Callie’s Last Dance

floor?”

“I hope not,” I say.

It’s mid-morning, fourth of July. The sun’s bright, but not yet hot. We’re crossing a perfectly-manicured lawn, heading toward the main tent to greet our host, crime boss Sal Bonadello.

“Don’t be a spoil sport, Donovan!”

“Spoil sport? What does that even mean?”

“It means if they play our song I expect a dance.”

Here’s something you don’t know about me. I’m a terrible dancer. I mean, I know enough ballroom dancing to get laid. But when the music’s fast and I’m dancing freestyle I look like Quasimodo trying to put on a suit.

“We don’t have a song,” I say.

“Are you insane? Of course we do!”

“What’s ours?”

“You’ll know it when you hear it.”

I laugh. “So you don’t know, either.”

“Every couple has a song, Donovan. We just haven’t heard ours yet.”

“Wait. Did you just call us a couple?”

Callie sighs. “Does this make sense to you?”

“What?”

“In all these years we’ve never shared a dance.”

“That can’t be true. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

“Trust me, I’d remember. I love dancing. But you avoid it like Superman avoids kryptonite.”

She’s right, of course. And her kryptonite analogy’s a good one.

Callie and I have worked together eight years. We’re assassins. She’s the only person on earth I trust not to kill me, and that’s only on good days. But we haven’t danced because, overlooking the fact I look stupid while doing it, dance floors are high-risk locations. You’re moving around, people around you are moving, you can’t keep track. Is the guy in the blue suit wielding a knife? Is the older lady palming a derringer? Maybe the lady with the gun isn’t on the dance floor. Maybe she’s a guy dressed like an old lady, sitting at a table across the room holding a purse that contains a gun with a silencer. When she shoots, the small sound gets drowned out by the music. Maybe she’s watching me dance, waiting for the perfect time to squeeze off a shot. She puts her hand in her purse, grips her gun, gives the signal. On the dance floor, a pretty redhead nods, then purposely backs into me, knocks me off balance. The older lady shoots, kills me, and waltzes out the room.

Dancing’s a bitch for those in our business.

But try telling that to Callie.

That said, I have great appreciation for the aesthetic beauty and athletic grace displayed by certain professional dancers with finely-honed skills.

“I love to watch highly-skilled professional dancers,” I say, cheerfully.

She frowns. “Stripping doesn’t count.”

“Of course it does!”

“Sorry.”

“Then why do they call it lap dancing?”

Callie shakes her head, dismissively. “You’re hopeless.”

I stop us in our tracks and say, “Some of the best dancers in the world are strippers. Name one person who can dance better than Gwen.”

Gwen being Callie’s live-in girlfriend.

“Me,” she says.

I smile. “Ever thought about stripping?”

“Here’s the bottom line,” she says. “We’re dancing today, you and me.”

“If they have a dance floor.”

Sal owns the hundred-acre field that runs behind his house. The main tent is still more than fifty yards away. As we crest a small hill we see musicians playing blue grass music.

On a stage.

We see something else.

Callie smiles, points to the dance floor.

“You’ll dance with me, won’t you?” she says.

“Only if my life depends on it.”

“Atta boy!”

“I’ll need fortification,” I say.

“Of course you will.”

This means Callie, frozen vodka cranberry. Me, shot of bourbon, straight up.

As we continue our journey toward the tent, people stop what they’re doing to stare. Callie’s wearing a raspberry floral-print cocktail dress and matching wedge sandals with bangle straps.

But that’s not why they’re staring.

They’re staring at the work of art that is Callie Carpenter.

There are two types of people in the world: those who’ve seen Callie in person, and those who want to.

How pretty is she?

Astonishingly pretty. Unnaturally pretty.

Who does she look like?

You’re joking, right?

You don’t compare Callie to others. Others compare themselves to her.

And come up short.

I could tell you her hair’s naturally blonde and her eyes piercing gray. I could tell you super models and starlets would kill to have her face or body, and she’s got both. I could tell you her scent is better after a workout than a shower, and her breath cleaner than ionic meadow air after a lightning storm.

I could tell you all those things and more.

But nothing prepares you for seeing Callie the first time.

Unless you were a sailor in a former life whose vessel was attacked by Blackbeard the pirate.

Before attacking ships, Blackbeard used to tie dozens of strips of cloth to his beard and set them on fire. So disarming was his appearance, enemy sailors often threw their guns and swords down in terror, and dropped to their knees, making no effort to defend themselves.

Callie’s looks are likewise lethal. I’ve seen her take down skilled assassins who were so stunned by her beauty they hesitated to pull the trigger. Their split-second pause allowed Callie just enough time to squeeze off a kill shot.

Not that it mattered. She could have easily killed these men and women with her hands, feet, or by hurling a deadly projectile, because it’s not just her looks that make Callie superhuman. She’s one of the most efficient killing machines on earth.

What’s that? Oh. She’s twenty-six.

How long?

Like I said, I’ve known her eight years.

What?

Ha. I wish.

Truth is, I’ve never even seen her naked. Never kissed her, for that matter.

I’ve traveled with her, dined with her, lived with her for weeks at a time.

I’ve killed with her.

We’ve saved each other’s lives, shared stories, toothbrushes, even the same woman, Gwen Peters.

It’s not what you think.

We didn’t have a threesome. Gwen and I met first, and had sex. Then Callie met Gwen, and they had sex. Gwen moved in with Callie, and they kept having sex, but one day Gwen and I had sex again. When Callie found out, she nearly killed Gwen, but decided to give her another chance.

I’m pretty sure Gwen and I won’t be sleeping together in the foreseeable future. She appears to place a higher