the woman the moment she had walked in.

There was a word for girls like her―tall, slender, with ice-blue eyes and hair like pale gold. A knockout blonde.

Mavis always stayed ten feet away from blondes at all times. She had a rule: All blondes are bitches. In third grade, a girl named Emilie had snipped off a lock of her hair with scissors. And made a necklace out of it. In seventh grade, Juliet from her English class had sat behind her during tests and copied, word for word, everything Mavis had written. Guess who got in trouble? It wasn't the rich white girl. In ninth grade, Juliet Collins had kissed her under the bleachers, and later told everybody Mavis was a dyke.

One thing they all had in common? They were blonde.

So when the woman, however gorgeous she was, walked in? Mavis had looked away. All she had to do was think of the shame that had accompanied the word Mavis is a big dyke for years after ninth grade, and she could lose herself in the music again.

When she stepped down from the stage, she thought it was over. She had seen the blonde talking to Desire, one of her closest friends here, and figured that was it.

But then the blonde had walked over.

And from up close . . . she was . . . she was . . . I hate blondes, Mavis had to remind herself.

The woman smelled like vanilla.

It was such an odd scent. Something so sweet, so soft, for a woman who with that stone-cold expression, those unfeeling blue eyes.

If there was one thing Mavis knew, it was that she loved scent. Fragrances. Her favourites were strawberry, coconut . . . and vanilla.

Oh, Jesus, she thought. Her cardinal rule was: Stay far away from blondes.

But she thought of Isla, waiting for her at home. Was she asleep by now? Probably. Was the babysitter still there? Fuck. She had forgotten to pay the babysitter.

She needed money. She couldn't turn down a client.

"Hello, beautiful," Mavis said, doing her best to pull herself together. "What can I do for you?"

The woman's ice-blue eyes widened. Her skin was so pale, so perfect. For a moment, Mavis doubted she was real―she looked like the incarnate of Aphrodite, the female embodiment of Adonis. She was sharp lines and silvery colour.

Mavis expected some kind of flattery. Men always said something like, You've got the best tits I've ever seen. What if I took you to a special room, free of charge? That mouth is beautiful, you should smile more. I'd love to see your lips around my―

"I was ordered to kill you."

Mavis wasn't expecting that. She only laughed. "Who paid you? Ruby? That's a bit of overkill, don't you think? She took it a little over the top, I think . . . Ruby!"

Ruby glanced up from the other side of the bar, but before she could call her over, Mavis saw the gun.

The colour drained from her face.

"You're . . . what's that in your pocket?" she asked weakly. "That's not a . . ."

"AK-105, Prototype 2, thirteen bullets."

Mavis didn't know enough about guns to know how many bullets were in a casing. She forced out a laugh. "Thirteen? That's an odd number . . . you didn't happen to kill anyone on the way here, did you?"

The woman didn't laugh. Maybe she didn't have a sense of humour.

This had to be Ruby's doing. Her and Mavis had a little joke going on, trying to set up customers against each other. Once, Mavis had asked a man to tell Ruby, What's your plastic surgeon's name? I want a boob job done.

Honestly, she was surprised he had done it.

Ruby's comeback had been sending a client over to say, You remind me of my grandmother. How much would it cost if we did it a nursing home?

That definitely had to be illegal. Somewhere. Probably not in America, but somewhere.

"You need to leave the country," said the woman.

This was getting out of hand. "Listen, I really appreciate your dedication to the job, but . . . seriously. You can drop it now, Ruby got me good . . ."

The gun was definitely fake. It was a toy, Mavis was sure of it. Mickey, the bodyguard, was sure to have already searched everyone.

"I told him to get his hands off my ass, or I'd sue him for sexual harassment," the woman said coldly, as though she knew what Mavis was thinking. "It is useful, sometimes. This female body."

Why was she talking like that? And was that a Russian accent Mavis detected?

"Well, that's . . . one way to put it."

"You need to leave the country," the woman insisted. Her hand reached out, grabbing Mavis's wrist. The second time tonight someone had touched her like this.

"Let go of me," Mavis hissed.

She expected a fight. From the urgency in the woman's eyes, her persistence . . . Mavis was preparing herself for a fight. But the woman's light, powerful grip retreated in an instant.

"It is clear you Americans don't listen," said the woman. "I will give you two choices. You are either going to leave right now, or I am going to knock you unconscious and put you in the backseat of my car."

Mavis blinked. The words didn't register for a second.

This is not hot, she told herself, and I do not have daddy issues.

"I have a job to do!" she snapped. "Tell Ruby this isn't funny anymore. I'm done."

