Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was colder than nightfall on the desert in the bush she was crouched in. Hunched over, ensuring she was covered head to toe by the deep green leaves. Many of the bushes around her were devoid of their foliage, spring had only just started after all, so she had been careful to pick one that stayed green year round.

For the last hour she had been sitting there, watching the house in front of her. Bathed in the light from the half moon above them, only visible due to the clear sky. Bugs and creepy crawlies climbed on her legs, she didn’t pay them any attention. Only the ones that dared venture up to her arms were given a flick into the grass, left to fend for themselves.

10 minutes ago she had taken the old whetstone from her bag and was using it to the slowly sharpen the knife that she had brought. One of the larger ones she had, the size making it look all the more threatening. She dragged the whetstone along the sharp end of the blade, five times on one side, before flipping the knife over and doing five more on the other.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Stop, flip, continue.

She did this monotonous task, over and over, finding the smallest amount of entertainment from the sharp sound of stone on metal.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Stop, flip, continue.

The house she was staring at was quite large. Two floors with an attic presumably. A large garden with a fence stretching along the tree line, and a garage big enough to fit two cars.

Family man are we Terry?

From the angle she was looking at she could see the trellis climbing the back wall of the house, vines entangled along the wooden lattice. The smallest buds of flowers getting ready to bloom in the spring could be seen. The sign of a garden that was taken care of.

Must have time to spare to have a garden like this.

There was a balcony on the second floor, with large, glass double doors leading into what she presumed was the master bedroom. The patterned blinds blocking her view.

The only room she could see was the kitchen. Big, glass sliding doors adorned the back of the house, giving her a clear view into the room. Someone had left the light above the cooker on, illuminating the area.

What a waste of energy.

The kitchen was decorated with fake plants hanging from every spare inch of the ceiling. Signs that read “Live, Laugh, Love”, “Bless this Mess” and other pointless jargon hung from the walls. She could just about make out bottles scattered across the floor, half of them in pieces.

Not bothered to clean while the wife’s away?

Looking at the house infuriated her. She wanted to tear the plants from their roots, throw stones through the windows, douse the place in petrol and relish in the warmth as it went up in flames. Anything for the slightest feeling of revenge. But, she had a mission here, and she couldn’t afford to mess this up.

Soon. Good things come to those who wait.

She focused back on her task, the whetstone beginning to feel hot between her gloved fingers from how long she had been clutching it.

And then it started.

One

The car rounded the corner onto the isolated country road and pulled into the driveway.

Two

The driver exited the car alone, and began walking towards the front door.

Three

The door creaked open, and shut with a “BANG”. He wasn’t happy to be home.

Four

The sounds of cursing and bumbling could be heard as he made his way to the kitchen.

Five

He stood before the large glass door, finally bathed in light she could see his scruffy clothes and greasy, greying hair.

Terry Donnelly

Stop, stand, run.

She left the whetstone in the grass beside her bag, pulled her black cloth face mask up from her chin and sprinted from her spot in the bush. Terry had turned around by now and was making his way to the sitting room, she imagined.

Sleeping on the couch even when your wife’s not around? Bit desperate if you ask me.

She crossed the garden quickly and quietly, keeping low to the ground. Dodging around the swing set and flowerbeds. She reached the back of the house and jumped, grabbing the wooden trellis and using it as a ladder. She climbed along the back wall until she reached the railings of the balcony. She placed both of her hands on the cold metal and hoisted herself over, carefully planting her feet on the other side. She approached the doors of the master bedroom, and jiggled the handle. It opened without a moments hesitation.

Can’t even remember to lock the door. Damn fool.

She slipped inside the bedroom. It was meticulously clean. The bed was made, without so much as a wrinkle on the surface of the duvet. She counted six pillows sitting in stacks of three and a throw placed on the end of the bed.

She walked over to the bedside table and picked up the photo frame, looking at the picture perfect family smiling back at her. A woman, nearly thirty, visibly pregnant stood with one hand on the shoulder of a young preteen girl with a gap toothed grin. Behind the girl was a man, same age as the woman. His face was clean shaven, and his now greasy hair was washed and styled, without a speck of grey in it. The picture was old, 20 years she estimated. The jolly family that stared at her were long gone, leaving only an empty, depressing shadow of a house that was once filled with laughter.

