Heart of Glass

By Heidi Lowe

Shard has always been a bit of a loner. She's socially awkward, emotionally stunted, and always says the wrong thing at the wrong time. Oh, and she's also an assassin!

 

The job is all she knows, and she's good at it. But all good things come to an end sooner or later. And when she suddenly becomes unfit for the job, she's forced to flee the city, leaving everything behind.

 

With a destination in mind, she sets off on the road, hoping to disappear before her old employers catch up to her. When her car breaks down in the idyllic town of Cressington, she's only planning to stay long enough to secure a new one.

 

That is until she meets the beautiful Emilia Hammond...

 

Emilia is everything Shard is not: warm, welcoming, and loving. Shard's instant attraction to the guesthouse owner turns her world upside down. Now she's feeling things she's never felt before, wanting things she's never wanted before. She's finally ready to put the violence behind her.

 

Unfortunately, her employers have no intention of letting her get away alive; the only way out is through death. A fact Shard has always known and accepted.

 

Trouble is, now her life isn't the only one that's in jeopardy.

 

Heart of Glass is a lesbian romantic suspense novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heidi Lowe Books
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201851156

Heidi Lowe

Heidi Lowe writes steamy lesbian fiction.

Book preview

ONE

A sticky residue clings to the counter in front of me, and for some strange reason it's unsettling. Not because it rests so close to my glass that if I slid it just seven centimeters to the right it would get stuck, but because it's an old spill that's been missed or ignored. I'm outraged. I'm rarely outraged. If you're going to overcharge for the drinks, the least you can do is clean your bar!

This will set the tone for the night.

I take a sip of my lemonade. The barmaid had frowned when I ordered it; she thinks I should be drinking something that has a kick to it.

Lemonade? she'd asked with unmasked skepticism, raising a perfectly-trimmed eyebrow. Nothing stronger?

I'd smiled at her, because that's what people are supposed to do to barmaids. I'm working.

She'd nodded as though she understood, eyed me curiously because she couldn't help herself. When they do notice me, they always want to know more.

I'd anticipated her next question; it's always the same.

So what do you–

I'm a pilot. A respectable job, and pilots come in all shapes and sizes. She wouldn't suspect a thing. Last month, I was a marine biologist. That one piqued too much interest.

That perfectly-trimmed eyebrow had shot up, this time in surprise. Fascination? Definitely fascination. For the following two minutes, while she inquired more about my profession, I'd silently admonished myself for the careless career choice. Next time, I'll be a travel writer.

That was ten minutes ago. The bar is now considerably more crowded than it was when I arrived, and the patrons are of a kind that have a tendency to want to make friends. I contemplate waiting for him outside. He can't stay in here forever.

Someone changes the song on the jukebox to something I've only ever heard in movies but don't know the name of. People dance and sway drunkenly around me. They know this place is a dive, even by dive bar standards, but they're drunk, it's a Friday night, and it's the only place in this part of town that's still open at this hour. They won't notice the sticky patch on the counter, and they certainly won't notice that one patron among the three dozen or so will go missing tonight, never to be heard from again.

Someone slides onto the stool beside me and lets out a long, agonized breath. Even without looking, I know it's him. His cologne is something spicy and foreign, not easily obtained in this part of the world. He'll be the only one wearing it, for sure. It's a good fragrance to die in.

Another bourbon... neat, he says to the barmaid, his voice heavy with desolation.

Through my peripheral vision, I see him remove his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, pull out a couple of notes, shake his head and place the notes on the bar. Or whatever two bucks gets me.

The barmaid puts a hand on her hip, gives him a pitiful look that he responds to with a shrug and a hopeless smile.

Mineral water, she says tiredly, chewing on gum. Was she chewing gum before? It's not like you to miss a detail like that.

That's not what he came here for. And even though he's already three drinks in, clearly he's still too sober. How many drinks will it take to forget that he's lost his job and his lover in the same night?

Before the barmaid can step away to serve a paying customer, I intervene. I'll pay.

Oh, you don't have to– he starts.

Too late, I've already pulled out a twenty from the pocket of my jeans and slid it to the barmaid, who hesitates before taking it. When I nod my insistence, she prepares his drink.

Thank you, he says. He's embarrassed, I can hear it in his voice. But not embarrassed enough to refuse the drink.

I wave a dismissive hand without looking at him. This beverage costs a small fraction of the amount I've been paid for this job. The least I can do is buy the man a drink.

Once he receives it and the barmaid disappears to replenish the glasses of her other guests, I feel his eyes on me. He's sizing me up, trying to decide what my story is and how to ask me about it. Maybe he can't place my accent. I've piqued his interest. If he wasn't already madly in love, I might even be his type.

