Last Hit (Hitman) (6 page)

He says nothing, simply examines it, and then flips it open and begins to type with one thumb. I watch his tattooed fingers fly and wonder at the markings on each knuckle. It seems impolite to ask what they mean. After a moment, he snaps my phone shut and hands it back. "You call me,
da?
If you need things. I will call you if I need…detergent."

I nod mutely, give him what I hope is a friendly smile (and not a terrified one) and escape.

It seems I have two friends now. Regan and my Ukrainian neighbor who is so incredibly handsome that I could stare at him all day. I clutch my laundry basket to my hip and leave, feeling his eyes on my back. Once I am safely back in my apartment, I pull my phone out, flipping it open and paging through my tiny list of numbers to see what he has put there. A personal message? Something flirty?

Nick.

Just Nick.

I won’t have the courage to call him, of course, but I’ll think about it day and night. And when I touch myself tonight? It will be Nick’s face I’ll imagine. Tomorrow, I will borrow Regan’s laptop and research all I can about the Ukraine. I want to learn about him.

There’s something about Nick that draws me to him, that makes me stare at his phone number in wonder. I have met a few other men this week, some for longer than the short conversation I just had. But no one has tried to kiss my hand or given me their phone number.

It’s a personal connection, and I don’t have many of those. A personal connection with a tall, mysterious, handsome man? It is the stuff of my wildest dreams.

It’s more than that, though. There’s something about Nick, and I lay down on my bed, considering. After a moment, I realize what it is. He has intensity. There is something so vibrant, so aware, so
alive
about him that it sings to me. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Is it because my father has always been a shadow of himself and because he did his best to break me? Nick, I think, would never be broken.

I like that about him.

NIKOLAI

Daisy. She reminds me of
the paintings by an American painter from a city not so far away. The pictures are full of rolling hills and symmetrically planted wheat. Those images look pure, wholesome, and peaceful. Even her name evokes the same images. Whereas I am like the dark tormenter envisioned by Dante and made grotesque by Hieronymous Bosch.

At fifteen, I was ordered to terminate an art curator who had a predilection for American art and American boys. It was a satisfying job, as I learned much about art from watching the curator. The order to put him down had nothing to do with his pedophilia and everything to do with money. Always about the money.

It was the last hit I made under Aleksandr’s watch. I still didn’t know why he had released me, if it was the way I carried out the hit that made him decide I was too much of a liability or just that I was getting too old to control. It
was
rather messy. But after watching the curator for two weeks, I couldn’t merely put a bullet in his head. I rub the inscription on my chest again.
Death is mercy.
And those boys he’d kept had deserved their own revenge. Still the memory of it reminds me of how similar I am to this broken, run-down building with its bricks falling out and its interior filled with trash.

"Can I—can I stand now?"

I turn toward the thief. "Get up." I command.

He struggles to his feet; he is maimed. His fortitude is impressive. He hasn’t pissed himself, and he was quiet for the most part. I decide to let him go with just a warning.

"What is your apartment number?" I ask.

"122," he says. He looks small despite his size. Now that I’ve had a moment to collect myself and look at him, I am surprised to see that he is about my height, but he has no strength.

"I suggest you look for a new place to live. I do not care what you do with other women’s clothing, but you are not to be near her. You are not to touch her or breathe the same air." I’m still looking at the dryer. My lip curls at the thought of the animal’s hands on her clothes. I cannot allow them to touch her body. I spy a bottle of bleach, old and probably forgotten. It will ruin her clothes, but I can buy her new ones. Ones that haven’t been worn before; ones made of material as pure and precious as she.

"B-b-but you didn’t even know her before you came down here!” the thief whines at me.

 I whirl around and pin him back against the machines with one hand to his throat. My earlier feelings of leniency have fled. I squeeze tightly. "I’ve ended lives over a lesser slight. Move and live. Don’t move. Die. Simple." I am puzzled by this man’s lack of comprehension. The deprivation of oxygen is perhaps affecting his thinking, and I ease my grip. "This is not such a hard choice, right? There are so many other dumps you can live in."

"But my security deposit," he coughs out.

