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Once upon a time, a mute boy fell in love with an unapologetic murderer. Ok, it happened last Thursday at the diner where I’d worked for all of thirty minutes before a man wearing shit kickers, a black A-shirt, yoga pants, and like a hundred pounds of guns and ammo came into the diner and called out, “Steak and eggs, scrambled with sourdough, and a black coffee.” The man didn’t even sit, he just announced his order. And then all hell broke loose. Every patron in the diner started attacking him with bullets and knives and their bodies. All the man wanted was some breakfast and suddenly all the
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Speaking of the diner. Turns out the owner decided to close it down permanently. Couldn’t even give me a reference letter since I worked exactly one hour before walking out. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t getting paid to clean up blood and bodies. Maybe I should look into crime scene clean-up. That’s not the kind of job that would require me to talk, right? Because I can’t. I don’t have vocal cords. Yes, yes. I have a tragic backstory that includes an abusive, narcissistic, surgeon stepfather who removed my voice when I was a colicky baby. Don’t worry, I’m not traumatized by it. I
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The man spins, immediately spotting and completely disregarding me. I mean, I don’t blame him. I’m not all that memorable, but still. My hopeful, little, romantic heart gives a twinge at being so easily forgotten. Ouch, Future Husband. Ouch.
I turn back to the computer I’m occupying and take up my task again, this time putting headphones on and listening to a YouTube playlist. I really need a job. About four applications later, a streak of blood spatter hits my screen, startling the fuck out of me. I rip my headphones off and turn in my chair just in time for a dismembered arm to come flying at me. The thing lands in my lap as my eyes go buggy at the absolute carnage behind me. It’s not as bad as the diner, but I don’t think the library is going to be able to afford the clean up. Fighting hand-to-hand with a man at least half a
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When a person is as poor as I am, we can make a hundred dollars stretch. Did I buy a new outfit with my hundred dollars? No. No, I did not. I went to a charity closet and replaced my clothes. I saved my two hundred dollars and went home. Well, to the apartment I’m squatting in. People are all kinds of stupid, and you just have to find the right kind of stupid if you’re going to be living hand to mouth. I hung out on the college campus the last month of the semester, listening to students until I found the right person. He has his own apartment, he’s all paid up, and he’s gone for the entire
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Since I have some extra cash—thank you, sexy mass murderer—I stop by a food truck run by one of the few men I know who’s managed to work himself off the street. His name is Lionel Manchkin, and he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. When I get to the front of the line, Lionel gives me an impassive once over before calling out to the cook behind him. “Manchkin Special!” He shakes his head at me. “Still looking for a job?” I nod and shrug and hand over five dollars. He hands me back two dollars and two quarters. “I heard about the diner. They said there were two survivors.” I nod again,
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“Don’t do it.” Holymotherfuckingshit. I look up so fast, I’m pretty sure I give myself whiplash. The guy is on the subway! Future husband! But maybe this isn’t the best thing, because now I’m looking around and almost everyone in this car has a weapon out and they’re all staring at my man. Dammit. I should probably be worried about why so many people are trying to kill this guy, but I’m wearing my nice shirt, and I still have half a sandwich left, and I’m pretty sure my man is probably going to kill me too because once is coincidence, twice is suspicious, but meeting three times like this is
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“Santanos wants you dead, Fox. It’s our job to make sure Santanos gets what Santanos wants.” I guess my future husband’s name or moniker is Fox since that’s the second person to call him that. Fitting. The man is a total fox. Not a silver fox yet, he needs a few years for the silver to start coming into his dark hair, but I can totally see him as a sexy silver fox in about a decade, and I’m so here for that. Ugh. Closed-box gunshots are deafening. Since I’m already mute and don’t want to lose my hearing, I plug my ears with my middle fingers, keeping my arms crossed over my head. Yay for the
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Looking around at the bodies I hang my head and shake my fist at Fox. If he weren’t the love of my life, I’d be a bit more piqued, but I guess I’m just glad he’s alive.
