Last Hit (Hitman) (11 page)

I picture her falling to her knees and tonguing my length. My cock would stretch her lips wide. I’d tunnel my hands in her hair and tug her head back so I could slide in and out with ease. She’s innocent, so she’d not be able to take my whole length. Instead, she would have to use her hands, twisting and turning and pumping me. I wrap the pink cotton around my engorged member until the cloth and lace are binding me tightly, imagining the pressure is from her lips. The bite of the elastic is really her tight fist enclosing my engorged flesh. In my fevered imagination, it is her skin next to mine, her body under me and wrapped around me.

The image shifts and Daisy is now sitting on my mattress, watching me tug at my cock. "Touch yourself," I tell her, and she tentatively reaches down between her legs. "Spread your thighs wider. I want to see you."

She obeys. In my imagination, her arousal visibly glistens her center, and I can hear the juicy sounds of her cunt as she fingers herself. I want to draw it out, but I can’t, and I spurt long, white threads of come onto my stomach. I stumble over to the mattress and fall backward, my hand clutched around my still aching member. It is not enough. The phone has remained silent. The entire apartment seems like a tomb.

I’ll never be good enough for Daisy but I ache and I am…lonely. I reach over to the phone with my free hand and call a number.

"Massage Heights," a perky voice answers.

"I need a house call," I say.

"Do you have a preference?"

I begin to tell her I don’t, but then I say, "Medium height, light brown hair, not too thin."

"Gl—" she starts to say a name, but I stop her.

"Tell her she’ll be Violet for the night."

"Sure. Violet."

"Violet" knocks on my door thirty minutes later. I let her in. She looks nothing like Daisy. Her dirty hair is bleached too light. Her eyes are hazel and not blue. She is too thin. I can see her ribs when she opens her coat to show me her thigh high stockings and garters. She smiles at the sight of me. I shake my head at her naiveté. Because I look young and have a firm body, she automatically thinks that I will be a better lay, but I’m strong and I could hurt her. She has no instinct of self-preservation. She will likely be dead before she hits her quarter-century mark.

Her outfit would be sexy to anyone else, but I am unmoved. I glance over my shoulder toward Daisy’s apartment. Afraid she might be able to see in, I walk over and close the blinds. It is a stupid act. My Daisy is too trusting to peer in windows, looking for me.

The girl I’ve named Violet pulls off her jacket and looks for somewhere to place it. I take it and throw it on the kitchen counter.

"Um, you just move in?" She takes in my empty space.

"Yeah." I do not want her to remember me as “the Russian guy," so I make a conscious effort to speak with American slang. "Haven’t got any furniture yet."

She shrugs. "Where do you want to do this?"

I sit down on a chair and pull out a condom.

"Just a BJ?" She looks surprised at my nod. "And a condom. Aren’t you the responsible boy."

Not responsible, just smart. I open my jeans and pull out my cock. It is flaccid, but its quiescent length still makes Violet’s eyes widen.

"That’s quite a package you’ve got there."

"I want you to suck me," I say.

I do not want to have conversation with her. I want a fuck. I want relief. I jack myself and think of Daisy and the crumpled panties that rest on my washstand. I am erect instantly.

The prostitute comes forward and kneels between my legs. The floor is hard, and I consider getting her a pillow, but I do not want her to touch my things. I barely want her to touch me.

Her hands run up my jean-clad leg and her mouth descends. I grab her hair and pull her face back. One glance at her too-knowing face and my erection subsides. I want for no one but Daisy. This fake flower I have purchased will do nothing for me. I stand up, and she falls aside. Walking swiftly across the room, I gather up her coat and pull out a hundred dollar bill from my pocket. I would offer her more, but she would remember me more, talk of me.

"Sorry. I have appointment I have forgotten."

She looks at me uncertainly, but she quickly grabs the bill and shrugs on her coat. "If you change your mind, just say you want Violet again."

I nod. I won’t be calling. But then, neither is Daisy.

DAISY

"You sure you want this
job, honey?" The elderly man looks at me with more than a little skepticism. "You seem too nice to be working the overnight shift at a gas station, if you don't mind me saying so. Not the safest job for a young girl."

I swallow hard, my hand smoothing the dark blue collar of the company polo I have been given to wear. It's my first day, and Craig—the elderly owner of the gas station—is showing me how to run the register for a few hours before he leaves for the evening and I am all alone until 2:00 a.m., which is when the next shift arrives.

It's not that I truly want this job. I don't. It pays minimum wage. The counters are dirty and everything in the store has a fine layer of dust on it. I feel very young as Craig gives me another skeptical look, but I don't have a choice. I have no money. I have less than two hundred dollars in my savings, and my cupboard is getting barer by the day.

"I want the job," I tell Craig with a smile. "Don't worry about me." This is the only place that has called me. Of course I want the job. I
need
the job.

"All right," he says reluctantly, and we go behind the counter of the gas station convenience store. There are things I have to learn—how to swipe the lottery tickets in the machine, how to turn off the gas pumps, how to change out the flavor bags in the soda machine. There are a million things to remember, and I make notes on a notepad so I won't forget. Last, he shows me the cameras in the convenience store. He shows me the panic switch if I should be robbed, and the baseball bat that is kept under the counter, and then the Taser that is kept, dismantled, in a compartment behind the time clock in the storage room. They are there "just in case," Craig tells me.

"Has this place ever been robbed?" I ask when he shows me the Taser. I am getting a little uncomfortable with all the safety precautions. It reminds me of being home with my father. Of sitting up nights with weapons in hand, waiting for a strike that never comes.

How bad can a gas station be?

"Twice," he tells me, and my heart stutters. "But only on holidays. We won't make you work those days." He pats my arm. "I live just down the street. You get any troublemakers in here, you call me, okay?"