Money, always money. Still holding him around the throat, I dip into my pocket and pull out two one-hundred dollar bills from my wallet.

"Enough?" I wave them at him. His eyes widen, and he nods vigorously. He reaches for the money, but I hold it away from him. "Uh uh. Tell me what you will do."

"I’ll move out."

"When?"

"Today."

"
When?
"

"Now," he gasps.

I nod and let him go. He grabs the money and runs. I will check later to see if 122 is empty. If not, I will make it so.

Now I need to fix Daisy’s clothing problem. One that she isn’t aware she has.

I have no change, so I bypass the coin slots with two thin sticks of plastic from my lock kit. Angling them into the slots, I make the machine believe it is being fed two coins. I’m not stealing, really. I have no clothes to wash. But if Daisy returns to find me here, waiting, I will need a cover story.

I set the machine to a long wash and sit down to wait for her return. Daisy’s dryer dings to signal its completion. My body tenses at the thought of her return. I have had little interaction with a girl like Daisy. Most of the women I’ve known, I’ve paid for. For the money I give to them, they treat me however I want, which is mostly to service me and then go away. I do not care what the whores think of me—but with Daisy…with Daisy, I care.

She stops short when she sees me. Obvious surprise is evident on her fine features. I offer her a small smile, my facial muscles protesting at the unfamiliar use.

"Hi again," she says tentatively.

"Your dryer, it is done," I reply. Her expression is no longer surprise but wariness. Neither emotion is one I want to invoke, although what I want from her is not fully known, even to me. Desire, yes. Want, yes. Tender emotions, yes…or no. I am beset with uncertainty and in unfamiliar territory, so I respond with stoicism, which in turn makes her even more cautious. I can see it.

It is devolving so quickly.
Nikolai, do something,
I command myself.

I swiftly walk over to her. Taking her hand, I gently guide Daisy to her machine. "I’m sorry, have I frightened you? I just wait for my own things." I gesture toward the machine I manipulated earlier.

"No, I was just surprised to see anyone here." She stands in front of the machine and makes no effort to withdraw her clothes. A light pink stain upon her cheeks gives me a clue. She is embarrassed. I have no idea why, but I turn away and then to go sit in my chair. Her unease is distressing me, and I do not know what to do to make it go away other than to leave her. My throat feels tight. Maybe if I visit a whore again I will pay her to teach me to flirt.

My own cheeks feel hot, and I pretend to read my emails while Daisy empties the contents of her machine into a plastic basket with broken webbing. A cry of dismay has me ricocheting out of my chair, but there is no threat to her. Daisy is staring at her belongings, one item in each hand and the stains from bleach I placed in her dryer are obvious. Guilt strikes me hard, harder than I’d imagined.

"What is it?" I ask, pretending I don’t know that I have likely ruined her only clothes. She bows her head, and I wonder if she will cry. Please,
kotehok,
please do not cry.

In the end no tears fall, but her fatalism, her resigned acceptance of this loss makes me feel even worse, as if I have physically squeezed a little of her happiness from her.

 Abruptly I stand again, and the chair rattles backward into the machine.

"
Kotehok,
what is wrong?" My hand hovers over her bowed shoulders. I want to touch her but feel too guilty.

She sighs and then turns to me with a slight shake of her head. "Just my luck, I guess. I must have put the clothes in a machine that had bleach in it." She holds up a pair of jeans that look too big for her, with ragged cuffs. There is a large discoloration on the back. The shirt she holds in the other hand has the same problem. "The jeans I might get away with, but this shirt?"

"It was me," I declare. I fist the shirt in my hands and tug it from her. "You must allow me to fix this for you."

"No. What?" She tries to pull the shirt back, and the frayed fabric rips in our hands.

Now she
does
look like she is about to cry, and she bites her lips to keep back her tears. I cannot withhold myself from her any longer. My hand drops to her shoulder, and I pull her into me. "It is my fault. I do not know how to run these machines. You must allow me to make it up to you."