A hand closes around my fist, making me gasp as I look up, remembering too late that three times is definitely reason enough to kill me. Locking eyes with the man’s dark hazel orbs, I’m surprised to find curiosity rather than murder in them. The relief that he’s not going to kill me brings a huge smile to my face. I pat his sticky chest with my free hand, pulling it away bloody. I mean, we’re both pretty gross, but when I look at where I patted, I can see a hole in the fabric and think maybe my love has been shot. I widen my eyes and look up at him, projecting concern. For a brief moment he
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“Address, Mr. Fox?” the cabbie asks while stupidly taking his life into his own hands. I widen my eyes at the gun the man pulls and points at Fox, who immediately breaks the guy’s arm by bending it in ways it should not go, takes the gun, and stabs the cabbie with a knife that appears out of the air like magic. Well, that fixes the problem with having to tell him my address. “Address?” Fox asks again as he gets out of the cab. Never mind; the problem is not fixed. I watch in awe as he pulls the cabbie out of the car and then sits in the driver’s seat. So this is happening. Yay. The best thing
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I scoot my ass out of the backseat of the cab and turn my best smile on Fox, pointing to the grocery store since I have zero food in my apartment. Not my apartment, but you know what I mean. He glances down at my bloody clothes and then to the grocery store, so I shrug to let him know that no one is going to care we’re covered in blood. They’ll probably assume it's a flash mob thing or something. Since he doesn’t object, I take his hand—I’m totally willing to risk death for some hand-holding—and lead him into the store. It’s the guns and ammo that cinches it for us. We get a lot of looks, but
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Watching Fox tend his wounds is a little surreal. Turns out, he does not have any bullet holes in his body. I know because I didn't even attempt not to gawk when he stripped down to his skivvies. I’m not sure he noticed that I was watching, because even though he has zero bullet holes in him, apparently he got into a fight with a carving knife recently. Well, it was probably a sword, but still, those cuts are deep and the scars will be vicious. Not that adding a few more scars is going to take away from his beauty. The man is—let me just get a napkin for my drool—lithe. Lots of yummy muscles,
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he’s done now with tending his wounds, and because it’s about food time anyway, I pull out the small pack of ground beef he bought and start prepping the vegetables for spaghetti with meat and vegetable sauce. It’s a cheap way to get all the food pyramid into my belly if I count tomato and eggplant as vegetables (I do). I guess since I spent the last couple of hours gawking at him, it’s his turn, and he definitely takes it, watching me like a hawk as I dice up the onion, eggplant, and chop up the mushrooms. The meat browns while the water boils, and I dump the whole wheat pasta I bought into
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Sitting across from Fox, I watch him and he watches me, and then I realize that with all the people out to kill him he’s probably wondering if I’ve poisoned his food, so I take a bite of mine and then take a bite of his and give him another bright smile because he should have more smiles in his life, especially if they’re mine since we’re going to get married someday. Fox gives me a small smile back and digs into his food, eating efficiently. There is no indication that he likes the food; he’s just putting energy into his body. Good thing I tend to cook the more nutritious choices rather than
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I wash the dishes while Fox continues to stare at me. Little butterflies of excitement wriggle through me at being under his microscope. The dryer buzzes while I’m contemplating how long before I can get my first kiss from him, so I finish my task and pull our laundry out of the machine. Mine will never be wearable again, but since his is black, the stains don’t really show through. Damn. I guess he’s going to cover all his deliciousness again. I fold up his clothes and mine, grab the stack, and nod my head toward the hallway. If he’s going to be putting on clean clothes, he should probably
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Grabbing the book I’ve been reading, I make a cup of fancy tea from my host’s stash and settle in on the sofa to wait for Fox to re-emerge. Communication barriers are a bitch, but my text-to-speech device was stolen three months ago, and those things aren’t cheap. Hence why it was stolen. I guess I could practice my letters instead of reading about gay pirates pillaging the tightest holes on the high seas…but gay pirates are way more interesting than wobbly script written by a guy who can’t tell if he’s right or left-handed. No really. I use both hands equally, but holding a pencil never felt
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“What’s your name?” he asks, moving his hands in a recognizable pattern. Yeah, I probably should have learned sign language ages ago, but I’ve had a text-to-speech device since the government took over raising me, so I never did learn. Instead of trying to explain the futility of signing to me, I stand up, grab my wallet from the counter, and show him my government issued ID. “Romily Butcher. You’ll be twenty-two on Christmas Day.” He hands me back my ID and looks me over. “You’re not deaf?” I shake my head and lift my chin, showing him the surgical scar. It’s barely there, hardly noticeable
