Callie’s Last Dance

1.

Cincinnati, Four Days Earlier…

Donovan Creed.

“THEY’RE PLAYING MUSIC!” Callie says, with a burst of sudden enthusiasm. “You think Sal set up a dance floor?”

“I hope not,” I say.

It’s mid-morning, fourth of July. The sun’s bright, but not yet hot. We’re crossing a perfectly-manicured lawn, heading toward the main tent to greet our host, crime boss Sal Bonadello.

“Don’t be a spoil sport, Donovan!”

“Spoil sport? What does that even mean?”

“It means if they play our song I expect a dance.”

Here’s something you don’t know about me. I’m a terrible dancer. I mean, I know enough ballroom dancing to get laid. But when the music’s fast and I’m dancing freestyle I look like Quasimodo trying to put on a suit.

“We don’t have a song,” I say.

“Are you insane? Of course we do!”

“What’s ours?”

“You’ll know it when you hear it.”

I laugh. “So you don’t know, either.”

“Every couple has a song, Donovan. We just haven’t heard ours yet.”

“Wait. Did you just call us a couple?”

Callie sighs. “Does this make sense to you?”

“What?”

“In all these years we’ve never shared a dance.”

“That can’t be true. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

“Trust me, I’d remember. I love dancing. But you avoid it like Superman avoids kryptonite.”

She’s right, of course. And her kryptonite analogy’s a good one.

Callie and I have worked together eight years. We’re assassins. She’s the only person on earth I trust not to kill me, and that’s only on good days. But we haven’t danced because, overlooking the fact I look stupid while doing it, dance floors are high-risk locations. You’re moving around, people around you are moving, you can’t keep track. Is the guy in the blue suit wielding a knife? Is the older lady palming a derringer? Maybe the lady with the gun isn’t on the dance floor. Maybe she’s a guy dressed like an old lady, sitting at a table across the room holding a purse that contains a gun with a silencer. When she shoots, the small sound gets drowned out by the music. Maybe she’s watching me dance, waiting for the perfect time to squeeze off a shot. She puts her hand in her purse, grips her gun, gives the signal. On the dance floor, a pretty redhead nods, then purposely backs into me, knocks me off balance. The older lady shoots, kills me, and waltzes out the room.

Dancing’s a bitch for those in our business.

But try telling that to Callie.

That said, I have great appreciation for the aesthetic beauty and athletic grace displayed by certain professional dancers with finely-honed skills.

“I love to watch highly-skilled professional dancers,” I say, cheerfully.

She frowns. “Stripping doesn’t count.”

“Of course it does!”

“Sorry.”

“Then why do they call it lap dancing?”

Callie shakes her head, dismissively. “You’re hopeless.”

I stop us in our tracks and say, “Some of the best dancers in the world are strippers. Name one person who can dance better than Gwen.”

Gwen being Callie’s live-in girlfriend.

“Me,” she says.

I smile. “Ever thought about stripping?”

“Here’s the bottom line,” she says. “We’re dancing today, you and me.”

“If they have a dance floor.”

Sal owns the hundred-acre field that runs behind his house. The main tent is still more than fifty yards away. As we crest a small hill we see musicians playing blue grass music.

On a stage.

We see something else.

Callie smiles, points to the dance floor.

“You’ll dance with me, won’t you?” she says.

“Only if my life depends on it.”

“Atta boy!”

“I’ll need fortification,” I say.

“Of course you will.”

This means Callie, frozen vodka cranberry. Me, shot of bourbon, straight up.

As we continue our journey toward the tent, people stop what they’re doing to stare. Callie’s wearing a raspberry floral-print cocktail dress and matching wedge sandals with bangle straps.

But that’s not why they’re staring.

They’re staring at the work of art that is Callie Carpenter.

There are two types of people in the world: those who’ve seen Callie in person, and those who want to.

How pretty is she?

Astonishingly pretty. Unnaturally pretty.

Who does she look like?

You’re joking, right?

You don’t compare Callie to others. Others compare themselves to her.

And come up short.

I could tell you her hair’s naturally blonde and her eyes piercing gray. I could tell you super models and starlets would kill to have her face or body, and she’s got both. I could tell you her scent is better after a workout than a shower, and her breath cleaner than ionic meadow air after a lightning storm.

I could tell you all those things and more.

But nothing prepares you for seeing Callie the first time.

Unless you were a sailor in a former life whose vessel was attacked by Blackbeard the pirate.

Before attacking ships, Blackbeard used to tie dozens of strips of cloth to his beard and set them on fire. So disarming was his appearance, enemy sailors often threw their guns and swords down in terror, and dropped to their knees, making no effort to defend themselves.

Callie’s looks are likewise lethal. I’ve seen her take down skilled assassins who were so stunned by her beauty they hesitated to pull the trigger. Their split-second pause allowed Callie just enough time to squeeze off a kill shot.

