In no short time his cigarette was taken and forcefully shared. He quirked a brow, watching her.
He had been caught off guard before, that was what had gotten him into this situation in the first place, so now he wouldn't let her looks fool him.
He reached across the table and yanked the cig from her lips with a hmph, putting it back between his own and turning his tanned face to the pictures, aligning them yet again on the table.
"That's why you shouldn't smoke them," he stated, looking through his shades, fingering through the images in his hands, looking for a good one to start with. Most of his kills were nobodies. Q preferred to lay low as possible, not killing anyone worth more than one hundred thousand dollars.
However, people who were looking for a cheap hire and knew how to hunt around often took advantage of Q's poor social network - the man didn't like phones or television - and lied, essentially forcing Q to kill high profile people without knowing they were high profile.
Fortunately for him, some of those high profile kills were among the photographs. I picked out one of a mayor, his left hand placing it on the table in front of her.
"Do you know this man?"
He doubted she did, but didn't give her the opportunity to answer, instead continuing on with the script he'd been told to formulate just a few minutes prior.
"He was the mayor of small town in Washington."
He pointed to the bullet wound-- a clean shot to the head. This was an image yanked from police records. "I did this with an M40."
He put down another photo, atop the first. It was of another dead person, another clean headshot. "Drug dealer," he said.
He flipped another dead person down, this time a woman. Yet another clean headshot. "Whore."
All the photos so far had been clean, a small pool of blood. He passed through a few images of living people, "sniper rifle, handgun, knifed," he listed off.
Finally he got to the more gruesome images. Slit throats, blood everywhere. He figured this girl, should she have been as terrible as everyone said she was, would appreciate them the most.
"Desert eagle." He had put down a photo of a woman with a huge hole in her stomach. "She was pregnant." He said, as an afterthought. But the addition had no emotion attached. Q didn't really care about these people, much less have any real morals to speak of.
He flipped a few more gory pictures down, mostly knife kills. Finally he reached the last photo in the stack, and stared at it through his shields, sighing through his nose.
He hadn't noticed it was there before now. He hadn't liked this kill. It had been too messy.
He took the now finished cigarette, and tossed the filter to the floor, not caring where it went as this wasn't his house. He finally put the last image down in front of her.
"Bludgeoning."
The person, indiscernible whether it was female or male, had had their face smashed in several times.
It had been one of Q's first jobs. He hadn't been too proud of it.
He quickly put his hands on the table, away from the montage of his less than legal past.
"I was paid to do all this," he stated, a bit wary as he hadn't fully planned out this part of his script yet.
His six foot tall form leaned over the table and started pointing at the photographs, listing off prices. "Ten thousand, thirty. 30, 60, 80." When he reached to the more risky kills, he made up the prices he should've gotten, "200, 100, 100." The ones deserving of such high prices were the mayor, a few policemen, one or two mafia kings.
When he was done, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers grasping the edge of the table. He hesitated for a moment, wondering where to go from here.
He was supposed to tell her he was her teacher now, but as his grey brows furrowed and he tried to hide his frown, the words just wouldn't come out.