"This is for your own protection."

"From what? You? Some hitman you are! If this is supposed to be some kind of next-level joke, I've had it . . . I need to make bank, and I can't go home until I have."

If Mavis was going to pay the bills, she needed to make at least $400 a night. Her shitty waitressing job didn't cover much, and having a kid wasn't easy.

Although the woman's expression gave away nothing, there was something in her eyes that hinted at some kind of inner conflict. That ice-blue, the gold-blonde . . . she was beautiful. Mavis could admit at least that. But she also seemed cold, aloof . . . and the way she talked . . . was she some kind of sociopath? Where were her emotions?

"You have three days," said the woman. "Take what you need. Leave the country. I will have a passport prepared for you by Thursday. Where do you want to go?"

Mavis was almost burning with rage. "I hear Canada is nice this time of year."

"You will leave for Canada in three days," said the woman.

Had she missed the tint of sarcasm entirely? It infuriated Mavis. This cold, beautiful woman. Who did she think she was? Some kind of assassin? Some kind of Mafia boss?

"Get out of my sight. Before I call the bouncer."

"Three days," the woman said, turning around. "Do not mistake this for mercy, Mavis Griffon. Your life is in danger."

I was ordered to kill you.

"Please," Mavis scoffed. "I'm not going anywhere."

The woman was already gone.

the night, Mavis had $312 dollars. She set down her keys onto her kitchen table, thinking of the sleep she would miss over the next few days, trying to make it up in extra waitressing shifts. And she buried her face into her sweater, letting out a muffled groan.

"Mom?"

Mavis's head jerked up. "Isla, you're not supposed to be awake!"

"Jennie left early. I . . . couldn't sleep."

That was another thing. Mavis didn't have the money to pay the babysitter. Her stomach clenched, thinking of how Jenna leaving. Had Isla been awake this whole time? It was nearly three a.m.

"Okay, baby," Mavis said. "Come on, let's get to bed."

"Mom, I want to be a dancer one day."

Mavis laughed as she helped Isla into bed. "Baby, you can be whatever you want to be."

When Isla was old enough to understand, Mavis had explained to her that she was a dancer at night. She didn't think there should be shame or humiliation associated with being a stripper. She explained it to her daughter as dancing for people in exchange for money.

What if the other kids at school find out? Desire had once asked.

I don't think it's embarrassing, and if my daughter doesn't either, then it's okay.

What if she wants to grow up to be a stripper too?

Then that's okay, Mavis had responded. She always has a choice. Obviously, I don't want her to ever struggle in life, but if she chooses dancing as a career, then I'm okay with it. It's her body, her choice.

Mavis had endured far too much slut-shaming in her life to raise her daughter with anything but love and acceptance of her own body.

"Good night, mi cielo," Mavis said, kissing Isla's forehead. My sky.

"See you in the morning?"

"French toast," Mavis said. "Extra syrup?"

Isla's eyes fluttered. "And lots of powdered sugar," she murmured.

Within minutes, she was sleeping.

leaning over the sink. Just through the window, showing the neighbourhood street, she saw an unfamiliar silver car.

Silver. It couldn't be―

Before she knew it, muttering in Spanish with barely restrained fury, she was stalking out of the front door and down the street. Leaning over the silver Porsche.

She slammed her fist against the hood of the car.

"Hey!" she snapped. "Are you seriously staking me out? How do you know where I live? If you don't get out of here, I'm going to―"

"Call the police?" said the woman dryly.

"Yes!" Mavis shouted. "This is ridiculous, this is inappropriate, this is―"

The woman narrowed her eyes, assessing Mavis. "I think you should get dressed."

"Excuse me?"

"You should get dressed. You're making a scene."

Mavis growled in frustration. "No, puta, you are the one making a scene! How dare you come and show up at my house! The joke is over."

Maybe it's not a joke, something inside of her whispered.

No. It had to be.

Why would someone want her dead? Who would go as far as sending some . . . some Russian assassin after her?

"Hey, chica, you're looking fine. Come on, Mami, show me a little bit more, yeah?"

Mavis swiveled around. Her next door neighbour. A balding Puerto Rican man. And she realized what she was wearing: nothing but a thin silky bathrobe and flip-flops.

"I'll show you a little bit, alright!" Mavis took off her flip-flop and threw it at him, not waiting to see if it landed before turning back around.

Was that a . . . a smile?

Maybe the woman did have a sense of humour.

"You need to leave," said the woman, instantly becoming cold and emotionless again. "Your life is in danger."

"Then kill me already!"