She threw the frame into the air and watched as it fell to the ground, landing with a loud “THUD”. The glass shattered and spilled all over the hardwood floor. She strolled over to the door of the master bedroom and stood on the hinged side, waiting.

Hurried thumps were heard crashing onto each step of the staircase. Lacking any sort of elegance and poise. The door flung open, and she caught the handle to prevent it from crashing into her. She watched as Terry looked around the room, searching for signs of an intruder. When all he could find was the broken picture frame he got on one knee and seperated the photo from its warped prison. She could hear him sigh as she approached him, quiet as a field mouse. She picked a trophy from the shelf, large, wooden and heavy.

The last thing Terry heard before he was knocked unconscious was probably the chuckle she had let out looking at this man. This man who once ruined lives, tore mothers from their children, burned the houses of those who dared oppose him, was sobbing at a picture of the one family he wanted to keep together. The children he drove away with his angry words and a short temper and the wife who has to take regular “gal pal holidays” just to get away from him.

Couldn’t keep your head on your neck if it wasn’t bolted down.

She dragged his limp body to the desk chair sitting at the vanity table, and placed him in it with great effort. It was like carrying around a huge sack of potatoes, and she couldn’t even take a few out to lessen the load. She went to the wardrobe and took three long sleeved tops that were hanging from the bar.

This’ll do I suppose.

I really should have brought some rope.

Tying him to the chair was the easy part. A knot around both of his hands at the back, one around his legs at the bottom and one final one around his torso to keep him from moving. The hard part was waking him up. The copious amount of water she slplashed on his face had little to no effect, and shaking his shoulders just made his head flop around like a bobble head. So she resigned herself to sit on the bed and wait.

You always hit too hard. What if he wakes up with a concussion? What if he doesn’t wake up at all?

“Fucks sake…” The sounds of groaning filled the room, pained, whiney groaning.

“What just-“ he looked up and spotted her, “Who the fuck are you?” His words were slightly slurred, a possible concussion, she thought. Although probably just disorientation.

“Hello Terry.” She didn’t move a muscle as she spoke, just stared as his pathetic face. Watching the drool run from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his chin.

“How- Who are you? What are you doing here? This is breaking and entering you know, I’ll have you done in for this!” His groans quickly turned to shrieks, absolutely furious at the idea that he could be attacked in his own home.

She smiled behind the mask. “Technically, the only thing I broke was the picture frame, and I doubt the guards will care too much about that. Not when there’s bigger issues at hand.” She stood up and walked to the trophy that now lay on the ground, a small bit of blood staining its base.

“Yeah like the huge lump in the side of me head! You could’ve killed me!” He complained, as if she was a worker at a fast food restaurant, instead of a viable threat.

“No if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. I tend not to leave my victims alive, it’s bad practice.” She brought the trophy into the en suite bathroom and began washing the blood off of the wooden base. She read the inscription. “BEST HOME GROWN GARDEN 2018”.

Hm. Congrats to the wife.

It was at this moment that Terry realised he was, in fact, tied to the chair as opposed to just sitting on it. “Hey, if you want the valuables you’d be better off looking in the spare room. My wife uses it as a “beauty room” it’s chock full of jewellery. Real stuff too! 24 carat!” He sputtered out. The panic was starting to set in as he realised the disadvantage he was at.

“I’m not concerned with jewellery.” She wiped the trophy off with a towel, before bringing it back to the main room and placing it in its spot on the shelf. “No, I’m here looking for information.”

“Information? Yeah I can do info! Any info, all the info you want!” He was smiling now, a scared “I’ve just shit my pants” smile.

“Hm, well if you’re so willing, I was hoping you could tell me about a family you killed 20 years ago.” She reached for the box of baby wipes on the vanity and used them to wipe the small puddle of blood on the floor. She only had to use 2 before the spill was cleared, and the once white sheets were now a deep crimson red. She pocketed them before turning back to him.

“A family? Well could you be a bit more specific? I mean no offence but I killed quite a few families back then, it’s kinda hard to remember them all.” He spoke as if they were chums now, as if this experience had magically brought them into some weird fucked up friendship.

Would this be a greater friendship than the ones you already have, or a worse one?

“Well maybe this will jog your memory.” She took a photo out from her left pocket and held it up for him to see. She didn’t need to look to know what was on the picture, she had seen it a million times before.

