Hitman on Campus Read online

  Hitman on Campus

  A Bad Boy Romance

  Lara Swann

  Copyright © 2016 Lara Swann

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue and everything else are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to people or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Please note: This copy of Hitman on Campus also contains a bonus book, Hitman’s Captive! This means that Hitman on Campus ends approximately 50% into this book – but rest assured, Hitman on Campus is a full-length 80,000 word novel.

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  Table of Contents

  A Note from Lara

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  BONUS BOOK: Hitman’s Captive

  About the Author

  A Note from Lara

  This book has been a while in the making, and I wanted to take a moment to say a special thanks to everyone that’s supported me patiently over the last few months.

  My family, as always, for the laughter and fun times they’ve brought to all the life changes I’ve made this summer;

  My ever-amazing cover artist (seriously, check the cover out guys!), who has put up with endless messages about my progress or lack thereof and never fails to talk me down;

  The writers who inspire me and lift me up – I’m forever proud to know you all;

  My Advance Readers, for their patience in receiving this book - and going above and beyond to read it fast and support the release;

  And you, for picking it up and giving me a chance, yet again.

  I had a lot of fun with this one, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

  Chapter One

  Caleb

  A loud ringing drags me out of the sleep-haze I’m in and starts a painful throbbing right behind my eyes, making me groan as the mother of all hangovers begins. It takes me a moment to work out that the noise isn’t coming from inside my head, and then my hand stumbles around as I mutter a few curses and try to find the bedside table.

  Fuck. They know better than to bother me the night after a hit. This had better be fucking important.

  I shift the girl to my right out of the way and finally seize the damn phone, squinting through blurred vision at the number.

  Double fuck. My father. One of the only bastards I’d pick up for at this time.

  “Wha’ the ffuu—” My dry mouth can’t make the words come out right, but my father isn’t listening anyway - probably a good thing, since I don’t know what the hell I’m saying either.

  “Caleb. Boss wants to talk to you. Now. So get rid of the girl sucking your cock and move your ass out of bed.”

  “There’ss no—”

  Oh. I bite back a groan as hot lips close around my morning wood. So that’s what the wriggling had been about. My hand reaches down to land in her hair and my eyes close automatically, my body ready to lose itself in the easy pleasure - before my father’s words finally make their way through my fuzzy mind.

  I can’t help but laugh. He really does know me well. Probably because he does the exact same shit too. I pull the girl off, ignoring her muttered protest, and return what limited attention I have to the phone call.

  “Ughh…’kay…” It takes me a moment to realize he’s already hung up and then I let my head crash back onto the pillow, throwing the phone in the approximate direction of the table. The answering thud tells me that it’s landed on the floor and I groan again, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.

  I’ve done a lot of fucking hard things in my life, but getting up right now? That’s asking a helluva lot.

  The two girls on either side of me start shifting, restless from the disturbance despite the ungodly amount of alcohol that should have put them under - and even in this state, my eyes travel admiringly over glimpses of soft, warm curves.

  For one brief moment I consider closing my eyes again, pulling the pretty blonde back over my cock and spending the day indulging in every hangover cure I know. Just for a moment. Then I picture keeping Patrick Sullivan waiting, and that’s enough to spur me into the slow-hobbled kind of action I can manage right now.

  Reluctantly, I push the blonde half-lying over me onto her friend and try not to get distracted by the way their bodies immediately wrap around each other. Then I grab the edge of the bed like my life depends on it - which it probably does - and swing my legs over and my body into an upright position.

  My stomach immediately roils at the motion, nausea assaulting me as my head spins and I curse yet again.

  This is a fucking stupid idea.

  I grab for the glass of water on the bedside table and by the time I’ve downed it, I feel like standing won’t kill me. Probably.

  “Where—”

  “C’m back t’ bed…”

  The girls finally notice I’m leaving as I stagger around the room looking for the clothes I discarded the night before - and, damn it, wherever my phone landed.

  “Wish I could, babe…fucking wish I could.” I mutter, not really caring if they hear me.

  Instead, I pull together my wallet, keys and phone and give them a wave they probably don’t even notice.

  “Thanks for last night, girls. Was fun.”

  I get maybe one confused look before I shut the door and turn my attention to dealing with the way the floor is trying to trip me up as I make my way down the hallway and out of my apartment building.

  I have no idea whether they’ll still be there when I get back - or, hell, what time that’ll be. But since I don’t even know which I’d prefer, I’m not going to waste time dealing with them.

  When I get out of the small, run-down apartment building, I hail a cab and give him Sullivan’s business address. It’s only a few blocks from here and as the cab lurches into rush-hour Baltimore traffic, my stomach turns at the rough choice of transport. I roll down the window for some air, and then quickly reverse the motion as fumes assault me and add to the growing nausea.