The woman's eyes darkened. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Not right now."

That was . . . well, that was worrying.

"Are you planning on killing me in the next forty-five minutes?"

A wisp of a smile. "No."

Why did that make something in Mavis shiver?

You have no right looking this sexy. "I still think you're a stalker."

"It is good you have common sense. I was told many Americans lack it."

"And I still think you're kidding. Kind of."

"I have a passport for you."

Mavis crossed her arms. "I'm not going anywhere, and especially not without my daughter. So you better come inside, and you better explain your nonsense."

"What if I kill you when the forty-five minutes are up?" The woman didn't sound challenging, but instead almost . . . curious.

"Well, you just told me to leave the country, so I hope not. And when the forty-five minutes are up, you better hope I don't kill you first."

"Aye, Mami," Mavis heard, as she led the woman over her lawn. "Don't make me come over there and―"

The woman shot him.

Without blinking an eye.

A strangled sound escaped Mavis. "What―you just―you―"

Her neighbour, Mr. Rodriguez, collapsed. And although Mavis didn't feel any particular love towards him, she still clapped both hands over her mouth.

In broad daylight, too.

Mavis was thankful Isla had left for school just twenty minutes ago.

"It was a tranquilizer," the woman said, after a beat. As though she hadn't thought it was necessary to elaborate.

Mavis pulled the woman through the front door, and hissed, "You can't just go around tranquilizing people!"

"Why not?"

"Because―because you can't! I don't know!"

The woman only shrugged. "He was bothering you. Now he is not."

"Yes, but I could have handled it!"

And there it was: the briefest, faintest shadow of a smile on her lips. "I know you could have," said the woman, and Mavis felt warmth . . . pleasure that she had made this woman―who, for all she knew, was a serial killer―smile.

I am not attracted to a blonde bimbo.

The woman was a blonde. I hate blondes, she reminded herself.

The last woman on earth she would sleep with was a blonde.

No, in fact, if her and this blonde woman were the only people left on earth, the human race wouldn't survive. (Never mind the fact that they couldn't reproduce anyway.)

Either way, she would never, ever sleep with a blonde.

Especially not one with icy blue eyes, a Russian accent, and a smoking body. Especially not one that had just shot her next-door neighbour. God, what was she thinking?

"Sit," Mavis ordered.

The woman sat down at her kitchen table. It was so strange, seeing such a polished, powerful woman on her rickety chair.

Mavis thought of herself as loud, dramatic. Unafraid of making a scene. This woman was her polar opposite. Calm, composed. Confident. She was all sharp, sleek lines where Mavis was soft curves and rounded edges.

And I'm really fucking attracted to her.

Where had that thought come from?

"Do you want French toast?"

The woman paused. "What is that?"

"Jesus Christ!" Mavis said. "Were you just released from a maximum security prison? Have you been living in the Himalayans as Buddhist monk?"

"Yes," said the woman. "To the first one."

Mavis couldn't tell if she was kidding.

And now she was really, really hoping this woman had a sense of humour.

"Okay," Mavis said, drawing the word out. "Let's start with your name."

"Why?"

"So I can give it to the police." Mavis paused. "That was a joke, in case you couldn't tell. Or, well, maybe not. You might actually be a killer, so there's that."

"Ace," said the woman suddenly.

"Ace? Like . . . Ace of Spades? Ace of Hearts?"

"Ace, like Alisa Anastasia Carina Lelyah Ivanova Morozova."

"So . . . Ace," Mavis agreed.

The woman―Ace―nodded, and Mavis decided to make her French toast anyway. She drizzled maple syrup over it, finishing with powdered sugar.

"Here," Mavis said, sliding the plate towards Ace and pulling out a chair across from her. "Eat. Now tell me, what the hell are you doing?"

"I was ordered to kill you."

"I know that," Mavis said impatiently. "But what are you actually doing here? Whatever Ruby has paid you . . . it's definitely not enough to get arrested when I call the police on you."

It was a bluff. Mavis wouldn't―and couldn't―call the police. Because if she did, the police would have to research on her. And if they realized she had custody on Isla . . . it wouldn't be pretty.

Especially since no one knew Isla existed.

"You have a child," Ace said, as though she knew what Mavis had been thinking. Her eyes were scanning the house: the alphabet magnets, the crayon drawings, the forgotten Princess Sofia lunch bag.

Was that surprise Mavis heard?

"No, I don't," Mavis said, although she knew the evidence was obvious. Her tone brooked no room for arguments, translating to: Leave her out of this.

Somehow, Ace seemed to get the message.

"What are you doing here?"