Himbo Hitman

by Saxon James

I’ve applied for everything that doesn’t need experience, from late-night cleaners to gas station attendants to this one suspicious listing for a “personal nursemaid, no experience, must have nice feet,” and honestly, I’m not even sure I’m qualified for that.

I’m killer with a pew pew. There’s one problem though. The last two jobs I went on, I ended up with cold feet. Worse, even. Frozen feet. I’d lifted the gun, looked my mark in the eyes, and all the fear and panic that flashed through them hit me right in the chest like they’d fired their own weapon. I couldn’t do it. So with an apology and a pinky swear, I sent them both into hiding.

Backstabbing totally fine. Back banging is a no-no. Ah, unless we’re talking sex. Then the rules are completely different.

It’s done now. No regrets. No worries. Akuna Ma-ta-tas. Still weirds me out that Disney was singing about titties, but the message applies.

“Sorry,” I explain, torn between helping him with the bleeding or shooting him again. “I was aiming for your head. I’m not a very good shot.” “Fuck you!” “Wow, talk about a hostile work environment,”

“I’m trying to …” I pant, holding off a hit to the head. “Help you.” “You shot me!” I belt his shoulder. “Why are you so hung up on that?” “Hung up? It happened a few minutes ago.”

“Actually, there’s one more thing.” He looks ready to hit me again. “Have you ever heard of a pinky swear?”

“Wait, wait, wait. You believe in aliens?” He blinks at me, stunned. “That makes them sound like they’re not real.” I almost choke. “Because they’re not.” “Sheesh,” he mutters. “No wonder someone wanted you dead.”

“It’s only a hunch, but I don’t think they liked paying me for a job I didn’t do.” “A job … me?” “Yup.” “They paid you?” “What?” he asks, this time sounding offended. “You were supposed to be dead. We pinky swore.” “Who’s stupid enough to take some crime lord’s money?” “In my defense, I didn’t know they were a crime lord.”

“Hey, man, we’re all just trying to get by out here. What’s one person’s red flag is another’s ideal quality.”

if you can’t be annoyed with the guy who tried to kill you, who can you be annoyed with?

“I’m a fan of a man in a compromising position, myself.” “Does that mean I’m your favorite?”

who the fuck is self-destructive enough to flirt with a guy who could kill them?

As he walks out, my eyes stay pinned to his broad back, and then, very slowly, they dip toward his ass. I mean … I don’t hate it? Fuck. What I should be asking is who the fuck is self-destructive enough to flirt with the guy he was supposed to kill? Me, apparently. Maybe I really do need that gag.

“Fucking hell, Reilly.” Lars laughs. “You still want to sleep with him, don’t you?” I shrug. “Silver linings and all that?” “So, what? He fucks you, then kills you?” I frown, disturbed by that image. “Come on. That man is clearly a bottom.” “My mistake. You fuck him, then he kills you.” “Give and take is important in a relationship.”

“Who is Sir Squeakerton?” I ask. “A mouse.” “You have a pet mouse?” “Well, no.” He scratches his head. “There are a bunch of mice that live in the wall of my apartment. I’m friends with one of them.”

“Perry …” My voice is hard to recognize. “Are you sure you’re straight?” His lips part, and I wait for the immediate confirmation. It doesn’t come. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

Maybe this whole thing is supposed to be my journey of self-discovery. Forget the madmen with guns—myself included—all these events were purely meant to bring me and St. Clare together. The universe is a wild and wonderful thing.

I watch as he reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a T-shirt that he throws at my chest. I catch it and then hold it out to see the front. It’s a puppy with floppy ears, big eyes, and a goofy expression. Underneath the image are the words “Friends fur-ever!” It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. “You do love me!”

“You’re a big softie under all that Johnny Bravo swagger, aren’t you?”

But tell me: what if it’s only ever women, and then, occasionally, you’ll see a guy who gives big Dom vibes, and that sort of does it for you?”

“Maybe not professional will-spank-you Dom … just … would respectfully tell me what to do and be super confident and good in bed type of …” The words I’m saying suddenly catch up to me. “You know what? Forget I said anything.” “Wish I could.” “This never happened.” “Wish it didn’t.” “Pass me that bottle of Coke, please? I’d like to start attempting to drown myself.”

“Take it easy. We still need you.” “For what? Sexual harassment? I can tell you that you have a great ass, too, before I off myself if you’d like?”

“He owns a labradoodle. One of the purest pooches on earth. No one who owns a labradoodle is a bad person. It’s, like, the law.”

“There’s so much I haven’t done yet.” I tilt my head, curious. “Like what?” “Like … I can’t solve a Rubik’s cube. Or play an instrument. And I’ve never skipped a rock, like, ever.”

There’re plenty of things that look fun. Skydiving, riding a Jet Ski, running a train on someone, but while they sound great in theory, I’m not so sure I’d ever actually want to experience them.

His hand tightens around mine, and he looks half-terrified, half-hopeful as he says, “I’ve never kissed a man before.” “Oh.” The confession steals all the breath from my lungs. “And I’d really like to kiss you.”

Am I too trusting? Do I need to reassess my whole dog theory?

“Would you have kissed me if you didn’t think you were going to die?” He chews on his answer for a second. “No.” At least he was honest, I guess, even if it proves I was right. But Perry isn’t done. “And I would have missed out on the single best moment of my life.”

“Perry … do you, umm …” How the fuck do I even ask this? “Do you think my name is Clare?” His eyebrows crumple in confusion. “Yes?” “Clare being my whole name. And saint being the title?” His lips twitch, but not like he’s about to shout, “Got you,” and more like he’s worried about my mental well-being. “Yes. That is what you’ve been answering to.” “My name is St. Clare.” “I know.” “Reilly St. Clare.”

I’m somehow going to look after him completely during his recovery while making sure he knows how absolutely furious I am that I need to look after him in the first place.

got it.” “Good. He’s family now. We protect our own.” While I don’t know how to feel about that creepily sweet sentiment, I know exactly how Perry will react. With excitement. Like a dog who’s been adopted and can’t stop doing zoomies. Which means that I’m stuck with them too. Love that for me.

“Hey, does this mean I’m cupid? I mean, I shot you and now you’re in love with me, so⁠—” “You’re not cupid.” “Are you sure? I think there’s an argument there.”

“It was love at first shot.”

Perry Nikov is himbo husband material. And he’s all mine.

“I could really use a baby to snuggle while I do this.” She blinks at me, that perfect storm of a heavily pregnant woman past her due date and her annoying brother nudging her along. “Sure,” she snaps. “That’s why I’m having this kid. For you.” I grab both her shoulders. “You really are the best sister ever.” “I can’t wait to be back to my usual self so people—you—will take me seriously when I threaten to kick your ass.”

“You’re mean when forty weeks pregnant, heavily swollen, tired, constipated, and low on iron.”

“I’m very fond of those breasts.” “Perry’s proposing,” Margot says. “Let’s all go back to focusing on that and not on my tits.”

“I have this light in my chest that’s always there, and it’s completely thanks to you. And while we might have started out on a shitty accident, I don’t think it was an accident at all. We were meant to be. We were supposed to find each other. And now, here, I want to do this. I want to be each other’s person. I want to be the Nikov St. Clares—still workshopping—and I really fucking hope you want that too. Even without all our family here to pressure you into doing it.”

This, right here, is what perfection looks like. Family, friends, his mom and dad, who are my mom and dad. Our head of security and bestie fur-ever, Lars. And the baddie bunch, who set me up on this path and pushed me to get to where I was supposed to be and where I finally belong. With St. Clare. With my pookie. A complete matching set.