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A knock on the door interrupts my happiness, replacing it with confusion. I put my finger to my mouth and turn just to look at the door. After another moment, the person knocks on the other side. “Open up, Elijah! I know you’re in there. We need to talk.” I widen my eyes at Fox, continuing to hold my finger to my mouth. Elijah is the guy that holds the lease on the apartment. The guy talking through the door worries me, since everyone who knows Elijah knows he’s in Italy for the summer. “Come on, Elijah. We both know you came back early because of me. Let’s just talk.” Oh no, this is starting
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sounds like the dude is gone, I stand up from where I crouched behind Fox and wipe my hands on my leggings. Yes, I did in fact choose the leggings so that if I got an erection Fox wouldn’t miss it and would know I’m so very onboard with some horizontal tango. What? Some people have to use alternate forms of communication because we can’t give verbal consent. Since I should probably explain that we’re currently squatting, I fast walk to the kitchen where Elijah Penn keeps his lease in a drawer. I pull it out, showing Fox the lease and pointing to the name. I point to myself and execute a
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Fox shuts the door behind him and pulls out his phone. Whatever he sees there makes one of his eyes twitch, then he looks up at me, face clear of emotions. “Want a job?” he asks, like maybe he’s not sure if this is a good idea or not. I huff and roll my eyes, putting my fist on my hip. Obviously I need a job. I lost the last one because of him. Not that I blame him. I roll my hand, indicating for him to go on. Fox almost smiles again. “Don’t sass me,” he teases, but immediately drops that tone in favor of what I decide is his professional one. “The job is called Harbinger. You announce my
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Looking around at the mostly empty boutique, I clock two other women showing phones to customers, and one woman staring at us from behind the cash desk. That one looks at me with keen interest in her Botox-frozen face. With the subtlety that comes from hiding most of my life, I nudge Fox to draw his attention to the woman staring at me. There’s no way I’m dumb enough to get involved with a man known for his ability to murder people in groups and not make him aware of the people giving me too much attention.
I’m basically his responsibility at this point. I’ll bring joy to his deadly life and he will protect me, and that’s a totally fair exchange.
“This place is safe. There are rules, and no one breaks them unless they want a visit from me,” Fox explains without bothering to be subtle about it. The woman cocks her head to the side. “I’m merely curious about why Fox would hire a Harbinger after a decade.” I don’t have an answer for her and couldn’t say even if I did. Snicker. I love mute puns, but only when I mak...
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Fox pays for the phone by giving the woman the back of his hand and letting her scan it. I eye the transaction and wait until we’re back on the street before picking up his wrist and pointing at the back of his hand with wide, questioning eyes. Fox glances between my expression and his hand. “I work for an organization that utilizes chip implants for commerce. You’ll get one after a trial period if you choose to remain in my employ.” Well, that’s not a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream. Nope. Not at all. I give Fox an exaggerated side-eye and shake my head. “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t
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I peruse the menu, deciding on a chicken dish that looks edible, and set it aside, looking up to find Fox studying me. I cock my head curiously, silently asking what he’s thinking. He studies me for another few seconds before speaking quietly. “I’m trying to decide why you’ve never been afraid of me and what kind of person pushes a severed head off their lap before demanding money for clothes.” I snort and roll my eyes as I start typing on my phone, handing it over when I finish. I don’t know if his organization tracks text messages, but if I don’t have to send personal information out into
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all the joy bouncing between us snuffs out when a man steps up to our table, setting wine glasses on the table and uncorking a bottle. “Good evening, Mr. Fox. Welcome to Sybillant. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The man pours Fox’s wine and turns his almost black eyes on me, making me feel cold with the lack of anything remotely human in them. “And you, Harbinger, welcome. I am Saxon Sybil. Should you ever need my assistance, please do not hesitate to ask. I’ve instructed the depot to add my contact information to your phone.” That’s rather presumptuous of
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I watch Fox sip his wine, enjoying the bob of his Adam’s apple and the way the dark scruff on his face makes him look like more of a hobo than I am. No, he doesn’t get to look distinguished with his scruff; he looks like he could use a shave and a haircut. Like I said, he’s not exactly handsome, more like he’s an average joe kind of guy and with the day-old scruff he’s definitely looking haggard. It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a bloodstained T-shirt and workout pants. “Restrictive clothing isn’t an option for me,” he tells me quietly. Plus, I know what he spent on my suits; he would be
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“First job is in a church. All you have to do is go in and walk to the front and sit in the first pew. That is the entirety of your job. We will leave together,” he says, hailing a cab. He pushes me into it, but doesn’t get in with me, giving the cabbie the address before shutting me in without so much as a good luck. Oh well, when you decide to fall in love with a stoic man, you can’t expect him to be anything other than stoic. As the cab pulls back into traffic, I give him an affectionate smile through the window—I’m not a stoic man, so I don’t have to pretend I don’t like him.
