items. In a few days, his corpse will be found, but no one will question how he died. Not in this part of town. 

Pulling out a burner phone, I rattle off a text to Mildred Stone’s son, letting him know the deed is done, but I don’t wait for a reply. Instead, I leave the alleyway in the opposite direction, hop the chain-link fence, and smash the phone to smithereens. While making my way around the block, I scatter the broken bits and find Candy down the street, working her favorite corner.

“As promised.” I hand her five hundred dollars of hush money.

“Thanks, sugar.” She tucks it into her bra. “I can’t stand pricks who take advantage of little old ladies.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You and I have never met,” I say, then jog across the street and out of sight.

∆∆∆

At Penthouse, music pulses so loud the chandeliers bestrewn across the beams might shatter. The boss booked a famous DJ, so the club is vibrating off his unpalatable techno. I hate techno. But the crowd eats it up, grinding their bodies on the dancefloor as if this were a rave. 

“90s night,” Shelly grunts as she reaches for a vodka bottle, her tattooed arm grazing mine. “Who would have thought it would be such a big hit.” 

“You call this a big hit? I call it annoying,” I shout over the music.

“Don’t be such a party pooper. Have you looked at our tip jar? Trust me. Tonight is a hit.”

“I wouldn’t trust you if my life depended on it,” I tease and flick a lock of her blonde hair, but Shelly is right. 

Despite the annoying DJ, we’ve been slinging drinks non-stop for two hours and have restocked more than usual. When the event coordinator for the club suggested we do theme nights where we double the price of entry and drinks, I never thought it would be a success, but Penthouse is the kind of place people would sell their kidneys to get into. It’s like saying you danced at Studio 54 during the disco era. Penthouse has prestige with its celebrity guest list and balcony VIP sections. Not to mention the private rooms where staff must sign NDAs to protect the guests who reserve them. Let’s call those private rooms Las Vegas, and what happens in them stays in them.

“Yo, Lucas, toss me some limes,” Gerard shouts.

He's worked here the longest, and with his Henry Golding doppelganger looks, he's become a celebrity amongst the ladies. They go wild when he takes off his shirt and dances. I used to hate it, but guests tip him handsomely each time, which is great for the rest of us since we split whatever goes into the jar. So let's say I kind of admire the guy now.

“Coming right up!”

Reaching into the cooler behind me, I grab a container of sliced limes and notice we have three containers left. At the rate things are going, we might need to do another prep, but we’re short-staffed tonight. It’s just me, Gerard, Shelly, and Katrina, who isn’t officially a bartender, but instead helps us restock the supplies, and each of us is drowning in customers. 

“Behind,” Shelly shouts, and her leather-clad hips graze my head as she reaches for a top-shelf tequila bottle. “Do me a favor and look up my skirt while you’re down there.”

It’s incredible how she can flirt at a time like this when all I can focus on is remembering the recipe for each foo-foo drink people keep ordering from the 90s-themed menu.

“Bloody hell, Shell!” I growl.

“What?” 

“Sometimes I think you say stuff like that to throw me off purposely.”

“Did it work?” her ruby lips stretch into a grin as she pivots to snatch shot glasses.

“Cute, but my ADHD can’t handle distraction tonight,” I say and toss Gerard the limes.

“Coming through with ice!” Katrina shouts as she squeezes between us, hauling a bucket. She’s a tiny woman who looks like a toddler dragging the ice, so like a gentleman, I take it from her. “Thanks, Lucas. My arms are killing me tonight. I think I’ve carried a hundred buckets by now.”

“Need a break?” 

“No. I’ll power through,” she sighs, but someone across the bar catches her eye.“Oh, look, my cousin, Nat is here!” 

“Where?” 

“Right there by the well with the fake red hair,” Katrina points out, but despite the impressive scarlet hair dye, it isn’t Natalie who captures my attention. Instead, it’s the woman she’s talking to. 

Every blood cell in my body slows in migration to my heart as her lashes flutter with a blink before her gaze meets mine. Laser light cuts across her creamy, mahogany cheekbones, drawing my attention to her plump lips, but another flash tugs me back to her eyes. Under the flickering strobes, they glow like honey in sunlight, and it’s the rarest shade of brown I’ve ever seen. 

“Who’s that with your cousin?” I ask Katrina.

“That’s Hazel, but I don’t think she’s into Latin guys, plus she’s married. To a cop.” 

There’s a warning in Katrina’s tone, but I’m unsure what she’s cautioning me about. No one knows I’m a hired gun unless they’ve been sent by The Sisters—the queens of San Francisco’s dark underbelly. Those two women are why I’m allowed to play vigilante and not get caught. 

“Well, it’s time to go charm their bras off.” I smooth down my black button-up shirt and adjust the rolled sleeves, which show the ink on my arms. My tall, tan and tattooed dark looks usually do the trick.

Both women are squished between other patrons and look uncomfortable as they nudge the elbows that bump into them. There’s a group of dudes loitering at the bar top who seem to think waving their money at us will get them drinks faster. Rule number one to anyone approaching a busy bar, don’t do that shit! 

“Ladies, what can I get—” My sentence cuts short when a waterfall of Long Island Iced Tea cascades down Hazel’s shoulder and arm. Her face goes from annoyance at the busy atmosphere to wide-eyed shock as the cocktail drenches her little black sparkly dress. 

“Ah, my bad!” the guy behind her says, then proceeds to wipe his dirty paws down her arm instead of grabbing cocktail napkins. Hell, even using his shirt would have been better than groping her.