I stop him before he can thank me again. You looked like you needed it, I say.

He lets out a laugh, takes a gulp of his whiskey. You have no idea.

I do, Jared William Jeter II, I muse. I know all about your predicament.

I study him, commit his disheveled appearance to memory. I want to know what a person looks like when they've lost it all. The crumpled white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; the dotted navy blue tie that's been yanked loose and hangs to the side; the unruly blond mane and adolescent-esque features that make him look like a member of a boy band. Handsome by most standards, even in his current state. He's been able to get any woman he wants – single, in a relationship, married. I suspect most things have come easy to him, but I won't hold it against him.

What was her name? I ask, even though I know this, too.

He's momentarily shocked, wonders how I could know it's about a woman. It wouldn't be about the job – he can always get another one. He can't replace her, though.

Mary-Louise, he says bitterly after a while, before taking another swig.

Mary-Louise Duncan, thirty-eight, brunette, wife of Morris Duncan... Mayor Morris Duncan.

I don't know why I'm surprised, he continues. She's been trying to end it for years, since the start, in fact.

I nod, swirl my drink around a little, pretend that this is news to me.

Married? I say.

He sighs. A cliché, I know.

Is she pretty?

He snorts a laugh. Oh yeah! That's all he'll say about her, not that she won Miss Nevada in some vacuous beauty contest back when she was twenty-two. That would be too much information. A pensive silence passes before he adds, "But it wasn't just that. Not with her. I loved her before everyone else noticed she was beautiful. Before him. We were high school sweethearts."

I keep my expression neutral, though this is a new piece of information. Why was it left out of the briefing report? Did the client think it would make a difference? Because it won't.

He goes quiet again and I don't know what else to say to him. There's something sick and twisted about consoling a man whose life I'm about to take, no matter how much he needs a friend right now. Buying a drink I can do, but he'll get no comforting words from me. There are just some boundaries I won't cross. I can't afford to.

Once he drains his glass, he rests his head on the counter. I wonder if there's something sticky there, too.

Love sucks, he mumbles. I'll stay away from it in future.

Good plan, I say without an ounce of sarcasm.

He lifts his head, gives me a cursory look as though seeing me for the first time. Takes in the long, black tresses that fall down my back, my cream polo shirt, my tight black jeans. I doubt you've had any problems in that department. Bet you've broken your fair share of hearts.

Hearts. Necks. Rib cages... He has no idea.

I shrug. That's ambiguous enough.

He starts looking around, searching for something. He stops a passing barman. Where's your restroom?

The barman points lazily then says, It's out of service.

Great, Jared William Jeter II says with a sarcastic smile, and the barman shuffles away again. He turns to me. Would you excuse me?

I nod and watch him totter towards the exit.

I wait exactly thirty-five seconds before following him out. In a few days, when his sister in Iowa can't get hold of him for one of their weekly catch-ups, and he fails to call his one remaining grandparent to wish her a happy eighty-fifth birthday, the authorities might appeal for information pertaining to his disappearance. Someone might remember seeing the brown-eyed woman with long, jet black hair, blood-red lipstick and a Dior purse saunter out after the victim. The barmaid might even recall the indistinct European accent of the woman who'd bought the victim a drink. By the time anyone inquires, that woman will no longer exist.

The door leads to the industrial bins, which is where I find him, his back to me. The street is dark, illuminated only by a couple of dull street lamps. A cat runs by as the door slams shut behind me. Jared William Jeter II doesn't look up or turn around. The alcohol in his bloodstream has made him incautious; careless.

I hear the trickle of urine hitting the ground. I position myself behind him as I attach the suppressor to my trusty Sig Sauer P938. Tonight's just a little too quiet to do it without.

Turn around, I say, the playful European accent gone, replaced with a sinister, unforgiving one that's all my own. Slightly deeper, one hundred times darker, devoid of humanity. Perfected over the years.

Despite all of this, he chuckles. You sure you want me to do that? You won't 'MeToo' me for indecent exposure?

Turn around, I say again with the same, even tone. They want him to see me as he's dying. Client's orders. They want him to know.

Just give me a second. Tank's still a little fu–

He can feel the tip of the silencer on the back of his head. Now he's shaking, using profanity, praying to a god he didn't believe in thirty seconds ago.

Pl–please, I d–don't have any money. He slowly turns around and sees me, his eyes as wide as saucers; questioning. Recognition crosses his face. He's probably thinking: what kind of sick person buys someone a drink, listens to them pour their heart out, then proceeds to shoot them?

I take one step back, the gun still aimed at him. My eyes, despite my best efforts, peer down and see his manhood dangling. The offending penis that got him into this mess. Unimpressive, but then I never really cared for them.