I have one job to do, so I walk with confidence to the front of the church, never faltering even when every head turns as I pass. The very front pew is actually behind the pulpit and to the left, so I walk up the steps past the priest and turn, sitting to face the sanctuary at the very front of the church. Two elderly men and a middle-aged woman exit the church as the rest of the people stand up, drawing their guns. No one points a weapon at me, but the priest turns to face me. “May I ask for whom the bell tolls?” He looks…concerned. Since I don’t know and I couldn’t tell him if I did, I stare
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I wave at her, inviting her out of her prison with a curl of my fingers. She flinches at the movement, but then a shadow of the woman who used to work the streets with confidence and sass comes into her eyes and she shakily crawls out from under the pulpit. I make a crackly noise in my mouth and move my hand across my throat and point at where the priest ran off. She basically crumbles to the floor in stark relief. Figuring I don’t need to stay in my seat now, I get on the floor with her, pull her head into my lap, and watch her breathe until Fox returns with the head of the priest skewered on
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Waking up in the luxury of a memory foam mattress and under a thousand pounds of blankets are life goals I didn’t realize I should have had. I’d set my sights on just having a roof over my head; I should have been aiming higher: a bed I never want to get out of. Even better? The smell of both coffee and bacon permeating the air. Even though I’m absolutely loath to leave the bed, the siren call of breakfast pulls me out of my warm cocoon.
Fox’s brownstone is beautiful and clean, and my man has some kind of obsession with tables because there are at least five flat surfaces of some kind in every room. Even the hallway has a couple of thin wall tables. The bathroom has one built to sit over the back of the toilet and one directly across from it. Now I’m not one to judge. A man wants to decorate his house with tables, that’s his business, but it’s not like he uses them for anything. They’re purely some kind of messed up idea of decoration because he doesn’t put anything on them. Not flowerpots, not mail, not even lamps. They just
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As I wander into the kitchen, Fox turns from where he’s standing at the stove scrambling eggs into a pan full of sautéed vegetables. He looks me up and down before jerking his head to the coffee pot where an empty cup awaits me next to a carton of half and half. I tip a bit of the half and half into my cup and then fill the rest with coffee, sipping the brew and sighing because it’s definitely the best cup I’ve ever had. Smooth and robust and everything a cup of coffee should be. Damn, I’m going to be so spoiled living here. And yes, I am moving in even though Fox and I haven’t discussed
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Along the edges of the tall walls, a cornucopia of food plants thrive, heavy with their bounty. When Fox sets a plate in front of me, I match the vegetables in the scramble to the ones in the garden and sigh happily. Homegrown food is always more flavorful than what grocers get. Picking up my fork, I point to the garden, then Fox, then my plate and give him my curious expression. He follows my line of questioning because we’re soulmates and he gets me even when the question isn’t one hundred percent clear. “It’s slightly safer to grow my own food.” He pauses, examining me for something. He
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Before I fix my hair and try to mimic the make-up from yesterday, I shoot Fox a text. Me: At some point, I need to go retrieve my stuff. Future Husband: I’ll send someone unless you need to do it yourself. Me: How will they know what belongs to me? Future Husband: Your stuff won’t smell like the lessee of the apartment. Me: Valid. Leave Elijah a note warning him that his ex is a stalker and thank him for hosting me. I might have been squatting, but I don’t want to be rude. Of course, now I’m wondering if he’s talking about magic sniffers or actual sniffers like dogs, but you know what? I want
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When I get out onto the sidewalk, I’m standing in front of a clothing boutique with evening dresses on the mannequins in the windows. Curious how a clothier managed to get on Fox’s radar, I enter the store. Since this is only my second job, I project confidence as I walk over to and behind the cash desk, leaning up against the wall as the woman standing at the register turns wide, frightened eyes on me and runs straight out the door. Two customers follow her out, leaving me with just one woman eyeing me in confusion and a short man staring at me in terror. “Who—who—who?” he stammers, but it
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Fox stops on the sidewalk and does absolutely nothing for a full minute. Well, he breathes, but otherwise doesn’t do anything else. Then he turns to me, studying me again. “You should probably meet Annette,” he decides, offering me his hand. Like I’d ever disabuse him of the notion our hands should always be linked. I thread our fingers together and follow his lead down the street.
At the mouth of an alley, he stops again, cocking his head as if listening for something, then a man slinks out from behind a dumpster, gun trained on Fox. “Santanos requires a face-to-face,” the man says almost quietly enough that I can’t hear him. Fox squeezes my hand and drops it, walking into the alley toward the man with a gun. I mean, I’ve seen him get shot at, and I know I can’t be shot, so for a moment I contemplate using my body to protect him, but then I remember that my man has competence in spades, and if he wants me to stand here and do nothing, that’s exactly what I’m going to
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