  Usually I’d walk, and despite being in dire need of the fresh air and a little time to clear my head, I can’t risk it in this state. I’d probably take a wrong turn and spend half an hour wandering around in a blur.

  I’ve been too focused on simply getting this far without vomiting to have any idea how long has already passed since my father’s call. Probably too long to be good.

  Well, what do the fuckers expect?! They know the shit you get up to after a major job...

  But Sullivan is a demanding bastard. And it doesn’t go well for the guys that piss him off. I might be able to get away with more than most, but the sorry, I was fucked up on booze and women excuse isn’t going to fly.

  So I suck it up and try to fight my way to some form of awareness on the short ride over. It takes until we’re halfway there before it even occurs to me to wonder what the hell this is about.
/>
  I hope to god it’s not some emergency hit that needs to be taken care of now - because I might be able to get some pants on and stagger my way over to Sullivan’s office, but there’s no way I can give that sort of performance today.

  I might be one of the premier hitmen in the city - with a near-perfect record despite my young age - but right now, your average street thug could best me. He wouldn’t even have to try hard - a little yelling, and I’d be on the floor.

  But if this was an emergency hit, there’d be no reason not to call my father instead - from the sound of it, he’s already there, and he’s one of the few that can best me. Not to mention, he’s not hungover. So this is something else.

  The pounding in my head flares in pain as I struggle with it, and I remember that thinking isn’t a great idea right now.

  Nothing I can do about it anyway. Sullivan will tell me what he needs, and I’ll accept. Hopefully with a little sleep and a few days to recover first, but saying no to the boss of the Irish mob isn’t an option.

  “Hey, man—” The cab driver’s irate voice breaks through my confused thoughts, and I glance up to see that we’ve come to a stop for something other than the constant traffic lights of the city.

  The large building that houses Sullivan’s office looms in front of us and I run a hand through my hair as I mutter an apology for my distraction, then fumble some money out of my wallet.

  “Sorry. Keep the change.” I open the door and step out, taking a moment to settle my stomach from the ride before I continue the one-step-forward game that’s got me this far.

  As I get buzzed in and start the long ascent of the large staircase that dominates the center of the building, I slowly realize that I am starting to feel a little better. Not take-on-the-world good, as I’m used to, but enough to face Sullivan. Thank god.

  This place used to be a simple apartment building - with two or three apartments branching from the corridors on every level - but when Sullivan took over the penthouse here, the mob started buying up the rest of it, and now it’s a pretty good headquarters for all the most important members of his family.

  My father is waiting at the top level, just before the corridor to Sullivan’s office, and he pushes himself off from the wall as he sees me. His silvering brown hair and dull blue eyes set in rough, strong features are nothing like my own jet-black hair and bright green eyes, or the finer features I usually cover with a rugged line of stubble.

  That slightly delicate set to my face sets me apart from the typical street thug look most of these guys have, and I used to resent not looking tougher - until I grew into the tall, broad-shouldered build my father did give me, and became deadly enough that no one looks twice at me anymore.

  Now, it just makes me wonder occasionally what my mom must have looked like.

  My father steps closer before giving me a long look up and down and then wrinkling his nose in a way that tells me I must look and smell pretty bad.

  I give him a crooked grin and nod towards the door down the hall. “So, ya’know what this is about?”

  For once, his face stays pretty serious as he nods, unaffected by my antics. “I’ve got an idea. Just go in, listen, and accept the job.”

  “Yessir.” I give a mock-salute.

  Did I just slur that? Shit, am I still drunk?

  “—outta there as soon as possible…look like shit.” I struggle to refocus on what he’s saying.

  “That bad, huh?” I give a grunt of laughter. I hadn’t bothered to check the mirror this morning.

  “Must’ve been some night.” There it is - that familiar twinkle of amusement, as if he knows exactly what I’ve been up to. I’m pretty sure he does - hell, I’ve spent most of my life following his not-so-pure example.

  Bonding over shit like that with my father might be unusual for most guys - and maybe it would be different if I had a mom to worry about - but he’s raised me with the only life he’s ever known. And she hadn’t wanted anything to do with us.

  The moment she’d found out about what Gerard Stone was involved with, she’d gone ape-shit about having a hitman’s child. I’m not sure how much he ever really cared for her, but he fought like all hell for me - there was no way she was getting rid of his child.

  They’d come to some agreement that she’d go through with it, and then he’d take me and we’d both disappear from her life. And since then, he’s raised me the only way he knows how - teaching me everything he knows and setting me up for a major position in the Irish mob.

  So I enjoy our unique relationship and have fun with all the shit we get up to - but I never forget what he’s done for me.

  I flash him another grin before moving past, towards Sullivan’s office.