I look into those terrified eyes once again, only to find something else in them. Something I can't quite place.

He swallows, shuffles to tuck away his manhood. He'd like to die with dignity, I imagine. It's him, isn't it? Her husband? H–he arranged this.

I tilt my head slightly. This is a curious situation, one I've never experienced. They never know. Perhaps in the afterlife but never before. He must have seen this coming for some time.

Was she worth it?

He doesn't even have to think about it. Yes. It's as though he's gained new courage. Has his love made him courageous?

Worth dying for? I clarify, because I'm certain he misunderstood me.

With even more conviction, he says, She's the only woman I've ever loved. If you loved anyone that deeply, you'd understand.

He's not even pleading for his life. He'll just accept this. Well, that's because he doesn't have all the facts...

I hold his gaze as I deliver my next line, unblinkingly. It wasn't her husband.

I wait to see if he'll piece it together for himself. When it becomes apparent that he either can't or won't allow for the idea, I deliver the final blow. It seems Mrs Duncan has too much to lose.

Maybe it's the alcohol in his system, or the gun pointed at his head, but something tells me it's learning that Mary-Louise Duncan ordered his death that makes him throw up. Not just on himself but on my gun!

He sinks to the floor and begins to weep.

I look at my sodden weapon. It's not the most disgusting thing that's ever happened to me on a job, but it's high on the list.

Well, what are you waiting for? Get it over with! he cries.

I've taken away his reason for living. At least before, there was a chance he could win her over. But this... this is hard to forgive.

I stare down at him for a long time. The urine he expelled moments before runs into him. Piss and vomit will be his legacy.

I point the gun at him once more. My finger hovers over the trigger. I'm not here to do him any favors – that will simply be a byproduct of ending his miserable existence. However, there is a strange comfort in knowing that he'll probably thank me when this is over.

"She thinks I'll tell everyone about her daughter... our daughter, he sniffs. I wouldn't..."

The pieces are suddenly starting to fit together. There are more skeletons in Miss Nevada's closet than in a graveyard.

"You told me," I point out. It's my one joke for the day.

Well, you're the last person I'm going to see. You don't count. He peers up at me, tears clinging to his lashes. Why haven't you killed me yet?

That's what I want to know also.

I shrug. I'm like a hunter who shoots its prey and watches it die slowly and painfully.

The hand that's holding the gun falls to the side.

You're an interesting case study, I say, after a while.

His expression is one of bafflement. He looks insulted.

How so?

I crouch down to his level. You were so courageous when you thought she loved you. Why was that?

He closes his eyes, shakes his head. It's painful for him to think about now because it was all an illusion. Love transcends the here and now. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at me. I hope you get to experience that someday. I hope you find someone worth dying for.

I straighten up, ready my gun once more. Enough of the chitchat. It's time. I hope not.

*****

Her apartment sits above the bar. One of the perks of the job, she tells me as she's tugging my shirt out of my jeans and over my head. It's small, quite dingy, and smells like incense. The lighting's bad and the furniture's mismatched.

Her kisses are fervent. She's bitten me twice already by the time we make it to her bedroom. The specks of vomit on me don't seem to deter her.

Her bed is unmade and the sheets look as though it's been a while since she changed them. I wonder how many women or men have had her on these sheets, how many different types of bodily fluid I'll be lying on.

I'm not counting, but we're down to our underwear in no time at all. When the want is this strong, the dispensing of clothes can be done at the speed of light.

She's skilled with her fingers, finding my most intimate area quickly, as do I hers. We kiss and kiss as our simultaneous strumming brings us to a quick, somewhat aggressive climax. Miraculously, my wig manages to stay in place.

When it's over, I roll off of her, lie on my back. I hear her panting beside me, then she lets out a giggle.

Did you screw that guy you went out back with? she asks out of the blue. The one whose drink you paid for?

No, I say, turning my head slightly to catch her reaction. I killed him.

She laughs. You're funny.

I've never been called that before. She doesn't know that I only get one joke a day, and I already used that one up.

Who's responsible for cleaning the bar? I ask her.

She frowns with a smile. Shrugs. Me. Everyone who works here, really. Why?

There's a sticky patch on the counter where I was sitting...

I just think it's good for her to know these things.

TWO

His third call comes in while I'm on Route 395 to California, heading back from Nevada. His second came while I was in the motel shower. The first, while I was untangling myself from the blonde barmaid in the early hours of the morning.

The interruption to Bob Marley's Get Up Stand Up is unwelcome. His name flashes on the screen: Mr. Lorenz. If temperament could be assigned to inanimate objects, that flash would contain all the fury I know is in this call. It pisses him off when I don't answer on the first call, he's told me more times than I care to remember. But he's powerless; there's always an excuse I can conjure up, true or otherwise. I have to get my kicks somehow.

