Last Breath

by Jessica Clare

  “This is a fucked up world, darlin’. That you’re still breathing oughta be counted as a win.”

  “It’s . . . how do I go back to that?”

  “To what? Your dick-for-brains boyfriend? Your job that you talk about with all the enthusiasm of a goat herder?” I’m getting angry, and I can’t even pinpoint the real cause. Is it because I am pissed off that she still cared enough about her boyfriend to contact him? That she actually called him a boyfriend? That she didn’t care enough about herself to be with a guy who could give her a real life orgasm? That she is thinking about going back to Minneapolis, the coldest tit a witch ever froze, to take up a job that would turn her into a zombie in under three years? Or that she is so achingly goddamned beautiful, and that I want her so much my balls might fall off?

  Even though my external word vomit doesn’t match my internal bloviating, Regan still looks taken aback, but she rallies quickly.

  “You know, I’ve gone through a lot and am still standing, so you can dial back on the Robin Williams Die Hard inspirational speeches. You suck at them.”

  “It’s Bruce Willis, and I know.” I grin at her because I’ve never been one to stay angry long and her confusion between Bruce Willis and Robin Williams is funny as shit. “Let’s go, fighter.”

  “Fighter. I like that. You can keep calling me that one.”

  “How about baby fighter? Or fighter doll?” I tease. I pay the bill and gesture for Regan to step out in front of me.

  “You staring at my ass? Is that why you always want me to go first?” She sasses back, whatever hurt my incautious words may have caused apparently gone.

  “You do have a fine ass, fighter baby,” I whistle. “It’s plump and bitable like a juicy piece of Brazilian fruit.”

  “Yet you haven’t even attempted a taste. Maybe you don’t like Brazilian fruit?” she sashays out in front of me, her ass swinging back and forth, looking like a true Rio native. All the ladies in Rio seem to have a special hitch in their step that makes people-watching down here almost mandatory. But right now my eyes are glued on this one Minnesotan’s prime real estate, and my head’s reeling from her very obvious come-on. I don’t really know what to make of it.

  “I love fruit,” I say. “I never like to eat where I’m not invited.”

  “What kind of invitation is it that you need then? An engraved one with gold lettering?”

  I want to pull her aside, maybe push her up against one of the concrete walls of the buildings lining the Rua Visconde de Pirajá and test out that invitation. She laughs and then snaps her fingers. “Better close your mouth, baby boy, or flies will land there.”

  Snapping my jaw shut, I hurry to catch up with her. Who said we needed sleep when we got done with Luiz? I’m thinking there are a dozen other things we could be doing in a soft, warm bed between some cool, clean sheets.

  Whistling, I wink at Regan, and she gives me a big smile in return. Life is easy when you don’t think about anything but the moment. We’ve got to get Regan papers, and then we’re checking into a decent hotel room.

  “This is a pretty nice place,” she says as we walk down an avenue full of luxury brand stores. “I mean, I think these are nicer stores than we have in Minneapolis.”

  “Ipanema is the second-wealthiest neighborhood in Rio.”

  “And we’re going to see a forger here?” she asks.

  “Maybe it pays well?” I stop at the address that Pereya gave me. It’s an art store—a high-end art store.

  “This?” Skepticism drips from the word.

  Opening the door, we step inside, the air conditioning almost too cool for our skin. Regan shivers noticeably, and I wrap an arm around her instinctively. She leans into my embrace. For the warmth, I remind myself, but I find myself pretty damned pleased.

  “Tudo bem?” A lithe, model-tall woman walks toward us, her dark hair caught up in a heavy braid that lies like a thick snake on her shoulder.

  “Just awesome,” I lie. “Look, I could give you a big song and dance complete with code words and shit like that, but I need to see Luiz. Pereya sent me.”

  A speculative glint appears in her eyes, and she says, “Wait here.”

  “Is this the place?” Regan whispers after the leggy brunette disappears into the backroom.

