Last Hit (Hitman) (15 page)

He's getting it! Yes, there is a small network of us that share information. We've never brought you in, because, well, the others think you aren't very good at playing nice.

I do not play nice.
This network intrigues me though. When I worked with Alexsandr, there were often new recruits brought in. Early on, at nine or so, I tried to make friends, but Alexandr made short business of that. No friends. Rely on no one, he commanded. Not even him.

To enforce this concept, he'd make us fight each other for a reward. Sometimes the reward would be chocolate or some sweet. Sometimes the reward would be a better weapon. But winning always meant having extra. And when you had nothing, extra meant everything.

He responds.
You have rules. You live by them. It's enough for us.

I'm perturbed. Daniel has been watching me for longer than I have suspected.
How long?
I ask.

Only a couple of years.

Still, that is too long. He could know about Daisy. A chill washes over me. I open my folder marked D-ArmS. Daniel, Army Soldier. Based on his weapons, his precision, his American accent, and the source of his gunpowder, I've marked Daniel as a former Army Sniper.

I have left him alone because his work has never interfered with mine. I know that there are others out there like me, specialized killers, but as long as they do not interfere with my business, I have ignored their existence much as I had hoped they ignored mine.

Do you threaten me?

No, you suspicious bastard. I'm inviting you to be a part of the network. Information share. Get out. Be safe. Make good decisions. Give you advice on first dates. If the woman has kids, go to the zoo. If she's single, movies are good.

Children? I've never dated a woman with children, but clearly Daniel has. I open my file and next to companions, I type "dated woman with child/ren."

Movie was not good.
I share with Daniel.

So you're already on a second date. Good call. Some girls don't put out until the third date. Just FYI.

I write "dates girls who do not 'put out' until third date."

Advice observed. Zoo or what other options?

Does she have kids?

Perhaps Daniel has not dated a woman with children and is trying to extract information from me. I place my cursor next to "child/ren" and begin to press the delete button. I pause and then add "may or may not" to the companions line.

I take a deep breath, and my fingers hover over the touch screen. If I tell him she has kids and he is watching me, he may consider that a threat. If I tell him she is single, I risk revealing something more. But I have started this conversation by texting him in the first place. Perhaps I am ready for the risk.

You know the answer to that question.

Yes, I do, but you know things about me too. That's called information sharing! You're already doing it and didn't even know it.

I do not like not knowing things.

I know, which is why I'm telling you that if you give me something, we can move on from here.

I understand now. Daniel wants an overt show of good faith. Even if I tell him something that I am sure he knows, he will accept this as an olive branch.

She has no children.

Take her on a picnic. It shows you've thought of her, planned for her. Take her somewhere private. You'll have to talk to her, though and from our conversations, you're a pretty terrible conversationalist. You may want to practice that.

Da, spasibo.
Yes, thanks.

I have a plan, and now I can sleep. Tomorrow I will renew my campaign, apologize for my misdeeds, and pray that she will accept me.  

DAISY

Regan and I are playing flip
cups and drinking. It's a silly game, but since she's introduced me to something called cinnamon schnapps, everything seems silly. It's harmless drinking, to get intoxicated in our apartment with the door locked and the evening done. I mentioned to her that I'd never drank alcohol before, and she wanted me to get my first experience in before we went to the club. We've put Becca off for another night, claiming I have to work. Regan says that Becca's pouting, but she'll get over it.

So we drink.

Drinking, of course, leads to a game. Flip cups. She pours shots into disposable cups and lines them up on the table. We drink a shot and are supposed to put the cup on the edge of the table and then flip it over with a tap. I'm terrible at this game and by the end of one round, we're getting sticky alcohol all over the carpet, so Regan suggests a different game.

"It's called Never Have I Ever."

I giggle drunkenly and take another sip from my cup. The alcohol burns my stomach, but it's a good, interesting burn. "How does this game work?"

"I say 'Never have I ever something.' If you've done it, you drink. If you haven't done it, I have to drink."

I furrow my brows, trying to keep this clear in my mind. Maybe the alcohol is already getting to me. I probably have no tolerance for liquor. "What have I never done ever?"

"No, no," she says, laughing. "I say 'never have I ever drank alcohol' and you would not drink, because you haven't before tonight, see?"

This is confusing. "But I'm drinking now." Perhaps Regan isn't so good with alcohol, either. Her rules make no sense. My head is fuzzy, but I'm having so much fun. I can't stop giggling into my hand.

"That was just an example!" She sighs and grabs the bottle, refilling both of our red plastic cups. "So, I'll start since you clearly need more examples. Never have I ever eaten…frogs."

I snort with laughter. "I haven't eaten a frog. So do I drink?"

"No, no. Since you haven't done it, you don't drink. I do because you haven't. Understand?"

"Um." I still don't quite get it, but I'm willing to play along.

She nudges me with her cup. "Your turn."

I think for a moment. "Never have I ever gone to college. Is that right?"

Regan tips her cup back, drinking. After a moment, she swallows and nods. "That was a good one."

"So how do we win this game?"

She shrugs. "If you're still conscious by the end of it, you win."

Oh. I stare down at my cup. She's refilled it, and it looks entirely too full. Already my nose feels full of cinnamon and my throat and belly burn. I don't want more, but I'm enjoying myself too much to protest.

"My turn. Never have I ever had anal sex."

"What?" I am shocked. We've gone from frogs to…
that
?

Regan shrugs and drinks, but there's a laughing grin on her mouth. "Just curious if all the Pollyanna-ness was hiding a dark, dirty side."

I do have a dark, dirty side, but it's not quite that dirty. "I haven't even had sex, Regan!"