“It’s fine.” Hazel jerks away, but her knitted brows say otherwise as the guy continues patting her down and grazes her boob.

“Seriously, bro, back off,” Natalie shoves him and weaves her arm around Hazel.

“Let’s get you washed,” I shout over the music. Hazel still looks upset as she dabs her dress with napkins, but Natalie is sizing me up like a slice of cake. “We have a restroom behind the bar. I’ll take you there.”

“No, that’s ok…” Hazel says and turns to Natalie. "Can we leave?"

“Are you nuts? Hell no! How often do we come to Penthouse."

"Nat, I don't—"

"Yes! We’ll follow you,” Natalie cuts off Hazel. “We’ll meet you around the bar.”

“Deal," I say.

When I make my way to the opposite end, Shelly gives me the stink-eye as she lines up pint glasses under the beer taps. We’ve worked together for two years, and despite being friends, she gets pissy when I pay extra attention to women at the bar. Her jealousy crackles between us like static, but she always has my back, so I don’t mind it tonight.

“Don’t dilly-dally back there, Casanova,” she says with a hand on her hip, but I’m too occupied with eyeing Hazel.

Strobe lights bounce to the techno rhythm, and each time they land on her, it’s like a beacon begging me to admire how her corkscrew curls skim her mahogany shoulders. The crease above her brow deepens as dancers bump into her, and it’s too bad she’s married, or else I’d kiss the frustration away.

When they reach me, I motion for them to pass through the divide and begin leading the way to the washroom. It’s a short walk through a dark corridor with red bulbs glowing inside wall sconces. Out of habit, I run my fingertips across the black, textured wallpaper and feel the brocade pattern. The hallway is like a vacuum of silence, with only a faint thump of bass from the dance floor. Sometimes I sneak back here to have a break from the noise.

“After you, ladies.” I twist the gold door handle and motion inside. Hazel barges past me, but Natalie lingers in the doorway, sizing me up with a nibble of her bottom lip.

“Meet you out here once we’re done?” she asks.

“No, I gotta take a leak.” I slide past her into the bathroom, and Hazel’s eyes widen when she sees me, her hands freezing over the water faucet.

“Excuse me. What are you doing?”

“Listen, you’ve seen how busy it is, so while I’m here, I might as well pee,” I explain and push into one of the bathroom stalls. 

When the door swings closed behind me, Hazel begins whispering to Natalie in a reprimanding tone. It’s difficult to hear what they’re saying over the thunderous sound of my pee hitting the toilet bowl like Niagara Falls, so I have to strain my ears and focus.

“Relax,” Natalie hisses.

“No. You always do this to me. We go out, and it turns into you trying to get laid.” 

“Well, I am single, so why not? He’s hot.”

“I told you I didn’t want to come here, and now look. My dress is soaked in booze.”

“It will wash out. Relax.”

“No, I will not relax! What will Mario think?”

“Screw Mario,” Natalie scoffs. “You’re his wife, not his prisoner, and you’re allowed to have a girl's night with your best friend.”

“I told him we were going to a wine bar, not Penthouse. How am I supposed to explain smelling like tequila and God knows what else!” 

“We had a change of plans. People do it all the time, so he’ll have to get over it.”

“I hate when you do this to me.” 

There’s a pause, but then a sniffle punctures the silence, and Natalie begins consoling Hazel. I’ve finished relieving my bladder, but now I’m standing here with mini Lucas in hand, hesitant to interrupt the moment they’re having. 

But I’ve been here too long and can’t abandon my workmates hanging on such a busy night. So, I give the snake a shake, zip my trousers and exit the stall. As I head for the sink, Hazel’s watery gaze darts to me, her words faltering as she goes silent, but Natalie doesn’t get the hint. 

“You need to leave him,” she says and wipes Hazel’s eyes.

“He’s my husband.” 

“Yeah, and he’s an asshole.”

“Don’t say that.” She bats Natalie’s hand away and heads for the door.

“His abuse will only get worse and worse,” Natalie shouts as she rushes after her.

Whatever just happened is none of my business, but I have a soft spot for women in toxic relationships. So I'm curious. My older sister, Lydia, suffered through a terrible marriage with a controlling and abusive husband, but with my help, she got out safely. So, I know what to look for when another person is in a similar situation, and Hazel ticks the boxes. 

When I return to the bar, there’s no sign of either of them, and my stomach churns. What if I’ve missed an opportunity to offer help?

“It’s about time!” Shelly glares. “What did you do, have a three-way back there?”

“I could be so lucky.”

“Well, hopefully, you saved some of that energy. A guy is asking for you.”

“Where?”

“Over there.” She points with her chin while shaking up a drink. “Blonde hair. Resting bitch-face. He says his name is Tony.” 

“I see.” 

And the man truly does have an RBF as he stands there squished between patrons and sulking. However, he looks like money with his diamond-encrusted watch and three-piece suit tailored to perfection. When I approach, his scowl transforms into relief, and his posture straightens. 

“Lucas?” he asks.

“Indeed, and you must be Tony. What’s your poison?” I grab a tin, ready for whatever drink I need to mix. 

He opens his mouth to speak but then leans in, glances around, and clears his throat. “I’ll have a martini, shaken, not stirred, and… bloody.”

One word turns a drink order into a proposition to hire me as a hitman. But one can never be too sure, so I always repeat the magic word. “How bloody?”

“Like a famished vampire.” He leans back, and his fingers tremble as they run through his ash blonde hair.

“Dully noted, Tony.”

Rolling my shoulders back, I begin fixing his martini. It looks like I might have a new kill contract.