A happy couple, with their pre teen daughter, sitting on a stoney beach during a warm summers day. Their hair was wet, they had been swimming just before, and they had ice cream from the local shop. Cookies and cream, raspberry ripple and rocky road. The perfect day for the perfect  family.

“20 years ago, you and your friends were hired to take out this family, the Ní Mhurchús. You broke into their house in the middle of the night, snuck into the parents bedroom and stabbed the father in the neck, when the mother ran two of your friends held her down, while the other went and got the girl. You gutted that woman in front of her daughter, and forced her to watch as her own mother bled out in front of her. When she was dead, you slit the girls wrists and left her there to bleed. Ring a bell?”

He was silent.

She folded the picture and placed it back in her pocket. “I said,” she grasped the hair on the side of his head around the place she had hit him, “Does that ring a bell?”

“YES!” She let go. “Yes it does. I remember, I do! I remember everything!”

She took a step back, staring him down all the while. “Well, lucky for me you happen to be a complete idiot. The cut you made on what you thought was my wrist was actually my lower palm. I survived with minimal injuries.” She scoffed, “Hard to believe you killed people for a living, since you’re so bloody bad at it.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, giving him the overall appearance of a kicked puppy. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t kill me, I’m sorry! I have a wife! She can’t live without me! I would have never done it if I hadn’t been payed, I couldn’t refuse the money! It was my buddies! Yeah, it was their idea! I was poor and-“ she had heard enough.

“I don’t care for your apologies, and your “buddies” are already dead. What I want to know is who hired you to kill my family.” She stated in a cold, calculated voice.

Talk to me you piece of shit.

“I don’t know! I never knew their name! They hired us occasionally to take out random families. Richer ones usually. But we were never asked to steal anything! Just kill!”

“How did they contact you?” She was getting tired of this.

“A man! He would find us in pubs and give us jobs. He was their messenger. He said his name was ‘Gibbs’. Had this huge scar across his mouth, ugly thing it was.”

“What pubs?”

“Ones all over the place! But usually Dublin. He would always talk to us in Dublin. We only went to one pub there, McGettigans, on Temple Bar! He would come to us once a month before the jobs stopped.”

“Why did the jobs stop?”

“I don’t know! One day he came to us and told us our “services was no longer required.” We never did a job for them again after that. We would still see him though, always in McGettigans, he was a regular. We’d have a pint or two together whenever we saw him.” He smiled to himself, remembering times when his friends were around and his life was good. Times that had long since passed.

“I see. Is he still alive?”

“I think so, saw him in there last month when I was in the city. Didn’t look like he wanted to be bothered though so I let him be!” His tears had long since stopped, but the panic still seeped out of him. “So we’re good now right? I gave you the info and now you’ll let me go, right?”

She smiled and put a hand on the back of the desk chair. She wheeled it and its struggling inmate over to the balcony, stopping on the way to pick up the largest shard she could from the mangled picture frame.

“Come on you don’t want to do this! It was a mistake! We all make mistakes in our youth, it’s a part of being human! That’s all we are right? Flawed humans? I won’t tell a soul you were here, promise!”

She pushed his chair up against the railing as he struggled and wiggled in his bonds, like a fish under a butchers knife.

“Anya right? Anastasia? I remember that, oh what a cute kid! The cutest! You don’t want to kill me Anya do you?” He smiled up at her in a last ditch effort to save himself.

She leaned in close to him, her lips right beside his ear, her clouded breath moving his hair like a breeze. She whispered.

“Oh I do Terry. I really, really do.”

She cut the ties on his wrist and kept back as he tried to grab her, his arms outstretched. She clasped his right arm in her hand and made an incision across his wrist with the glass shard, a deep and gagged cut.

He cried out and reached for his right hand with his left, but it barely got halfway there before Anya caught it and made another, identical incision on his left wrist. She watched him struggle and bleed for a few minutes, hearing sharp curses and sobs under his breath. When she decided he was weak enough, she cut the knot across his torso, causing him to fall forward from the force. She reached down and cut his leg ties too.

He stood up on shaky feet, almost falling as he rose. He took a step and lunged toward her which she easily stopped by placing a hand on his chest and pushing him. He knocked the chair out of the way and hit the balcony with a sharp metallic “BWONG”. Placing his hand on the railing to catch himself. She walked up behind him and grabbed his legs, he started to panic again.

“No, NO!”

