Assassin Read Online Free Page A

at the table, and after we’re
done breakfast I’ll show you around the farm.” Troy can’t help it.
    “How? It’s still as black as night out there!” The old man
looks at him with the same frown he had upstairs, and plops a plate onto the
table rather loudly. Trying not to grumble under his breath, Troy fixes his
coffee with two tablespoons of sugar. There’s no creamer on the counter, and
he’s not going to root around this guy’s refrigerator.
    “Sugar in your coffee? You know real men drink coffee black,
son. A woman’s not going to respect a pussy.” I just have to make it until I
can afford to buy a place of my own. Then I get out of here. Just keep your
damned mouth shut, Troy Red. Keep it shut. But it’s too late.
    “A real man has his woman make breakfast for him.”
It’s out before he can bite his tongue to keep it in. Shockingly, the old man
throws his head back and laughs raucously with his fork in his hand and his
coffee cup halfway to his lips. Troy shakes his head as he fills his own plate
with the buttery mess.
    “Woo! You’re not gonna get a woman with that kinda attitude,
son! Not in these parts. Didn’t your mother teach you to respect women?”
Gritting his teeth, he sits down at the table across from the old man and tries
not to let his bladder get the best of him when the chair creaks. He may not
have believed in God before, but he’s praying that the chair does not break
while he’s eating.
    “Let’s get one thing straight. You will not talk about my
family. I will not talk about yours. Got it?” His laughter dies off while troy
is speaking, and Mr. Grant looks at him seriously for once. It’s not with lack
of respect or mirth in his eyes, but with understanding.
    “I got it, son. I won’t talk about your family. I meant no
disrespect.” The rest of their breakfast is consumed in silence, and Troy
follows the old man’s example when he rinses his dishes and puts them in a
dishwasher. At least there’s one modern appliance here. Well, relatively
modern, it’s probably six or seven years old, maybe more.
    After breakfast has been cleaned up, Troy puts on the too
small sweatshirt that the man throws at him and follows him out the front door.
The front yard is covered in a light frost, and the sun’s rays are just
starting to peak over the horizon. It’s six thirty in the morning, and it’s freezing
cold yet. Rubbing his hands together, he follows after the old, crazy man to
the large, red barn.
    “Now, I’ll help you today with the stall cleaning. But
tomorrow I have to get back to raking the hay, so you’ll be on your own. Do you
know your way around a horse?” Son , it seems to be implied at the end of
the sentence. Troy almost groans aloud at the mention of a horse. Then he really
does let the noise out when he glances around and sees eight stalls. All of
them have a horse inside, and their large, dark eyes are staring at him
expectantly.
    “No, I’ve never seen a horse in my life.” The old man looks
shocked by that, but he doesn’t say anything smart-ass about city boys or his mama
being ignorant for not showing him a horse.
    “Well, then I guess we’ll start with Lightning. He’s not as
fast as he was when he was two, so there’s no need to be afraid of him.” Troy
snorts, afraid of a horse? He tries to tell himself that he’s not.
    The stall the old man walks up to holds a gray horse with exceptionally
light blue eyes. They’re eerie and striking at the same time, and Troy can see
why the horse was gifted the name Lightning. He probably looked like a streak
of one when he ran past. He’s obviously no longer able to do much more than
stumble along at a slow pace anymore.
    Mr. Grant opens up the stall and leads the horse out into
the aisle. The knees are knobby, and his mane is brittle, but he looks well
cared for. The thug from Los Angeles wonders if Mr. Grant takes care of this
all himself, or if he has help. Yeah, he’s got people like me to do