Not that it mattered. She could have easily killed these men and women with her hands, feet, or by hurling a deadly projectile, because it’s not just her looks that make Callie superhuman. She’s one of the most efficient killing machines on earth.

What’s that? Oh. She’s twenty-six.

How long?

Like I said, I’ve known her eight years.

What?

Ha. I wish.

Truth is, I’ve never even seen her naked. Never kissed her, for that matter.

I’ve traveled with her, dined with her, lived with her for weeks at a time.

I’ve killed with her.

We’ve saved each other’s lives, shared stories, toothbrushes, even the same woman, Gwen Peters.

It’s not what you think.

We didn’t have a threesome. Gwen and I met first, and had sex. Then Callie met Gwen, and they had sex. Gwen moved in with Callie, and they kept having sex, but one day Gwen and I had sex again. When Callie found out, she nearly killed Gwen, but decided to give her another chance.

I’m pretty sure Gwen and I won’t be sleeping together in the foreseeable future. She appears to place a higher value on living than having sex with me.

Hard to believe, right?

So I’m out of the picture, and that’s fine, since I recently discovered I’ve fallen in love with one of my employees.

Callie Carpenter.

No, I haven’t told her. I wouldn’t know how. She’s completely oblivious to my feelings.

Beautiful women are clustered around us, staring at Callie. They’re the girlfriends of ugly mobster men, hardened criminals who are afraid to make eye contact with me.

I make them nervous.

Why?

I’m the guy who killed their mob friends.

Frankie De Luca waves as I pass by. He’s here with his wife, Angie. The De Lucas don’t know it yet, but this is their last day to live. That’s because Sal hired me to kill Angie tonight. Sal doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to snuff Frankie too. Sal won’t approve, because Frankie’s a huge earner, but Sal’s my friend. He’s too close to the situation to understand, but it’s in his best interest for Frankie to go away too.

As we close in on the tent, two young women emerge, laughing. They glance in our direction and stop short.

We stop, too.

The four of us are twenty feet apart, staring at each other.

“She’s looking at you, pretty boy,” Callie murmurs.

“Which one?”

“The blonde. Recognize her?”

“Dani Ripper.”

“Standing with her girlfriend, Sophie Alexander.”

“Sal’s niece,” I say.

“Sophie’s pretty,” Callie says.

“Yowzer!”

“But Dani’s gorgeous, don’t you think?”

“Not compared to you.”

“Seriously, Donovan? Because people say she could pass for my sister.”

“Not your twin sister.”

Callie gives me a funny look, then says, “Why are they staring at us?”

“The same reason we’re staring at them.”

“We’re sizing each other up?”

I nod. “Think we can take ’em?”

Callie laughs, which causes Dani and Sophie to laugh.

Dani waves and hollers, “Hi, ya’ll!”

“Ya’ll?” I say.

Callie smiles, waves back, and whispers, “I know what I want for my birthday!”

“Dani Ripper?”

“In the flesh.”

“Odd way to put it.”

“That’s how we talk, here in the south.”

“Ah. You’re a southern belle now?”

“I am if she is…ya’ll!”

We watch them turn and walk away.

And keep watching them.

“Nice ass,” Callie says, under her breath.

“Excuse me?”

She grins like a politician at a fundraiser.

I say, “Women actually talk like that?”

“Oh please,” she says. “Don’t you agree? Nice ass?”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“I don’t check out women’s posteriors,” I say. “It’s rude.”

She groans and rolls her eyes. “You are so full of shit!”

“Think they’ll turn around?” I say.

“I guarantee it.”

We watch Dani’s hips sway hypnotically as she walks.

Sophie turns first, sees us staring, and laughs. She says something to Dani. A few steps later they stop and Dani sneaks a peek. They laugh again.

Callie says, “I want her, Donovan.”

“Me too.”

“I saw her first.”

“Doesn’t matter. I saw Gwen first, but she’s with you.”

“Tell you what,” Callie says. “You can have Sophie.”

“Any other day, I’d be proud to have Sophie. Though I doubt Sal would approve.”

“Nothing wrong with Sophie,” Callie says. “Solid eight, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would.”

“Dani, on the other hand…”

“Ten.”

Callie nods.

I ask, “Have you ever been with a woman as hot as Dani Ripper?”

“Not in the biblical sense. Have you?”

I wait till she turns to look at me.

We lock eyes. Then I say, “Not yet.”

She smiles and looks down. Then says, “Anyway, Dani’s into you, not me.”

“That’s crazy. She’s gay.”

“She only thinks she’s gay. Less than a month ago she was married, remember?”

“Till her husband got killed.”

“Till then,” Callie says.

“Then Sophie showed up.”

“Sophie got lucky.”

“How so?”

“She was there to pick up the pieces when Dani was vulnerable.”

“Is that how it works?” I say.

“Sometimes.”

We’re both quiet a moment.

“This thing between Dani and Sophie,” Callie says.

“Yeah?”

She pauses, gives me a look.»It’s temporary.”