She lifted him up and over the balcony’s railing. Watching him fall face first, screaming all the way to the ground below and hitting it with a “THUD”, his neck snapping on impact.

The countryside filled with silence, not even the birds dared sing for fear of being targeted next. She watched the blood pool out from his body. Oh, she could imagine what the guards will say about this.

Man in his 50s found dead after slitting his own wrists and jumping off his balcony in an act of alcohol fuelled suicide.

She picked up the torn clothes she had used as ropes and threw them on the bed, ensuring everything else was put back to where it was besides the chair and the broken frame.

Terry Donnelley had a psychiatric meltdown in his house after a night of drinking. His clear contempt with his marriage led him to tear up his wife’s clothes, break a family picture frame and ultimately, end his own life.

She picked up her knife from where she had placed it on the vanity and turned it in her hands. Pity, she would have liked to use it. She opened her jacket and placed the knife into the holster she had hand-sewn into the lining.

We give our condolences to Terry’s wife Kristine and their 2 children Mark aged 20 and Jennifer aged 32 at this time. He will be missed by nobody that knew him.

She climbed back down the trellis and retrieved her bag from the bush, before walking down the road to where she had parked her motorcycle. She checked the time on her watch, 2AM. Placing the helmet on her head she took off, leaving the last man who had been there the night of her parent’s murder behind.

Gibbs. McGettigans. Scar.

Next week was sure to be interesting.

Chapter Text

“Oh, sorry!”

She looked up from the phone she had been furiously typing on to apologise to the stranger she had just bumped into with all the grace of a baby deer. She wanted this interaction to be done with as soon as possible, she was already in a bad mood. So she resigned herself to just take the cursing and the bitching and move on.

“Oh, it’s no problem pet.”

Huh. She had forgotten this. Back in California, a bump on the shoulder from a stranger was practically on the same level as holding a gun to their head and calling them a queer. So it was safe to say that after so many horrible interactions, she had forgotten the one thing that her homeland and its citizens had that California simply lacked.

Common courtesy.

In all her shock she didn’t notice that the lady she had collided with had promptly moved on from this interaction and was now walking away from her, calm as ever.

God she had missed Ireland.

It wasn’t just the beautiful landscapes, or the smell of the ocean. Not even the sounds of trad music coming from the street artists. No, it was the fact that she was home. No longer the “Irish chick” with the funny accent among a sea of busy, angry Americans. No, here she could just be regular old Anya, and nobody would bat an eye.

She let out a sigh and smiled, until her phone buzzed at her once again and her newfound joy and content for the world was temporarily shattered.

Sort this out and you can be as content as your little heart desires.

She looked back down at her phone to see the carnage that her 15 second absence from it had left, only to see even more whiny messages from Georgie.

——————————————————-

Georgie (work)

You can’t just take impromptu vacations half way across the world

How am I meant to keep up with this workload when I’ve got 10 models on my ass about fucking “dietary requirements” and “issues with the catering”

DO I LOOK LIKE THE PERSON WHO ORDERS THE FOOD???

DO I LOOK LIKE KRISTOF????

HELLO????

ANYA FUCKING ANSWER

IM AT MY LIMIT

——————————————————-

She rolled her eyes as she continued walking.

God this man can’t do anything can he?

——————————————————-

                             Georgie it’ll be fine

                             Just tell them you’ve  

                             asked Kristof about the

                             catering and HES gonna   

                             be the one to sort it out

                             AND THEN TELL KRISTOF

                             TO GET HIS SHIT

                             TOGETHER

                             They’re fucking models

                              anyway I don’t know       

                              what they’re complaining

                              about

                              Shouldn’t they be eating

                              tapeworms or smth? LA

                              fashion week is like a

                              month away

STOP you’re evil

Ok

I texted kristof and he’s fixing it

I am left to do my work in peace

Kumbaya anya 🙏

                               Yeah kumbaya you    

                               freak

——————————————————-

She put her phone back in her pocket and shook the annoyance out of her hands. When she asked for a “no contact do not call or text or email me for the next 3 weeks” holiday she assumed that Georgie would get the message that she didn’t want ANYONE contacting her while she was away.

This is what I get for making friends with the company idiot.

But all her troubles melted away as she reached her destination. A small family run coffee shop stood in front of her, still open and still smelling vaguely of sausages and toast. The only change she could pick out was that the soft blue lettering above the door that once read “Connie’s Cuppa” now read “Ciaran and Connie’s”.

