Just Bob (Assassins Inc. #1)
Stormy Glenn
Chapter One
My name is Bob. It’s just Bob. Not even Robert or Roberto or anything as exciting like that. It’s just Bob. Bob Mills. It’s not a fancy name, or a name that inspires great romantic tales. No one writes odes to Bob. No one screams Bob during great heights of passion. There are no great masterpieces with Bob as the main character. I can’t even think of any fictional characters named Bob.
There were times I wanted to smack my parents for naming me Bob. I wasn’t even named after someone. They just picked the name out of the air and slapped me with a lifetime of mundane and boring.
To make matters worse, I’m an accountant and I wear glasses. I own a cat. I have a library card and I actually use it. If the karmic universe could have shit on someone, I was it.
Exciting, right?
Yeah, no. There is nothing exciting in my life.
Ever.
I get up in the morning, shower, eat breakfast, dress, go to work, keep my mouth shut when I have to deal with idiots—which happens more often than you would think—and then I come home, make dinner, read a book or watch TV, and I go to bed only to wake up in the morning to do it all over again.
On the weekends, I break up the monotony by cleaning my house, going to the library to get new books to read, and pick up groceries for the following week. Oh, and every Sunday, I have dinner with my parents.
And if that isn’t enough, I am gay. Being boring in looks and character, my vast experience with sex consisted of one night with a drunken frat boy, who was horrified the next day when he woke up and discovered me in his bed.
We never spoke again.
So, yeah, I was cursed at birth with the name Bob, and my life has never gotten any better.
Hence, when a man dressed all in black walked into the coffee shop where I was having my break, I didn’t think anything of it. I mean, it wasn’t like he was there for me or anything.
This was a man with a name like Lance or Sebastian. Maybe Rodrigo.
A sexy name.
He’d never get called Bob.
I do admit, I did stare. I know it was a bit rude, but I couldn’t help it. If there was a more imposing man ever born, I had never seen him. Crowds parted and crap, people quickly stepping out of his way as he strode straight to the front of the line of people waiting to order coffee.
One man was dumb enough to say something about the man cutting the line. Boy, I was glad it hadn’t been me. The spectacular example of genetics didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just looked at the man who had spoken up until the guy turned and hurried out of the coffee shop.
I chuckled on my breath and went back to reading my book…or at least staring at the pages in between shooting the handsome man quick glances under my lashes.
He really was pretty. Not runway model pretty, but more “make you scream as he fucked you against a wall” pretty. God, I would love for him to fuck me against a wall.
I wasn’t stupid enough to think it would ever happen.
He was probably as straight as they came. Anyone stupid enough to even suggest the guy might be gay would probably end up dead. He looked dangerous enough to shoot someone and not even break a sweat doing it.
The sigh that I let free came from deep within my soul. I was lonely. I admit that right up front. I had been on a couple of dates in my twenty-five years, but they had all been blind dates, and I never got invited out for a second date.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t think I was a dog or anything. My mother always said that my brown eyes reminded her of Hershey kisses. I kept my short brown hair neatly trimmed in the latest style. I bathed regularly.
That was a plus.
You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t bathe regularly. It is an astonishing number. It’s also gross. Why wouldn’t you bathe as often as possible?
I don’t understand some people.
Anyway, I’m getting off topic here. I’m what my mother always said was cute and sweet.
Gack!
No one ever wanted to be referred to as cute and sweet, unless you were four.
I wasn’t.
I wasn’t too fat or too thin. I wasn’t too short or too tall. My eyes were brown. Not bright brown or dark chocolate brown—despite what my mother said—just brown. My hair was brown, too, not dark chestnut brown or light honey brown. Just brown. Mouse brown.
Hell, I even had freckles over a large majority of my body.
There was nothing spectacular about me.
What I wouldn’t give to be sexy. Just once. Just for an hour or so. Just long enough for someone as sexy as “Lance” to see me. Like, really see me.
I wouldn’t turn down a kiss either.
Oh well, it was what it was. My life wasn’t going to suddenly turn exciting just because I wished it. I was positive. I had been wishing since I figured out what my dick was for. It hadn't happened yet. I’d keep wishing because I was stubborn like that, but I doubted anything would change.
“Is this seat taken?”
I knew my mouth was hanging open when I glanced up, but I couldn’t help it. Mr. Gorgeous was standing right in front of my small table, asking if he could sit down.
Damn.
Up close he was even sexier. Even the scar that ran over his left eye from above his eyebrow to his cheek added a rakish look to him.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked again.