  “Hope so.” I force myself not to follow the brunette into the back. Shifting our heavy bags over one shoulder, I try to relax. The artwork on the wall is stunning, but clearly directed toward tourist tastes with iconic shots of Sugarloaf Mountain and the Christ the Redeemer statue. In the middle of the room on a pedestal is a crystal sculpture that looks like a futuristic piece of kryptonite, only it’s not green, just clear glass. After a moment, the attendant waves us in the back.

  Luiz is a small man, barely coming up to my chest. Or maybe he was once taller, but he’s so spent so much time bent over a table, his natural height reduced about four inches by the forward roll of his shoulders.

  “What do you need?”

  “Credit cards, passport.”

  “For who?”

  “Two blondes.”

  “This one?” He points to Regan.

  “Yeah, and one more.”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  I do. “It’s twenty months old though,” I caution. Pulling out my wallet, I lift out the picture I’ve kept in a vellum envelope in an interior pocket. I’ve had this picture with me for a long time, just for this purpose. When I first started out in mercenary work, I hadn’t realized how important false identities were—being able to change your name and move throughout countries with ease is something of a necessity in my line of work. I have dozens of identities but none for Regan. I have a couple of stolen identities I carry around for my sister, but I might as well have something made up for her while I’m at it.

  Luiz nods and takes the photo with tweezers. I can tell by his meticulousness that our papers will be flawless.

  “It will be two weeks.”

  Regan, silent the whole exchange, finally speaks up. “Two weeks?”

  “Tomorrow,” I say implacably and pull out a wad of cash to sweeten my demand.

  Luiz shakes his head. “Detailed work takes time.”

  Regan makes a distressed sound, and I shove the cash at Luiz. “Tomorrow.” At his hesitation, I draw a gun and everyone ducks, but I aim it toward the crystal sculpture of Sugar Loaf Mountain sitting in the middle of the showroom. “Tomorrow,” I repeat.

  Luiz looks at me, the heavy bags at my back, and then the cash. “Tomorrow then.” He gestures for Regan to stand against one empty space of white wall and takes her picture.

  I holster my gun and shove the cash in his hand. Gesturing toward the door with my head, I urge Regan out.

  “Why not now?” She looks like she doesn’t want to leave without the papers, but I don’t want to piss off Luiz anymore. I drag her out of forger's office and into the street. She looks unhappy, and I miss her sunshine-like smile from earlier this morning.

  “Let’s go get our stuff and then check into a better hotel. I feel like I need another shower after lying in those sheets.”

  “Who’s the girl?” she says.

  “The girl?” I’m not sure I follow her. What girl? She’s the only girl I’m with.

  “The other girl. The one with her picture in your wallet? Who is it?”

  “My sister.”

  Seventeen

  Regan

  HIS SISTER.

  A few things click into place, my brain suddenly making sense of things. He’s got a sister—a young, pretty blonde who was sold into slavery, like me. That’s why he’s hunting blondes. That’s why he’s in and out of brothels in the slums and knows people like Luiz and Pereya.

  That’s why he was so giddy when we got the information from the snitch.

  I want to laugh with relief. I’ve been trying not to think about the other mysterious blonde he’s so excited at the thought of finding. I’ve been having flares of jealousy, quickly tamped down a
gain. What right do I have to be jealous of anyone or anything Daniel does? He’s not mine. He’s my rescuer that I’m forcing to stick with me.

  But . . . I’m still glad it’s his sister and not a rival for his attention.

  We leave Luiz’s art gallery and head onto the streets of Ipanema, mingling with the crowd. I look over at Daniel and he’s full of barely-leashed energy. If an assassin could be giddy, that would be Daniel. I wonder if it’s because he’s close to getting his sister . . . or close to getting rid of me? Or both?

  I’m not sure how that makes me feel. The conversation at breakfast has left me a bit at odds with myself. I don’t know how I’m going to slide back into my old life and pretend like nothing has happened. I’m a scholarship student, and the company I’m slated to go work for has paid for a large chunk of my schooling. It’s one of the reasons I went into accounting as a major: a guaranteed job at the end of college and someone was willing to pay for most of the classes, provided I keep my GPA up. Of course, it’s mid-semester right now, and I’ve missed two months, which means I’ve now flunked out of all my courses unless I drop them. Either way, I’m screwed.