  I don’t usually get this fucked up, so yeah…it was a good night. And after the way I’d silently taken care of one of Sullivan’s rivals the night before, I’d deserved it.

  I knock once, and get a curt invitation to enter before stepping into the large office.

  Patrick Sullivan - an average-looking man with hard, calculating eyes - looks up from behind the large mahogany desk and pins me with a glance, as he always does. Sometimes it’s hard to believe just how much power and influence this mostly-ordinary man has - and other times, it’s hard to believe anything else.

  Today it’s the latter, and I move forward slowly - carefully. Not just because I’m all too aware that I might trip and fall flat on my face, but because that’s the sort of behavior Sullivan prompts.

  My heart speeds up just a little, as it usually does in his presence, and I get that familiar tension that tells me everything I do here is just as important - and skillful - as my ability to kill without being seen or heard.

  “Caleb.” Sullivan stands and comes around to the other side of his desk to lean back against it, and I immediately know something is different.

  I’ve received a dozen orders for a man’s death from behind that desk - straightforward, no-nonsense requests. And Sullivan has never started like this - or narrowed the space between us.

  An uncomfortable feeling forms in my stomach - more than the slight tinge of nausea that’s still there - and I wish for the hundredth time that I’m feeling just a bit sharper this morning. But I’m not, so I follow my father’s advice and just nod - keeping quiet, and letting him speak.

  “I’ve got a…special kind of job for you.” His eyes drill into mine, as if registering every little reaction, but I’m pretty sure I’m in too much of a daze to give one. “I’ve received several death threats recently - on my daughter’s life.”

  Oh.

  So this was personal. I nod immediately.

  “You want me to take the guy out.” My voice doesn’t rasp or struggle, and I’m momentarily impressed with myself.

  Until Sullivan shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “No. We don’t know who it is.”

  I frown. Death threats usually came with a warning to back off from something - or give something up - that lead you nicely back to the man responsible.

  “Whoever the fucker is, it’s obvious he’s doing this to mess with me. Here.” He hands me a few papers and I glance down automatically.

  Then I freeze.

  The picture - the girl - looking back at me stops everything. Rich blond hair swings around her shoulders as she glances over to a point nearby the camera, showing sparkling blue eyes and an easy, happy smile that lights up her face. Her back is to the camera, but there’s just enough profile to make out the hot curves on her tall, lithe body.

  Simply put, she has the sort of natural, stunning beauty that most girls would kill for. But that’s not what catches my attention - I’ve known stunning women. I’ve known jaw-droppingly gorgeous girls. Hell, I make a habit of spending a lot of time with them. But this one…even from the photo, I can tell she’s not aware of it.

  There’s no provocative swing to her hips, no teasing smile or the twinkle of I’m fucking hot knowledge in her eyes. And the idea of that is so unbelievable that I’m
left speechless. Speechless - and more, as my cock twitches uncomfortably in my now-tight jeans.

  “I know.” Sullivan’s tone is grim, and belatedly drags me out of my stupor. “I was shocked when I saw them, too. We’ve got a real problem here.”

  I glance up at him, trying not to look as bemused as I feel. Then I look back down at the paper and finally register what we were talking about before she appeared.

  Which makes the blond bombshell his daughter.

  Shit.

  I recoil as if he can read my thoughts, and then try hurriedly to unthink everything that just went through my head.

  Shit shit shit.

  Guiltily, I force my eyes away from the photo and finally see the words that Sullivan must have been referring to.

  “Pretty little thing…so innocent. Does she know who her Daddy really is?”

  Something inside me chills, and it’s enough for me to forget my preoccupation with her photo. Instead, I start flicking through the other papers he gave me - letters, I realize.

  “Life is so fragile, don’t you think, Patrick? I’m sure she’d be…hurt…to know you’ve never found it precious, too.”

  “Have you ever lost anything that truly matters to you, Patrick?”

  Each comment is accompanied by another photo, but I’m distracted enough now that I barely notice the way every angle seems to enhance my first impression of the girl. Okay, maybe not distracted enough. But at least I’m not just standing here ogling her in front of her father anymore.

  I look back up to Sullivan, my frown a reflection of his own expression. The comments are disturbing enough, but the real problem is that there’s no demand accompanying it - no sign of blackmail or anything that gives us a way in. Just pure hate-mail.

  Someone who doesn’t just want to kill Sullivan’s daughter, but wants to terrorize him with it first. For no other reason than some unknown grudge against Sullivan - and, maybe even the Irish mob itself.

  It’s not exactly surprising that Sullivan’s made this kind of enemy - but the real question is, who has the balls to actually act on it?

  And to send letters announcing the intention first, to provoke whatever Sullivan might do to protect his daughter. That’s if this is even a real threat, which isn’t guaranteed.