Guess they finally shackled up. Pity she let him put his name first though, whatever happened to feminism?

She pondered on the issue as she walked through the doors, hearing the signature “DING” of the bells above her. It was still a while until lunch started so the shop wasn’t busy, making this Anya’s preferred time to come for a cuppa. She settled herself at a table by the freshly cleaned window -her usual spot- and looked at the view of the street beside her.

People sparsely walked up and down the slight incline of the path, chatting with each other, or on phones, sipping takeaway coffees, carrying shopping bags. She hadn’t realised how much she missed the overall emptiness of Cois Farraige on a Monday not-quite-lunch-but-not-morning-either.

Surely there’s a word for that. Aftermorn? mornnoon? Nooning?

“Jaysus I must have gone doo-lally cause I know that Anastasia Ní Mhurchú is not sitting in my shop right now!” Connie’s shrill voice called to her from the kitchen doors. Anya turned her head and truly beamed for what seemed like the first time in the 8 years she had been gone.

“Yeah you must have, no way she’d come back to visit the likes of you.” Anya shot back, unable to keep her sarcastic tone up for more than a few words. Connie marched over, only making a quick stop to put a plate of scorching hot food on another customers table, and pulled Anya from her seat into a bear hug. An easy feat for this small, stocky woman.

“Ah Christ the Lord look at you!” She held her at an arms length to inspect her clothes. “You look so American with your fancy jacket and- oh look at them trousers! They must have cost a fortune, surely you got them in a charity shop.” She blabbered on in her usual manner.

Anya kept smiling, “They don’t have charity shops in California Connie, and I got these trousers in a department store.”

“Oh la-dee-da a department store ! Look who’s up on their high horse now!” Connie mimicked in a somehow even shriller voice than usual. “Someone better remind you where you were reared, or everyone will start thinking you’re an invading yank.”

Anya’s cheeks were starting to hurt from this overuse of her facial muscles.

“It’s great to see you too Connie.”

Connie placed her back in her seat by her shoulders. “Well it’s not everyday my favourite babe walks in my door so forgive me for being excited. Now, what can I get you started with? Cuppa with a smidge of milk two sugars?” Reciting Anya’s usual order perfectly, as if she had ordered it every day for the past 8 years. Connie never forgets an order, Anya didn’t think the woman was capable of forgetting such a thing.

“Sounds perfect Connie, absolutely perfect.”

“Right then I’ll have it out to you shortly. CIARAN! CUPPA TWO SUGARS BIT OF MILK!” She yelled off into the kitchen as she walked off to the flimsy double doors.

Anya continued her people watching out the window, the street was nearly clear now save for the occasional pedestrian. Such a huge difference from Cali, that city never slept, never gave time to relax. Look for some peace on Sunset Boulevard and they’d probably exile you for trying, but here? On bóthar Cois Farraige? It was practically encouraged.

She was glad that her grapevine had led her here, it gave her the perfect opportunity to relax from work for a bit, while also getting more information she desperately needed. She had been running dry on leads and Terry Donnelley had been the perfect man to get her back on her A-game. All she needed to do now was follow up on his info next week and -hopefully- finish this never ending quest once and for all, then she could just return to her life as a talent scout and manager at her modelling firm.

And you get to see the old house again.

She supposed that was a plus too.

She let her mind wander into all the things she would do over the next week as she stared out that window, until she was ripped from her thoughts by a striking sight.

An absolutely shocking sight.

A sight that could cure the sorest of eyes and leave them better than they had been before.

A sight that she never thought she would see in even a town as populated as Cois Farraige was.

No these things don’t happen in Cois Farraige, in Dublin maybe but dingy old Cois Farraige? Never!

She almost thought that she had finally gone crazy, she would have thought it if she wasn’t looking right at it.

It couldn’t be real.

Just walking down the street, unbothered as anything, was the most stunningly handsome man she had ever seen.

Now for the regular person this wouldn’t be a big deal, sure the man was handsome but there wasn’t much they could do but stare and gawk. But Anya had seen her share of beautiful men, more men that looked as if they were carved by angels than she could count. But this man wasn’t carved by angels, no. This man was chiselled from the most precious marble by the hands of God himself.