  But I’m alive, as Daniel has pointed out. I should be grateful instead of anticipating problems.

  As we head back into the rougher part of the city, the streets clear out a bit. There’s not as many people strolling the shopping districts, and there are a few people loitering in doorways of nearby rundown shops. We’re walking the streets of Ipanema, heading back to the hotel, when Daniel grabs my ass. “Damn, baby doll. I can’t get over how fine this is.” His voice is loud, his Texas drawl thick.

  I’m startled, and I jump at his touch, scurrying away a few feet. What the hell? “What are you doing?” His touch, so callous and out of the blue, has made me jittery, and bad memories start creeping up in my mind.

  “I don’t think I can wait to tap that again,” he says, and his arms go around me again. Before I can protest, he drags me over a few feet into the alley and pushes me up against the wall. His mouth presses down over mine.

  A deluge of bad memories sweeps over me as his tongue presses into my mouth. This aggressiveness isn’t like Daniel. He’s always let me take the lead before, and the difference in his touch is like night and day. I’ve craved more of his touch and wanted to explore . . . until now. Now, I want him to get off of me before I suffocate under the thoughts crowding my mind. Memories of men with guns and sweaty bodies, forcing my mouth open, pushing me down on a dirty mattress . . .

  I whimper and push vainly at Daniel’s chest, but he’s got me pressed against the wall of the building. I’m trapped against his body as he grabs my leg and pulls it to his hip, practically wrapping me around him even as I struggle.

  “We’re being watched,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Quit fighting.” And then he goes back to kissing me.

  My fists stop beating him on the chest as I realize this is all an act. My eyes open, and I look at Daniel’s hard face. His eyes are slits, and he’s watching a nearby doorway even as his mouth crushes against mine again.

  I’m not responding. I can’t. This is too much like the times in the brothel. There’s no delicate lead for me to take. I need to sit quietly and accept. I need to trust Daniel.

  But I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks—or the saliva from pooling in my mouth. I’m going to throw up if this continues for too much longer. Wait it out, I tell myself. It’s not like before. It’s not. But even as I tell myself this, I remember the gun pressed to my head and the awful feeling of futility as I dropped to my knees in front of the man who’d bought me.

  “Shit,” Daniel says against my mouth. “So fucking sorry, fighter. Just hang on for me.” He hitches my leg against his hip again and grinds his pelvis against mine. Even as he does, I feel something jostle, and I realize he’s pulled a gun free of its holster and holds it against my leg.

  When I think I can’t bear this any longer, he lifts his mouth from mine and scans the street, tilting his head. I swallow hard and wipe the back of my hand against my mouth surreptitiously, trying to scrub away the feelings.

  “I don’t see the gunman anymore, but I don’t want to take chances,” Daniel says. He gives me a quick, apologetic kiss on the forehead. “Come on. We’re going this way.” He drops my leg and gestures that I should head down the alley.

  Shivering, I do so, trotting a few steps ahead of him as he watches carefully behind us. My earlier buoyancy has been entirely deflated. I was feeling so good this morning, so normal. And now, poof, it’s gone again.

  I want to curl up and cry, my go-to after I’ve been violated, but we don’t have time for that. We’re in danger—I can tell from the tense set of Daniel’s shoulders and the way his mouth is in a firm, angry line—so I choke back the feelings and let Daniel lead me on.

  Eventually, he points ahead and leads me through an alley door. We’re back at the hotel, but the back entrance, where fresh laundry is delivered and food trucks bring in packages.

  We head through the back halls of the hotel, up the fire escape stairs, and eventually make it back to our room. The hallways are empty, but Daniel presses himself against the wall next to the door, carefully pushing me behind him. It’s clear from his raised-gun stance that he expects trouble in our room, so I wait for his signal, pulling out the gun I now carry with me at all times. It makes me feel a little better to hold it, knowing there’s an option if a man other than Daniel tries to shove me down against another dirty mattress in the future.

  I can always shoot someone, right? Or yourself, my brain reminds me, but that’s not an option. Then again, neither is whoring.