She leans into me and I rub her back—just her upper back—in small circles, as I did for a sex worker in Amsterdam who offered to teach me to cuddle. Then, I did not like it. I rubbed her back for a few seconds and then made her leave. But this is...amazing. Daisy’s little body is resting lightly against mine. I can feel muscles in her back, which suggests that Daisy is strong. The blades of her shoulders are sharp against my hand, which suggests Daisy is not eating enough. I want to scoop her into my lap and feed her with one hand and stroke her pussy with my other.

She does not borrow my strength for more than a second before she is pushing away from me and brushing the hair out of her face. "It’s not your fault." She shakes her head at me. "I’m sure it was something I did."

"
Nyet.
" I pull her to her feet. "You come with me. I will not be able to sleep tonight knowing I have ruined your things with my ineptness."

She tries to scramble for her things, but I pull her away. "Wait," she says.

"Daisy," I plead with her. "You must allow me to do this, or I will not be able to live with myself."

She stares in my eyes. While I am tempted to shut them for fear of what she may glimpse if she delves too deeply, the truth rests at the forefront. My steady gaze must have convinced her.

"Seventy dollars," she finally says.

I smile at her and nod. I have no idea what she means, but I take this as acquiescence. I pull her out of the basement and head for the back door.

"Where are we going?"

"To my bike," I say. My hand is still grasping hers. I’m afraid if I let go she will disappear.

My rented Ducati sits untouched in the parking lot between our buildings. I have only one helmet, which I hand to her. "Put it on," I say, and then because I sound like a
mudak
, an asshole, I add, "Please."

"I can’t take your only helmet." She looks mutinous. I have no car, only this bike and only one helmet.

"Will you wear it to the motorcycle shop? It is only a few kilometers away. I will take side roads and go slow." I offer her a compromise.

She gives me a slow nod in agreement and pulls on the helmet. All the tension built up from fighting the
huesos
, the cocksucker from earlier, and convincing sweet Daisy to come with me melts away. I swing my leg over the bike and motion for Daisy to climb aboard. Turning, I flip her visor up.

"Hold tight, even though we go slow, okay?"

"Okay," she replies. Her eyes are glittering with excitement, and I smile back. It’s feeling less foreign.

I ride slowly through the streets as Daisy clings to me. Her breasts are pressing against the thin cloth of my t-shirt, and I can feel that she is enjoying the thrill. I want to believe that her arousal is because of me but it is likely the simple vibration of the machine between her legs. At high enough speeds, the vibration might be enough to bring her off. I’d love to try that. I wonder if she is wet between her legs, whether the cloth of her panties is damp, or whether she is so turned on that the denim is soaked. I rock slightly on the seat, and I feel her press against me instinctively. I groan and don’t even try to hide it, confident the wind will carry the sound away. My cock feels enormous at the thought of her wet, the thought of her coming while riding behind me.

When we arrive at the motorcycle shop that rents and sells these bikes, I scoot forward and try to think of something to reduce my erection. Her neighbor pops into my head, and I’m able to stand upright. Not wanting Daisy to be exposed to the men here, I tell her to remain on the bike and to leave the helmet down. "Else someone might try to steal it."

This is a lie, of course, but Daisy simply nods.

Inside, I buy Daisy a helmet and ask, "I need clothes. Where can I buy them?"

The gum-chewing clerk gives me a hungry look. "Honey, I can fit you out. What do you need?" Her gaze drops to my crotch, and I resist the urge to cover my groin with the newly purchased helmet.

"For my girlfriend," I say. She wrinkles her nose as if the idea smells.

"There’s the mall just up the highway, ‘round the bend. Take the Lindau Lane. Can’t miss it." She emphasizes
mall
as if it has some special significance.

I nod my thanks.

Outside, I stand in front of Daisy, blocking the shop’s view of her, and I offer her the new helmet.

"I’m sorry for making such a big deal out of this. What are you going to do with another helmet?" She shook her head in dismay. "I wasn’t thinking."

I shrug. "I needed one." For her only, but I did not say this out loud.

She looks at me doubtfully, but I give her my best impassive look. It is a good one; she feels discomfited and can no longer look me in the eye. Suddenly I feel like a fuckhead over this, but how to fix it eludes me.