The first thing she noticed was his height, Lord was he tall. 6’4 she estimated. His long legs moved with a grace that ballerinas trained for years to obtain, and he was using this grace to simply walk. Her eyes traveled up his body from his dark leather shoes, clearly well made, watching how his muscles moved under his pitch black tuxedo.

Lean muscle, doesn’t workout but stays healthy, definitely an active life.

What kind of life could a guy live where he wears a suit but is active enough to keep that body?

She continued up, noting his tie, redder than freshly spilt blood on a white tile floor.

Then she got to his face. His jawline was sharp and defined, God she could have cut herself running her finger along it. His lips were perfectly plump, with a pale pink colour that complimented his pale skin perfectly. It was shocking how white he was, you would think he had never been touched by the suns rays.

That could be fixed easily, some tan a bit of bronzer, although the paleness would work well in eastern advertising.

His cheekbones sat high on his face, and gave a perfect frame for his eyes.

His eyes . Christ they were gorgeous. The eyes of a hunter, with a slight upturn and the deepest black colour to match the suit he was wearing. They sat below his square, sharply cut eyebrows, the same dark colour as his hair, which swooped from the top of his head, framing his face and just barely touching the base of his neck.

Silky hair, but definitely soft. Perfect for styling. What products does he use to get it that way?

The whole ensamble was topped off by the determined look on his face. A look that said “I’m not in the biggest of rushes, but god forbid you get in my way.” Alluring and direct, and oh so fascinating.

This man.

He was perfect.

And Anya wouldn’t be able to call herself a talent scout if she didn’t have this man signed on by the end of the day.

She watched as he walked past the shop, not sparing her even a first glance, his long legs carrying him far with each step. She shot up from her seat and looked around the shop, settling her eyes on the older man still eating his food who was now starting at her with a puzzled expression. She pointed at the kitchen doors.

“Tell Connie I’ll be back in a minute!” She exclaimed, and rushed out the door without waiting for an answer. The signature “DING” marking her exit.

She looked in the direction the mystery hunk was walking and saw him round the corner. He had walked so far in such a short amount of time.

“SIR, WAIT! STOP!” She yelled as she took off after him, sprinting down the path and around the corner, afraid that if he left her sight for more than a few seconds he would disappear in the breeze.

“SIR I NEED TO TALK TO YOU SIR!” The man kept walking, nonchalant as ever. Anya ran up to him and stood directly in his path holding her hands out in front of her to motion him to stop.

“SIR…I need to- I need- oh god…” she panted and keeled over as she caught her breath.

Now that she was right in front of him she could see all his features up close. Features she had previously thought to be perfect had somehow gotten even better on a second look. She looked up at him from her keeled over position with awe as she continued wheezing and panting like an asthmatic.

I need to get back into shape.

Once she caught her breath she straightened herself up and held out her hand.

“Hello sir, my name is Anastasia Ní Mhurchú and I work with Pure Essence Modelling Agency, stationed in Las Angeles, California. I’m a-“

“Why do you bother me?”

She stood there for a few seconds, her jaw slightly agape. She couldn’t even complain about getting interrupted when she heard his voice. She could only describe it as pure velvet entering her ears and leaving a pleasant feeling behind when it left. Somehow devoid of a discernible accent. She forced herself back to reality, she had a job do to for Pete’s sake.

“Well sir, as I previously stated I work for Pure Essence Modelling agency and-“

“I did not ask where you work, I asked why you are stopping me in the middle of the street and panting all over me like a thirsty dog.” He stated calmly and coldly, enunciating every word, almost like he hadn’t talked in a while and was still getting used to sounding them out.

Rude and condescending. Just like a model.

She grinned. “I’m a talent scout, and a manager. Now if you could get your head out of your arse for a minute I have a proposition for you that I’d like to discuss.”

He raised one of his eyebrows and almost looked impressed with her boldness.

“I do not know what a “talent scout” is, but I do know that it is not acceptable to proposition people for sexual deeds on the side of the street.” He said in that same even expression, “Although, I do commend your bluntness, I will have to decline your offer.”

Anya let herself laugh to release the tension in her stomach.

“Lord no I’m not a prostitute! I’m like a hunter of sorts. I look for ordinary people with untapped model potential and make them into household names. I put people on billboards, buses- hell, the last girl I signed on walked the catwalk during Paris fashion week!”

“And how does this concern me?”

She held her two hands out in front of her and made a square with her thumbs and pointer fingers. Closing one eye, she looked at him through this pretend-frame and nodded.

