New story, "Miss Murder".
Don't know if I'm gonna go more toward book length, or just long story length. At any rate, it'll be here to work on when I feel like it! :) After this section, the next one will start at the *beginning*, and show you how she got there.
I smiled and shifted a bit in the salon chair, and I let the soothing drone of the dome dryer overpower the noise of casual chit chat all around me. I needed this, after the week I'd had; nevermind that the entire point of coming to this salon was actually business related. Maybe after this I'd get a manicure; it'd been a couple of weeks since the last one.
I restlessly fanned the pages of the Vogue magazine in my hand, and then set it down on the chair beside me. I looked down at my feet. Maybe a pedicure, too. I smiled smugly. I'd show Hector I didn't need his cheap wigs; I can reinvent myself just fine on my own, thanks. I'd done alright so far.
Somewhere, a white plastic timer dinged, and my hairdresser minced her way over to my chair, checking my hair beneath the plastic cap, clucking to herself and shaking her head.
"I'm sorry, honey. I think we left this on a little longer than we meant to," she said, frowning.
"Well, let's look at it, then we can decide what to do," I said sympathetically. At this point, so long as I didn't have to wear one of Hector's awful wigs, I didn't really care.
"Ok," she said brightly. I guess she'd had too many poodle-carrying princesses this week; she looked positively grateful that I hadn't snapped at her.
I followed her over to the sinks and settled into the chair. It wasn't as comfortably padded as the dryer chair, but at least the vinyl wasn't old enough to be cracked and peeling. I'd chosen this salon because it wasn't
one of my usual haunts; it was too risky to go to one of the upscale, expensive and exclusive salons I was accustomed to. 'Exclusive' usually insured recognition.
The hairdresser pulled gently at my foil-helmeted hair, clearing the aluminum away and washing my hair. I sighed a little, and let the warm water relax me into thought. What was I going to do about my wardrobe? Since my untimely 'death', I couldn't exactly go back and get my old things.
Finally finished with washing my hair, Sandi the hairdresser led me back to her chair in front of the mirror.
"Let's get it dried, then we'll take a look. It might not be too bad," she smiled.
She took a round brush to my now perky short bobbed hair, and a bold red color striped with chunks of pale blonde emerged. Wow. I definately looked different. In fact, it was perfect!
About thirty five minutes, one maniciure and one pedicure later I gave a stunned Sandi a thirty dollar tip, and strode happily out of the salon and into the smog-filtered sunshine of the city. I popped my earbud back in.
"Hector?" I breathed.
"All done?" his smooth voice filled my ear.
"If you could see me now," I grinned, "You'd never recognize me. I just need some new clothes, and a dress for the benefit. And when you pick out my gear, at least think sleek and sexy. Humor me with a pretty gun?"
He snorted. In my ear, it sounded like a small explosion of air.
"Alex, convenience and utility is far better than looks".
"Do you have to call me Alex?" I whined somewhat teasingly. We'd had this conversation before.
"If we want to make the identity transition work, you're going to have to get used to it. Besides, who in their right mind would call an assasin 'Bunny'? How did you get such a name in the first place, anyway?"
He'd asked me that before. Many times.
"You remember my mother, don't you?" Of course he did. There were few in the city who didn't know the public face of Connie Tracchio, wife of alleged (Yeah, right. We all know what that means...) mob boss Vinnie Tracchio.
Before they were both killed, it had seemed like everyone knew my flaky mother.
Hector sighed. "Make the shopping quick. I'll get your gear to your hotel room. You'll be staying at the Park."
I sqealed in delight. The Park! Going after this target was getting better and better.
"OK. I'll call for you when I'm done. What name is the room reserved under?"
"I made it simple this time. Alexis King. You'll find the ID and related credit cards in the false bottom of your handbag. Don't look for it now," he chastised, "look for it later".
"I wasn't!" I pouted. "Geez, you'd think you could see me or something".
"You never know," Hector chuckled. He hummed the chorus from 'Every Breath You Take'. "Find something that complements that fancy red hair".
The bastard could see me!
I scratched the side of my nose with my middle finger.
He chuckled again, and I made my way into Nordstrom's. I needed to find something stunning enough to get me close to a very rich, very bad man at an expensive benefit gala. Something that would get me a private enough moment in
which to kill him.
I wasn't always a contract killer.
I used to be Bunny Tracchio, socialite.