I'm driving, I say when I click answer. I don't take my eyes off the picturesque landscape ahead of me. A brief glance in the rear-view reveals a near empty road behind me. Just the way I like it.

He huffs for effect, so I'm aware that he's annoyed. You were supposed to check in hours ago, Twenty-five. Any trouble?

None.

Though the inquiry might sound to the untrained ear like he cares about my well-being, he doesn't. The job is what concerns him, and I wouldn't have it any other way. We all know where we stand.

Good. How far away are you?

Three hours. Four hours, I tell him.

Good, he says again. Something else has come in.

Time to kill again, he means. He'll never admit that over the phone, though. Burner or not, nothing's ever secure.

I'll see you in four hours, I say, then end the call before he can respond. I put the Bob Marley song back on and sing along to the lyrics I know so well. Could I pull off a convincing Jamaican accent?

*****

The curtain shifts in my apartment. It's such a small move that it would go unnoticed by anyone else. He's in there, has been for the past half an hour. He's watching, wondering if the red Toyota Corolla that's parked across the street belongs to me. I left in a different car. He'll wait until he sees me step out, then he'll leave and stand in the hallway, as though he wasn't just snooping through my things.

Fifteen apartments in ten years. I've never given him a key... or the address. His presence here is his way of letting me know there's nowhere I can go that he won't find me. And when I go inside, I'll see that some small alteration has occurred – the position of the rug has changed slightly, or the toilet seat might be up instead of down. Something. He knows I'll notice.

Sure enough, as I climb the three stories to my fourth floor condo, he's waiting by the door. The bald head is the first thing I see. It's so shiny it looks like a marble. Unlike many bald men, his was a choice, not shaved to hide hereditary-pattern baldness. I've seen him with a ponytail. Neither style makes him endearing. At six-foot-three, around two hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle, and a ceaseless scowl, as though he never learned to smile, he'd be menacing with or without hair.

He looks at his watch. Thought you said four hours.

I did, I say, and leave it at that as I let myself in.

He does a cursory look around as though he's never seen the place before. I don't know why we keep up this pretense.

Doesn't look very lived in, he comments. No pictures? Artwork?

I don't like art.

There isn't one piece of furniture or furnishing that wasn't here when I moved in. I bought something once, twelve apartments ago. A glass elephant with a chipped trunk that sat in the window of a thrift store. It didn't take long to realize that I wasn't an ornament person. I donated it to the same store a week later. It had lost even more of its trunk by then.

It's a cozy spot, nothing fancy, not too high maintenance. The landlord didn't ask too many questions when I offered to pay six months upfront. I only ever need them for four or five – that's usually how long it takes him to track me down. Then I have to move again.

I'm silently deliberating about the next city I'll relocate to, when he says, So where'd you dump him?

He won't be found, I assure him. That's what he really wants to know, the details are irrelevant.

I take out a fresh bottle of water from the refrigerator, don't offer him one. We're not friends, and I'm not going to share my water with him.

Did he put up a fight?

No more than usual. The water's refreshing on such a hot day.

He nods, slips an envelope out of the inside of his parka jacket, sets it on the kitchen counter. The other half.

I pick it up, open it, leaf through the notes, mentally counting them. Five grand to add to the other five I'd received on commencement of the job. Five to the organization. You can live thirty-eight years, and when it comes down to it, all your life is worth is fifteen thousand dollars. Fifteen grand for falling in love with the wrong woman.

I feel his stare burning into me, and I know he's going to ask me something that's out of left field. Every time we meet, he tries to weasel more information out of me in some pointless bid to understand me. In ten years, he's still no closer to figuring me out.

You don't buy furnishings, you're wearing pretty much the same outfit every time I see you, and you don't have a secret coke habit I don't know about... He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. What do you spend the money on?

Hookers, I say simply.

He studies me for a long beat, trying to ascertain whether or not I'm being serious. My expression is deadpan: he won't succeed.

After a while, he gives up, changes the subject. There's a new job. I was gonna let one of the guys take care of it, but I think you're more suitable.

I already don't like the sound of this, but it doesn't matter either way. I've made a decision.

Why me? I know the answer: It's a woman. It's a woman. It's a woman.

Client requested poison. I know that's your thing. And she'll be... tricky to get to for someone of the male persuasion.

A woman! It was only a matter of time.

He's waiting for me to argue. We've had this conversation before, multiple times. It comes up once or twice a year, and my response is always the same.

Except now.

Okay, I say.

He's startled. What, no objections? You don't mind killing women now?

Not only don't I like it, I flat out refuse to do it. That won't change. Even sociopaths have their limits.

Something