“You’ve got it.”

“I do not have anything.”

“Oh yes you do.”

“I really do not have any object that you think I do.”

“No not an object, you’ve got it .”

“What on earth do you possibly think I could have?”

“Everything! You’ve got the looks, the height, the snarky attitude- could you clench your jaw for me? Yes, you’ve even got a jawline of a Greek god! You are, in every way, the perfect candidate for my next big model!”

The man looked at her dumbfounded for a few seconds before responding.

“Excuse me?”

She kept going, “Sir, you are what we call in the industry “a big fat pay-check” and it would be a shame if I let that pay-check walk away from the both of us. Do you not realise the potential here? If you sign on with me sir I can guarantee that you’ll be doing adds for Hugo Boss and Gillette by the end of the month. You’ve got a body made for selling perfume and razors!”

“Perfume and razors?” He questioned. His sceptical tone wasn’t lost on her “I think I will have to decline your generous offer, I am flattered, but I would prefer to not be seen on the television.”

He tried to sidestep her but she wasn’t going to give up that easy.

“Sir I understand you’re in shock,”she held out her arm to stop his escape, “But this is no joke. The idea of being on TV and living the life of a celebrity is a foreign concept to us mere mortals but trust me when I say that the is not a doubt in my mind that you, sir, will be on the level of Marilyn Monroe! Without the questionable sexual relations with the president of the United States. Unless of course you want to.”

She had done this pitch dozens of times, she spent hours perfecting it in every bit of free time she got. The perfect blend of kiss-ass and compliment, with an overall upbeat tone. She was proud to say that this pitch had a 75% success rate among the people she approached, although usually she researched them beforehand.

Going a bit rouge with this one huh? Couldn’t be the fact that he’s exactly your type?

After years of seeing the most gorgeous people be the most shallowest arseholes she had learned that personality was pretty damn important, in dating and approaching potential signees. This man seemed to have the average pretty boy shithead persona, so she thinks the pitch will work splendidly.

“I do not have an interest in whatever old man sits at the top of Americas government, and I certainly do not have an interest in th-“ she cut him off before he could finish his rejection.

“Sir come sit with me, I’ll buy you a coffee, -although you seem more like the herbal tea type- and we can discuss what this would mean for your future.”

Yess just get him into Connie’s, if he enters Connie’s he’ll come out a model so help me God.

“I could not be less-“

“Just follow me, come on.”

“What? No I am really not-“

“Come, come on just walk with me I’ll get you a tea”

“Let go of my arm I am not com-“

“Look we’re nearly there! Isn’t that great, come inside and relax.”

“My lord you are persistent.” He hissed out at her as she led him into the shop, the signature “DING” greeting them. She plopped him down at the table she had been sitting at and took the seat opposite his. It was almost comical watching him sit in the slightly lowered seats at Connie’s.

I could have sworn he wasn’t that tall before

Connie rushed out of the kitchen, tea and saucer balanced on one hand and a pitcher of water held in the other.

“Good lord pet! Where on earth did you run off to-“ Connie spotted the incredibly tall Greek God sitting in front of Anya. She nodded.

“Well I see you’re busy so I’ll just leave your cuppa here.” She placed the perfect cup of tea in front of Anya along with a spoon, and produced a small glass from the front of her apron.

“Here, a little water for your new friend.” She smiled, pouring the water from the jug into the glass without spilling a drop.

“Thank you Connie, could I get another cuppa for Mr…” she paused waiting for her mystery man to fill in the gap.

“Knudsen. Simon Knudsen. Do you have a herbal tea range?”

Oof Knudsen? What is that, German? We’ll have to give him a stage name.

Connie, professional as ever, just kept grinning.

“Well we’ve got green tea, camomile, oolong, I make a mean ginger brew.”

“Do you have any fruchttee ?”

Connie blinked in surprise, “Eh, I’m not too sure on what that is.”

“I suppose you would call it fruit tea.”

“Ah fruit tea ! Yeah we have none of those, anything else interest you?”

He sighed, seeming genuinely disappointed.

“I will just have to get the camomile then.”

“Perfect! It’ll be out to you in a bit hon.”

Connie turned to Anya, who was quite entertained by this whole interaction, and gave her a wink before retreating back into the kitchen.

“Very odd woman.” Simon muttered to no one in particular. Anya chuckled.