  “Wait here,” Daniel says in a low whisper. “I’m going in. Shoot anyone that comes out of this doorway. Even me. If it’s clear, I’ll call you ‘fighter baby’. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I choke out in a low voice, even as he heads through the door, gun at the ready.

  There’s an incredibly long moment of silence, and I scarcely breathe, waiting to hear something, anything.

  A moment later, Daniel says, “All clear, fighter baby. Come on in.”

  I release the breath I’ve been holding and enter the room. Immediately, it’s clear to me that the room’s been ransacked. My clothes have been torn apart and strewn across the room, and the bed has been overturned. Thank God Daniel took the bag of guns with us. He refused to let them out of his sight, and I see now he was right to do so.

  I swallow hard at the sight. “Good thing we went out for breakfast, huh?” I try not to think what would have happened if they’d have found me in bed with Daniel, rubbing up against him. Both of us could have been killed.

  “Looks like your friend hasn’t given up on you yet.” Daniel’s mouth is set into the hard, angry line I’m becoming all too familiar with. “Goddamn it. Least we have most our ammo still on us, but it looks like you’re going to be wearing that outfit for a while.”

  “At least there’s that,” I agree faintly.

  “You okay?” he asks me.

  My lower lip feels like it’s on the verge of trembling, but I nod. “I’m fine.” I’m not, but there’s no point in going into how fucked-up my head is at the moment, because it doesn’t matter.

  “Let’s go,” Daniel says. “Pack your things again, and we’ll head to a new hotel. Change of plans. We’re heading for the best hotel money can buy. Figure since they’re going to know where we are anyhow, we might as well hide in plain sight. They’re going to have to work a lot harder to try and steal your ass on Main Street.”

  “Okay,” I say in a small voice again.

  “You sure you don’t know why Freeze is so hot for you? You great with pony play or something?”

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Never mind. I’m being a jackass. This shit’s not making sense and I’m getting riled trying to figure it out.” He rakes a hand through his short hair and blows out a heavy breath. “Fuck. Let’s go.�
��

  I pack my things quickly, tuck my gun back into my belt, and try to remain calm while Daniel texts something into his burner. When I’m ready, I nod at him and we leave the room behind. As soon as we get back out into the streets, Daniel hails a cab and puts an arm around my shoulders, like we’re a couple. I don’t shrug him off even though I’m feeling so weird right now. I don’t want to be touched, not at the moment, but I don’t tell Daniel to take his hands off of me.

  We get in the cab. Daniel tells the driver an address in Portuguese and then puts his arm over my shoulders again. “Can’t believe we’re finally Mr. and Mrs. Parker,” he says in that drawling fake Texas accent I’m starting to learn is his “let’s pretend” voice.

  “That’s right, baby,” I say quickly and press a kiss to his cheek, even though my voice sounds a bit more wobbly than I’d like.

  I tune out as Daniel keeps up a steady stream of chatter with both me and the cab driver. He’s playing the role of a young newlywed tourist with great aplomb, occasionally giving me affectionate little touches that keep reminding me of the surprise kiss I reacted so badly to a short time ago. I do my part to keep up the pretense, but I’m sure it’s clear to both Daniel and the cabbie that I’m miles away mentally.

  We get to the hotel, check in, and head up to our room—all the while Daniel is yakking in my ear about sightseeing tours and the nude beaches of Brazil, hand at my waist. It rests close to my gun, a reminder that despite the smiling people and pristine appearance of this hotel, we’re no safer than we were before.

  The room is gorgeous, though. It has a king-size bed with fresh linens, a stack of fluffy towels waiting on the corner of the bed, and a lovely view of the city from the balcony. The bathroom’s bigger than my old apartment.

  As we enter the room, Daniel locks and chains the door behind us, moves a dresser in front of the door, and then pulls the curtains closed. Then, he turns to look at me.

  “So,” he says. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

  Daniel

  REGAN TURNS AWAY , HER FACE flushing with . . . embarrassment? Shame? I’m not sure. She doesn’t need to feel either. I’m damn confused. “Sorry,” she mumbles.