Now I've had to become Alex Kingfisher, murder for hire.
At least taking over this identity had it's advantages; death pays pretty well.
I smiled and shifted a bit in the salon chair, and I let the soothing drone of the dome dryer overpower the noise of casual chit chat all around me. I needed this, after the week I'd had; nevermind that the entire point of coming to this salon was actually business related. Maybe after this I'd get a manicure; it'd been a couple of weeks since the last one.
I restlessly fanned the pages of the Vogue magazine in my hand, and then set it down on the chair beside me. I looked down at my feet. Maybe a pedicure, too. I smiled smugly. I'd show Hector I didn't need his cheap wigs; I can reinvent myself just fine on my own, thanks. I'd done alright so far.
Somewhere, a white plastic timer dinged, and my hairdresser minced her way over to my chair, checking my hair beneath the plastic cap, clucking to herself and shaking her head.
"I'm sorry, honey. I think we left this on a little longer than we meant to," she said, frowning.
"Well, let's look at it, then we can decide what to do," I said sympathetically. At this point, so long as I didn't have to wear one of Hector's awful wigs, I didn't really care.
"Ok," she said brightly. I guess she'd had too many poodle-carrying princesses this week; she looked positively grateful that I hadn't snapped at her.
I followed her over to the sinks and settled into the chair. It wasn't as comfortably padded as the dryer chair, but at least the vinyl wasn't old enough to be cracked and peeling. I'd chosen this salon because it wasn't
one of my usual haunts; it was too risky to go to one of the upscale, expensive and exclusive salons I was accustomed to. 'Exclusive' usually insured recognition.
The hairdresser pulled gently at my foil-helmeted hair, clearing the aluminum away and washing my hair. I sighed a little, and let the warm water relax me into thought. What was I going to do about my wardrobe? Since my untimely 'death', I couldn't exactly go back and get my old things.
Finally finished with washing my hair, Sandi the hairdresser led me back to her chair in front of the mirror.
"Let's get it dried, then we'll take a look. It might not be too bad," she smiled.
She took a round brush to my now perky short bobbed hair, and a bold red color striped with chunks of pale blonde emerged. Wow. I definately looked different. In fact, it was perfect!
About thirty five minutes, one maniciure and one pedicure later I gave a stunned Sandi a thirty dollar tip, and strode happily out of the salon and into the smog-filtered sunshine of the city. I popped my earbud back in.
"Hector?" I breathed.
"All done?" his smooth voice filled my ear.
"If you could see me now," I grinned, "You'd never recognize me. I just need some new clothes, and a dress for the benefit. And when you pick out my gear, at least think sleek and sexy. Humor me with a pretty gun?"
He snorted. In my ear, it sounded like a small explosion of air.
"Alex, convenience and utility is far better than looks".
"Do you have to call me Alex?" I whined somewhat teasingly. We'd had this conversation before.
"If we want to make the identity transition work, you're going to have to get used to it. Besides, who in their right mind would call an assasin 'Bunny'? How did you get such a name in the first place, anyway?"
He'd asked me that before. Many times.
"You remember my mother, don't you?" Of course he did. There were few in the city who didn't know the public face of Connie Tracchio, wife of alleged (Yeah, right. We all know what that means...) mob boss Vinnie Tracchio.
Before they were both killed, it had seemed like everyone knew my flaky mother.
Hector sighed. "Make the shopping quick. I'll get your gear to your hotel room. You'll be staying at the Park."
I sqealed in delight. The Park! Going after this target was getting better and better.
"OK. I'll call for you when I'm done. What name is the room reserved under?"
"I made it simple this time. Alexis King. You'll find the ID and related credit cards in the false bottom of your handbag. Don't look for it now," he chastised, "look for it later".
"I wasn't!" I pouted. "Geez, you'd think you could see me or something".
"You never know," Hector chuckled. He hummed the chorus from 'Every Breath You Take'. "Find something that complements that fancy red hair".
The bastard could see me!
I scratched the side of my nose with my middle finger.
He chuckled again, and I made my way into Nordstrom's. I needed to find something stunning enough to get me close to a very rich, very bad man at an expensive benefit gala. Something that would get me a private enough moment in
which to kill him.
I wasn't always a contract killer.
I used to be Bunny Tracchio, socialite.
Now I've had to become Alex Kingfisher, murder for hire.
At least taking over this identity had it's advantages; death pays pretty well.