“You’re one to talk Mr. Oh mine gott do you have mine fruchttee? Look, not a lot of the older generation knows that there’s different types of teas other than Barry’s or Lyon’s-”

“Danish.”

She stopped and looked at him, completely confused.

“What?”

“It is Danish, my name that is. Although I did spend quite some time in Deutschland , so I cannot fault you for getting it confused.”

She stared at him.

Is this guy for real? How did he know I was thinking about that? Maybe I said it out loud.

“Most people assume my name is German when they first hear it, and quite frankly, you looked like the type to assume.”

She nodded. “Well you’d be correct with that, I do assume a lot of things. Just like how I assume that you want to hear my reasoning for signing you on?”

“Yes I am quite curious on how you think I will say yes despite my clear objection to the whole idea.”

She put on her best “I am being so truthful” voice and continued.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you. You’re hot. Smoking even. And it’s my job as a manager to harness that attractiveness and make it into a lot of money for you and me. Isn’t that the one thing that catches all of our interests in this world? A boatload of money to do whatever we please?” She took a sip of her tea. Simon couldn’t seem less interested in the money aspect.

Ok clearly he’s well off already. You need a different approach.

“Look Simon- can I call you Simon? There’s a new cologne range releasing in two weeks. It’s a collab between Hugo Boss and my modelling company, called “Pure Essence”.”

“How original.”

“Right? And since I’m a pretty well respected manager they’ve given me first dibs on picking one of my models to do the add. Now I could pick whatever Joe Handsome pops up from my roster of used up boring old talent, or I could take a risk and get a completely new face on the scene!”

“As I stated before, I am not interested in selling perfumes.”

Connie appeared at the table, stopping the conversation, and putting the camomile tea in front of Simon.

“Here you go hon. One camomile. Just call me if you need anything else.”

She walked off back to her habitat. Simon looked down at the tea sitting in the fancy, floral designed cup. It’s amber colour and rich aroma making the whole ensamble look and smell so appealing. He raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip.

He paused.

“Oh my.”

Anya couldn’t help but smile. “Good isn’t it? Nothing holds a candle to the tea Connie makes here. I swear she was born with a kettle in her hand.”

“It’s exquisite.”

“Best you’ve had?”

“In quite some time yes.”

“Good, y’know I always say that a good cuppa can make everything seem alright. Now back to the matter at hand.”

“The perfume advertisement?”

“Yes! Now I’ll make you a deal, you wouldn’t have to sign on to the company, and you could still do the add and get payed. Just to get a feel for the whole modelling process y’know? Then if you’re not a fan you can collect your pay check, 40% to me of course, and be on your way. No hard feelings.”

He stared down at the tea in his hands, contemplating. As if she had said something deep and profound.

“I do not enjoy the idea of leaving the country at this point in time.”

“Ah, no problem! We have a building right here in Ireland, I can pull some strings, we’ll just shoot it there.”

“And the money?”

“Decided by the companies, but I guarantee that it’ll be huge. This is a highly anticipated product!”

Come on man what do you have to lose?

“Alright.”

She sat there for a few seconds not believing what she was hearing.

“You’ll do it?” She sounded out slowly, as if he would stand and run if she raised her voice too much.

“You are right. What do I have to lose?”

She jumped up from her seat and stuck out her hand for him to shake. He placed the floral cup onto the saucer and carefully took her hand, as if he was afraid of ripping it off. She shook it with vigor, clasping his slender hand in both of hers.

“Simon there isn’t a way in hell you’re gonna regret this decision! Trust me.” She exclaimed, shaking his hand all the while. Reaching into her bag she took out a pen and notepad and started writing.

“Ok, could I get your phone number, email and full name please?” She said thrusting the notepad and pen towards him. When he had finished writing it all down she snatched the notepad back and downed the rest of her tea.

“I better be off now, but I’ll call you later about the times for the shoot. Enjoy the rest of your drink” She placed a fiver on the table for the teas and walked towards the door.

“Oh, and Simon?” She called back to him, he turned to face her, waiting to hear what she had to say.

“Ditch the tux for the shoot. It won’t be staying on long.”

She left the shop, leaving a signature “DING” behind her as she walked down the street. Glancing at the notepad in her hand that now housed the information to her next big hit.

Simon Douglas Knudsen

Today is a good day Anya, a good fucking day.