Jake likes Vegas, but it gets a little hot when he wins too much at one casino. So Jake has a choice; he can go to the middle of nowhere and try to kill this guy some mob boss wants dead, or he can die himself. Keye is on vacation and minding his own business when Jake shows up. As a hitman, he thinks it's pretty damned funny that Jake is the man sent to kill him, at least until he starts to figure out what talents Jake has going for him. Can these two band together and stay alive?
Author's Note: This book is dedicated to Frank, the lizard that lives in my bathroom. No. Really. Frank the Bathroom Lizard keeps me young. And screaming.
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EXCERPT:
Keye sat in the back booth, the one on the side of the diner with no restrooms and no windows. He liked to be able to watch folks come and go, to know that he had nowhere to run. Being backed into a corner made him sharper, smarter. An easy escape route made for a lazy Keye.
The people coming in and out were regulars, for the most part, having coffee, saying hi, and eating chili sizes and hash and eggs. Normal. Easy. Good. He approved.
The guy walking toward him wasn't a regular. Keye knew it like he knew that he could crush the man's windpipe with one squeeze. His neck was only so big.
Of course, when said skinny little wild-haired freak sat down, looked at him with one light blue eye, one dark brown one, and said, "I'm supposed to be here to kill you. Weird, huh?" he knew he was absolutely right.
Keye sat back, hands flat on the table, and stared. "You want some coffee?"
"Absolutely." The little guy waved down the waitress, ordered a coffee with a smile, then turned back to him with a bright smile. "So, there's this guy -- Gianni de Marco? You know him? Ugly, broad, lots of nice hair, but way too much pomade? He's in Vegas. He has all my money and he's a big asshole -- wanted to cut my fingers off, what a turd, huh? Anyway, he's hiring people to kill you. Well, blackmailing me to kill you, but I always figure if a guy's willing to blackmail one man, he's willing to hire someone else. It's like a slippery-slope deal. Anyway, I thought about it, because seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, but if I won it once in Vegas, I can win it a couple three times in Shreveport, and I have the weird feeling that murder would lead to blood and puss and stuff, so no. I decided to warn you instead."
"I think he needs to switch to decaf, honey," Keye told the waitress. She left again, and Keye stared at the guy some more. "De Marco, huh?"
"Uh-huh. He's a fuckmonkey. You're very broad. I was surprised, you know? All I had to work on was this little memory deal and a fuzzy picture like from the TV. All pixelated and shit from the security cameras. I guess that's what the hat was for, though, huh? Hiding your face?"
"Well, I wear a hat occasionally." Hell, he was from Texas. He wore a hat a lot, cowboy or gimme cap, whatever. "What's a fuckmonkey?"
The guy's laugh rang out -- and how it wasn't purely insane, Keye wasn't sure, but it wasn't. "I haven't the foggiest, but it's a great word, isn't it? Fuck. Monkey. Fuckmonkey. It's like asshat, but with more flinging poo."
Lord, have mercy. Some days a man just had to go with what was put in front of him. "So, you're not gonna kill me."
"God, no. That's creepy." The man drank deep from his coffee, then smiled. "I mean, I found you, which is good, I guess, but I'm a tracker, not a hunter. Did you really get that scar on your chin from falling out of a barn? I don't know that I've ever been in a real barn."
Keye kept his face immobile by force of will alone. How the hell did this guy know where he’d gotten his scar? "You been talkin' to my momma or something?"
"She died three years ago. She was..." The guy's nose wrinkled, one long finger sliding on his hand. "Oh, man. Yuck. I'm sorry, that sucks. Bad memory, huh? Let's not go there. That's bad. And you dealt with it all and I'm really glad my name's not Lionel, because you just... you don't like that name at all."
Keye felt his brow furrow, which meant this guy was really something. He didn't know what. His voice came out pretty even, though. "How do you know this shit?"
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