I nod. Craig's number is at the top of my notepad in big, bold numbers. I won't forget.

It's eventually time for Craig to leave, and I give him an impulsive hug when he does. I like him. He's a sweet old man. He reminds me of my grandfather, who is long dead. Craig seems pleased by my hug and pats my back; then he pushes a knuckle at the notepad still clutched in my hand. "Remember. You call me."

"I'll remember," I say warmly. "I've got this."

He leaves, and I am alone, manning the store. I take a deep breath. I can do this. It's what the new Daisy would do. Old Daisy would be terrified, so I won't be her. It's a case of mind over matter, and if my hands shake when a customer comes in to buy a soda, I ignore it. I ring him up, hand him a receipt, and when he leaves, I exhale. Father would never expect me to be so strong, so independent, but here I am, working my first job like a normal girl. I'm terrified—Father's endless fear of everything and anything out of the normal day to day has left its shadow on me, but I'm stronger than my fear.

I
can
do this.

It's not so bad after that first customer. Because it's late at night and most people pay at the pump, the gas station isn't all that busy. Regan has let me borrow one of her textbooks, and I read it and go through the homework from time to time so I can be prepared when I can afford classes. I read her textbook in between customers and manage to chat a little with the people that buy cigarettes and lottery tickets and beer. My feet ache from standing on them for so long, but this job isn't so bad. And by the end of an evening shift, I will have sixty-two dollars before taxes. Craig told me we get paid weekly, so I like this job more and more.

It's some time after ten at night when the door chimes, letting me know there is a customer. I look up from the textbook and straighten so I can greet the person at the door.

I recognize the high cheekbones, the slashing brows, the piercing gray eyes and the deep scowl on his face.

Nick.

I freeze. I don't know what to do. I'm hurt that he never bothered to show up the other day, and I'm embarrassed, too. His texts seemed sincere, but it's easy to lie when you're not speaking face to face. But acting like a jealous wife when it was just a coffee date would make me look stupid. Should I play it cool and casual? Do I even know how to do that?

I try to form a "hello," but my throat closes up. Instead of being the confident, carefree woman I should be, I stare at him mutely from across the counter and give a tepid wave, like some sort of idiot mime.

Real smooth, Daisy.

That frowning gaze remains focused on me, and I watch his gray eyes flick back and forth, studying everything. He pauses at the gas station logo on my shirt. Glances around at the empty convenience store. Then back at me. "Why are you here, Daisy?"

My mouth opens for a greeting…and then snaps shut again. Why am I here? That wasn't what I expected him to ask. I make a feeble gesture at my shirt.

"This is not safe," he states. "You should leave."

"I…" I swallow, my words choking in front of his disapproval. I am being such a ninny. Why does it matter if Nick approves of my job or not? "I work here. The next shift doesn't get here until two."

Nick looks upset at this. His mouth flattens into a grim line, and he shifts on his feet, scanning the empty parking lot. "This is not job for woman like you, Daisy. You must quit."

Those bossy words drain all of my awkwardness away. A woman like
me
? Someone who should be sheltered and locked away from the world? Now he sounds like my father. My mouth works into a mutinous scowl. "Are you buying something? Because if not, I think you should leave."

For a moment, he looks astonished that I am talking back to him. Like, completely, flat out astonished, as if I've just cussed him a blue streak instead of disagreed with him. And instead of getting upset, a smile curves his hard mouth.

That smile makes me all flustered again, but I'm still mad. I remember why I'm mad, too. He stood me up. Didn't even have the decency to show up in person and tell me why he couldn't be there. No, he let me sit at the cafe for hours and make a fool of myself. Everyone there thought I'd been stood up for a date. And then he tries to make it better by sending a few texts.

And I feel even stupider, because I'm clearly making more out of our friendship than it is. If I meant something to Nick, he wouldn't have humiliated me like that.

Like I was nothing. Like I didn't matter.

He puts a hand on the counter, and I stare at the letters, which I now know are Cyrillic, tattooed on his knuckles. "Daisy," he murmurs, his voice that achingly delicious thrum that I hate myself for liking. "You are not answering my texts, and I must explain myself."

"There's nothing to explain," I say. "We had a coffee date." Oh no, I used the word date! "And you didn't show up." Now I feel my face flushing at my choice of words. I shift on my feet and step backward since he's moved closer, and I scan the parking lot. Someone has pulled up in a beat-up PT Cruiser. A boy my age, wearing a knit cap, long hair sticking out underneath and in skinny jeans. He's walking in, which means Nick needs to get away from the counter.

But Nick isn't moving. His fingers drum on the counter once, and still he studies me. "I must apologize," he says. "Something came up and I had to leave town. I tried to send you message."

I look at him in surprise, my expression softening. "You left town? Family emergency?" A family emergency will make everything okay. It's awful, but I hope for distressing health for an aunt or uncle, and then hate myself for thinking it.

"
Nyet
."

I know that is "no" from hearing him speak previously. I wait for him to explain more, but he says nothing. After a moment, he types something into his phone. Mine dings, and he's sent me a photo. The attachment has a little broken picture and asks me to download.

"I…can't get your picture. I'm maxed out on my data." I'd have to buy a new phone or add more money to this one, and I can't until I get paid.

"Then it is likely you are not receiving many of my messages."

I stare down at my phone, chagrined. I'm still mad at him, but now I'm feeling slightly stupid about it. Like I'm the one being unreasonable. I don't know what to do. I look at Nick, but he's simply giving me an enigmatic smile, as if that will explain everything.

For some reason, that smile makes me angry all over again. It's like he's saying,
"You see? It's not my fault your things are cheap."