She waves a hand at me. "You're supposed to wait for my next question."

"Oh." I think for a minute, trying to formulate a question.

"So you haven't had sex? Really?"

I shake my head.

She looks impressed. "Kudos to you for holding out for marriage."

"I'm not," I blurt, and then I giggle because I sound so eager. "I just haven't been asked yet."

"Mmm. Think Nick will ask you?"

I feel all flushed and warm at the thought of Nick. Nick, who kissed me before the movie and then treated me like I'd offended him afterward. I don't know how to read him. He was beautiful, though, and sensual. And so very alive. I shiver, thinking of his icy eyes. "I don't know if he'll ask me," I admit. I'm a little sad at the thought.

"Would you say yes if he did?"

"Yes," I say, and this time I'm unflinching.

She looks surprised at my answer. "Really?"

"Really," I agree. I am fascinated with Nick, but I also want to know what sex is like.

 Now that I am free from my father's prison, I want to do everything I can to live my life. And if that means having irresponsible sex with an impossible-to-understand man? I will do so. I touch my mouth, thinking of Nick's lips on my own. I wanted that kiss to go on forever. Is it because of Nick or because I want to be kissed more?

I think it's because of Nick, but I can't be sure. I don't have any other experience to back it up with.

"He's that sexy, huh?" Regan gets all dreamy-eyed. "Man, I want to get a good look at him. The next time he asks you out, invite him in."

I don't know if he'll ask me out again, though. I stare into my cup awkwardly and try to think of a question that will for sure distract Regan from thoughts of Nick. "Never have I ever…owned a car."

Regan snorts and doesn't drink. She simply shakes her cup at me, and I drink that time. "You're not even trying," she protests. "Never have I ever had a man give me oral."

My eyes widen again. Regan and Mike have sex all the time. "I thought everyone did that." Not that I am an expert, but in the books I've been reading, the men always give oral to their women and love it. "So…Mike…?"

"Not drinking on that one? Man, you are innocent." She tips her cup back and sighs after she drinks. "And not everyone does that. Mike for
sure
doesn't."

I feel like I'm learning all kinds of things about Regan right now, and her happy, carefree life seems to have a little tarnish on it. "Never have I ever…kissed a man I don't love?"

"You can't ask that unless you have done the same," she points out even as she drinks.

I think. I've only kissed two men: my father, who I do love even though I also hate him, and Nick. I don't know how I feel about Nick. I've only known him for days. It's too early for me to be in love with him, but what I feel for him is as intense as it is bewildering and maddening. I don't want to confess this all to Regan, though, so I shrug and take a drink anyhow.

"Never have I ever…" Regan slurs her words and then thinks. "Given a blow job in public."

I give her an exasperated look. "Is that all you think about is sex?"

"Sometimes," she says. "But those are the fun questions to ask."

"Well, I can't answer any of them," I tell her. "I haven't done anything."

"Anything at all, Pollyanna?" Regan looks skeptical.

I stare down at my cup. The liquor is starting to feel too strong, and my stomach is upset. I feel anxious. It's not just the alcohol, it's the feeling that I'm not fitting in with my new friend. "I…my father was very controlling. He didn't let me do much. That's why I left."

It's a start, but it's not enough. I want to confess that my father is terrified of being outside of the house. That he's not left it for the last thirteen years. That even when I was little, I had to go to the grocery store by myself and get things because he couldn't leave. That he controlled what I wore, what I ate, what I read, what I watched.

That I felt smothered and trapped with him.

And that I miss him and feel guilty when I think about him.

But I can't say all this to cheery, sex-obsessed Regan. So I simply shrug and stare down at my still too-full cup.

"Wanna prank call him?" Regan asks. "Kinda childish, but who cares?"

"Prank call?"

"Yeah, you know. Pretend to be a pizza place and call him just to mess with him. Total passive-aggressive revenge on the parental units for messing you up as a kid."

I'm drunk and so this sounds like a good idea to me. I grin and nod. Regan pulls out her smartphone and hits the speaker button and then places it in front of me. I dial as we chortle and drink.

The phone rings once, and I realize I don't want to call my father. I don't want to pretend to call him, because if I hear his voice, I'm going to be sad. I've abandoned him. I've given up on him, and I feel like the worst daughter possible.

I hit the button to hang up.

"Aw, man," Regan says, and she tips her cup back to drink.

But I am frozen in place. I've just hung up on my father. That's our phone code. One ring, hang up, and then call back immediately. That's how he knows it's me and not a stranger. That's how he knows it's safe to answer.

He'll be waiting for a call.

Guilt twists my gut. I have to call back. It seems cruel not to. I hit the big redial button on her phone screen and wait.

My father answers immediately. "Daisy?"

His voice is hoarse. I can hear the unhappiness, the strain in it. My own voice freezes in my throat. I can't say anything.

"It's okay, Daisy," my father says, and he sounds so, so sad. "I just…I want you to know I'm sorry." He takes a ragged breath. "I didn't realize how unfair I was being to you. I know you had to run away. And I'm sorry. If you want to come home, you can. I'm not mad."

And he quiets.

My eyes are wide and I stare at the phone with a mixture of terror and longing. Longing, because going back home to my father means a return to the familiar. It will make him happy to have me back under his thumb again. All will be right in his world.

All of this terrifies me because it is the last thing I want. "I'm sorry, Father," I say and hang up the phone.

I stare down at it, panting. I am so anxious and unhappy at hearing my father's misery that I feel as if I've taken it all into myself. How selfish of me to run away. My father isn't well. I know this, but I can't help myself. I have to get away. I have to.