Perfect Strangers

By Edward Kendrick

Opposites attract—but is that attraction enough to bring two strangers together?

Raphael Koenig is an assassin working for a covert outfit. He also uses alcohol to fend off terrifying nightmares. After completing one too many kills and dealing with one too many nightmares, he's close to burning out. So, he takes a break—a two-week vacation in New Orleans.

Alden Durant lives and works in New Orleans. One afternoon he happens to see a sad, lonely looking man—Raphael. When they run into each other again, Alden offers to show him the city and they strike up a tentative friendship that leads to a casual sexual relationship that they are certain will end when Raphael's vacation is over.

Raphael is called back early for another job, and both men believe they will never meet again. Then, fate steps in when Raphael is sent to New Orleans to take out a hired killer. He and Alden reconnect, but will they be able to handle the revelations that ensue? Or will those revelations drive them apart this time—permanently?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pride Publishing
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786514134

Edward Kendrick

Born and bred Cleveland, I earned a degree in technical theater, later switched to costuming, and headed to NYC. Finally seeing the futility of trying to become rich and famous in the Big Apple, I joined VISTA—Volunteers in Service to America—ending up in Chicago for three years. Then it was on to Denver where I put down roots and worked as a costume designer until I retired in 2007.I began writing a few years ago after joining an on-line fanfic group. Two friends and I then started a group for writers, where they could post any story they wished no matter the genre or content. Since then, for the last six years, I've been writing for publication—my first book came out in February of 2011. Most, but not all, of my work is M/M, either mildly erotic or purely 'romantic'. More often than not it involves a mystery or action/adventure, and is sometimes paranormal to boot.

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Perfect Strangers

ISBN # 978-1-78651-413-4

©Copyright Edward Kendrick 2016

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright April 2016

Edited by Faith Bicknell-Brown

Pride Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2016 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

PERFECT STRANGERS

Edward Kendrick

Opposites attract—but is that attraction enough to bring two strangers together?

Raphael Koenig is an assassin working for a covert outfit. He also uses alcohol to fend off terrifying nightmares. After completing one too many kills and dealing with one too many nightmares, he’s close to burning out. So, he takes a break—a two-week vacation in New Orleans.

Alden Durant lives and works in New Orleans. One afternoon he happens to see a sad, lonely looking man—Raphael. When they run into each other again, Alden offers to show him the city and they strike up a tentative friendship that leads to a casual sexual relationship that they are certain will end when Raphael’s vacation is over.

Raphael is called back early for another job, and both men believe they will never meet again. Then, fate steps in when Raphael is sent to New Orleans to take out a hired killer. He and Alden reconnect, but will they be able to handle the revelations that ensue? Or will those revelations drive them apart this time—permanently?

Dedication

For Bren.

Trademarks Acknowledgment

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

1999 Vulcan Drifter: Kawasaki Jukogyo Kabushiki Kaisha

Dockers: Levi Strauss and Company

Chevy: General Motors LLC

GPS: United States Government

Ford: Ford Motor Company

The Cheshire Cat: Lewis Carroll, Walt Disney Enterprises, Inc.

Mood Indigo: Duke Ellington, Barney Bigard, lyrics by Irving Mills

Chapter One

Touch that and you’ll regret it, Raphael told the bartender, his tone menacing.

It’s closing time, man. Finish it now, or not. I don’t give a damn, but I’m taking the glass. He reached for it again.

Raphael seized the bartender’s wrist—tightly enough the man winced. I told you. Leave it. Go find someone else to bother.

Five minutes, the bartender muttered when Raphael released his hold.

Then give me a refill. He tossed back the dregs of the drink.

Are you shitting me?

"What do you think?" Raphael’s gaze locked on the bartender’s face as he laid down the price of the drink.

The bartender grabbed a bottle of the whiskey Raphael was drinking from the shelf, poured three fingers’ worth into the glass then moved away. With a cold smile, Raphael lifted the glass to his lips, emptied it then slammed the glass down on the bar. Now, you can have it, he called out. Snagging his leather jacket off the back of the stool, he walked lazily to the exit, as if the five drinks he’d had since he’d arrived in the joint hadn’t affected him in the least.

And they hadn’t, other than to relax him and help him forget the scene he’d witnessed at another bar. A man there, older and very drunk, was being verbally—and loudly—abusive to the woman sitting beside him at a table in the back. She’d cowered away, as if afraid the next thing he’d do was hit her. Raphael would have stepped in if the bartender hadn’t. The last he saw before he’d left was the drunken man being escorted out of the back door—without the woman.

Raphael didn’t have to check the time to know it was late. After all, he’d come close to being kicked out of the bar at the two a.m. closing time, after his little set-to with the bartender. Bet he didn’t expect me to give him any guff. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some punk bruiser push me around. That hasn’t happened since… He shelved that thought where it belonged—in the deep recesses of his mind—as he walked to where he’d parked his bike.

When he got to the lot, he chuckled low. The kid who manned the booth was standing by the bike, a longing look on his face.

Like it? Raphael asked, coming up behind him.

The kid nodded. Ninety-nine Vulcan Drifter. Right?

"Yep. Bought it used from an idiot who didn’t know what he had. No way in hell am I getting rid of it until it dies under me."

The kid stroked the handlebars. Don’t blame you. He pulled his hand back, murmuring, Sorry.

Raphael almost smiled as he climbed on the bike. I don’t think you did any damage. How much do I owe you?

Huh? Oh. He looked at the ticket Raphael handed him. Ten even.

Raphael gave him fifteen, telling him to keep the change, started the bike and drove out of the lot, the kid’s surprised thanks drifting away behind him.

My good deed for the day. Raphael laughed softly.

Less than ten minutes later, he was parking in the lot behind his apartment. He locked the bike, went into the building and, rather than using the elevator, took the stairs two at a time to the third floor.

As soon as he was in his apartment, he tossed his jacket on the sofa, walked into the master bedroom and stripped down to his briefs. Going back to the living room, he fixed a drink at the bar along one wall then went out to the balcony. From where he stood, he could see the lights of the city spread out before him. If it was daytime, he could have seen the mountains in the distance.

I should get to bed, he said under his breath. He was reticent to do so, even though he had to be up in less than five hours if he was going to be at the construction site on time. He was afraid the abusive man he’d seen at the bar would bring on dreams he didn’t want—or need.

He sipped his drink then, resolutely, drank the rest of it in one gulp. After going back inside, he went into the kitchen and set the glass in sink. He took a fast shower then crawled into bed. Soon all the alcohol he’d consumed, and his exhaustion, did what he hoped and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * * *

You look like hell, Raphe, Max, the job foreman, said when Raphael arrived at the site.

Thanks, Raphael replied wryly. Late night.

When isn’t it with you?

Raphael shrugged. "On days that don’t end in Y?"

Figured. Oh, Cox is in the office. Said to send you his way when you got here.

With a nod, Raphael walked to the trailer that served as the onsite office.

You look like hell, Mr. Cox said, pointing to the chair beside his desk.

Raphael ignored the comment, trying not to be pissed that it seemed to be the watchword of the day for him. Setting his hardhat on the corner of the desk, he asked, What do you have for me?

Cox took a thin file from the desk drawer, handing it to him. He arrives tomorrow.

The picture in the file showed a slightly overweight, middle-aged man with well-styled dark hair, wearing a suit. Leaves when?

Cox smiled. When you finish the job? He’s due to get on a flight to New York day after tomorrow. That gives you twenty-four hours, give or take.

I’ll see that he misses his flight. Raphael took the papers and picture, handing the empty file back to Cox. Folding them, he put them in his jeans pocket, picked up his hardhat and left.

By the end of the day, he was ready for a drink. Not at a bar, however. He had work he could only do at home. As soon as he got there, he poured a short glass of whiskey—only two fingers’ worth—then drank it while making supper. Then he settled down at his well-secured computer to find out more about Mr. Welding, the man in the picture Cox had given him.

* * * *

The hotel lobby was teeming with people when Raphael arrived early the next evening. He figured most of them were there to hear Mr. Welding speak. Casually, he strolled to the conference room. A stage was set up at one end with rows of seats facing it. People were beginning to drift in, even though it was an hour before the event was scheduled to begin.

From there, he made his way to the fitness center. While researching Welding, he had discovered the man—probably because he was somewhat overweight—was a fitness nut. The center was only half-full at the moment. Mostly with middle-aged men using the treadmills and exercise bikes. Welding was not among them.

Finally, after a trip to the employees’ locker room, where he borrowed a white, double-breasted uniform jacket, Raphael went up to the tenth floor. Welding had a suite there and Raphael needed to get the lay of the land. He rapped on the door then waited, secure in the knowledge that in the white jacket—along with the white shirt and black trousers he had on when he’d arrived at the hotel—he looked like every other room service employee.

May I help you? a woman who answered the door to the suite inquired.

They sent me to pick up the dirty dishes.

She smiled slightly. There are only glasses. Mr. Welding rarely eats before a speech. Leading him into the living room of the suite, she pointed to a few glasses on one coffee table.

Raphael gathered them up while making note of the open door at one side of the room and a glass on the dresser of what as obviously Welding’s bedroom. May I get that one as well? When she nodded, he did.

He heard the door to the suite open, then a man told the woman, He’ll be up as soon as he finishes his workout.

They lowered their voices when Raphael came into the room. With a nod, he left, dropping the glasses off on a service cart four doors down before heading to the fire stairs. A few minutes later, he walked into the fitness center, sans the white jacket and with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

Even if he didn’t know what Welding looked like, it would have been easy to spot him from the two bodyguards who stood with crossed arms a few feet from the treadmill, watching while Welding, wearing only a pair of running shorts, exercised. They glanced at Raphael, as if assessing his potential for causing trouble. With a nod, telling them he was there to collect dirty towels, he walked into the men’s locker room.

Lockers lined one wall with a set of freestanding ones opposite. Behind those, he saw the entrance to the showers. At the far end of the room was a service door that was, according to the sign on the door, for employees only. He opened it enough to ascertain that it took a key to get in from the hallway on the other side,