Last Hit (Hitman)

by Jessica Clare

  "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.

  I reach under her chin with my fist and tilt her eyes up to meet mine. "It is for you. Only for you. You can keep it to ride with me or you can throw it away."

  An odd light flickers through her eyes, and I can’t catch it. I don’t know how to read her yet. I’ll learn though. The light is fading fast, and I don’t want to be out with Daisy on my bike when it is too late—when the dangerous drivers are out. Alone, I can avoid these people, but with my precious cargo, I would be worried.

  I pull her helmet over her head, carefully brush aside her hair, and affix the strap beneath her chin. I repeat the gesture for myself and climb on. This time, Daisy needs no instruction on how to hold me; her arms wrap around me immediately, and she presses her cheek against the middle of my back. Her thin, strong arms are wrapped around my waist. In this position, I would like to drive for hours just to feel her body against mine.

  DAISY

  EVERYTHING I’VE BEEN TAUGHT SAYS that I’m being a reckless fool.

  I met Nick two hours ago in the laundry room. I let him dazzle me. I let him kiss my hand and hug me, and now I’m on the back of his motorcycle. The after-school specials that my father let me watch would say I’m being stupid. That nice young women don’t run off with strange men on motorcycles.

  But…I don’t care.

  I am tired of being cautious and being sheltered. I want to be wild and reckless, and I want to spend a bit more time with this man. If that leads me down a bad path, I’m going there with eyes wide open.

  I don’t know how one holds properly to a man on a motorcycle; this is my first motorcycle ride. I cling to him, pressing my body against his. My breasts rub against his back and bounce when we hit a bump, and I gasp at the sensation. Am I holding him too close? Do I care? I will just feign ignorance if he asks. I like the feel of his big body pressing against my thighs and my stomach far too much to stop.

  It feels wicked. I’ve never, ever been wicked before, and I never realized until now that I wanted to be.

  And I never realized how big malls were.

  He drives the motorcycle into a large parking lot that has more levels than my apartment complex, and I see a massive building ahead of us. It looks like the mall. My goodness. I had no idea it would be so…enormous. I feel a flutter of excitement in spite of myself. I have never been to a mall, much less been to this one, but I’ve seen it advertised on television. My father wouldn’t let me go, no matter how much I begged. Too open and unsafe, he would tell me.

  I feel a flare of anger at my father. How much of my life has he robbed from me? For a moment, I’m viciously glad that I have abandoned him…and then guilt sweeps in and carries any anger away.

  Nick parks his bike in one of the front parking spaces and pulls his helmet off, shaking out his hair. He’s gorgeous. I watch him under my helmet. I could drink in his profile forever. He is handsome, his features fine-boned but still masculine, h
is eyes pale and intense. He puts the helmet down and indicates that I should get off the bike.

  I comply, swinging my leg over the bike and feeling clumsy as I do. The jeans I’m wearing are baggy and old, and they slide a little when I stand up. I hitch them surreptitiously as he puts up a kickstand and gets off the bike himself.

  Before I can lift my hands, he’s removing the helmet he bought just for me. For some reason, it doesn’t feel like control as much as it feels like…tenderness. He’s achingly sweet, this Nick, despite his hard, intense exterior. I think that is why I trust him.

  When he pulls it off, he smiles at me, as if pleased to see my face. "We are at mall."

  "So we are," I say breathlessly. “Thank you for driving me."

  He tilts his head, as if trying to determine what I mean. "I will shop with you. Is only fair."

  His accent seems to get thicker from time to time, as if he forgets to control it. I feel a little flustered at the thought of him shopping with me. The clothes that were ruined were panties and bras, two shirts, and a pair of jeans. "You don’t have to. It’s not necessary."

  "Da. Is necessary." And he crooks his arm for me, like a gentleman, to escort me into the mall.

  All my protests fade at the sight of that elegant, polite elbow. I slide my hand in and move a bit closer to him, letting him lead me inside.

  Once we pass through the glass doors into the mall, I gasp. This place is a wonderland.

  "Is that a roller coaster?" I squeak. The mall is at least four stories tall and it is so big that the sounds echo. Even if I squint, I can’t see to the far end of the building. It’s like it goes on forever. Big, potted plants line the median of the enormous walkway, and there are colorful banners hanging high overhead that broadcast sales and specialty stores. There are lit signs and elegant window displays and people everywhere.

  It’s overwhelming and incredible all at once. "Oh, wow." I look over at Nick to see if he’s impressed, too, but he’s watching me. Color hits my cheeks, and I glance away, looking around again. I don’t even know where to start, and all the stores look so expensive. “Do you know which store is cheapest?"

  He’s silent, and when I look over, he’s frowning at me. "Why cheapest, Daisy?"

  I blush at the way he says my name, like his tongue has to caress the syllables before they leave his mouth. “Well, we are only spending seventy dollars. I want to get as much as I can for my money."

  And then I flush even brighter, because it’s not my money, it’s his. And all he owes me are some panties and a pair of pants. It feels wrong to try and fleece him out of extra clothing simply because I need it.

  "Daisy," he says quietly. "Do not worry about money. Buy clothes you need. I will pay, da? Do not look at prices."

  This makes me frown. I don’t want to argue with Nick. I want to kiss him. But I’m not bold enough for that, so I figure that I will simply pick out inexpensive clothes and that this will complete our shopping trip. "All right."

  I see a large store that advertises shirts for five dollars and head in that direction, but Nick takes my hand and tugs me down the wide-tiled hallways. I’m sure I’m going to have a sore neck from whipping my head back and forth as I stare in amazement at all the stores. There is a store for everything from magnets to hats. Finally, Nick stops at a store with big, gold letters at the top and black marble trim. Inside, there are several tall, severe people dressed all in black who seem too beautiful to be Minnesotans. No one who lives on a farm looks like these folks. The windows are full of posing mannequins in silks and leathers and skimpy bras and underwear. I suck in a breath as Nick heads in, his hand clasped over mine to keep me at his side.

  I don’t know where to start looking. Then, I spy a sale sign at the back of the store and untangle my hands from Nick, heading there.

  The items on sale are all way too large or out of season. Or ugly. I pick through them anyhow, flipping tags on anything that might seem like it could fit with a little bit of hand-sewing.

  Nick waits patiently nearby, and when I glance over, he’s scanning the room, eyes ever-watchful. I wonder for a moment what he’s looking for.

  I can’t find anything I like. The items are so expensive, even on clearance. Fifty dollars for a bra? It’s insane. But I know Nick won’t let me leave here without at least buying something. So I grab one plain bra that is twenty dollars and clutch it under my arm to hide it. For some reason, it feels weird for Nick to see my undergarments. "Let’s just get this one."

  He looks at me for a long moment, glancing at the bra I’m trying to hide with my crossed arms. He reaches toward me and grasps the tag. Examines it. Then he looks at me.

  "Do you pick out the lowest price item, Daisy?"

  His English needs work, but I know what he means. I shrug, feeling silly.

  Nick holds his hand out for it. Oh. My face flushes bright red, and I hand it to him, trying not to be too embarrassed—or titillated—at the thought of Nick’s hands touching my bra.

  He heads to the counter, and I linger a few steps behind. His voice is low and smooth as he speaks to one of the black-clad sales clerks, and he hands her the bra. A moment later, she comes from behind the counter, a measuring tape in her hands.

  "Sweetie," she says as she approaches me. "I was talking to your boyfriend, and he is concerned that the bra you picked out won’t fit. Let’s get you measured, okay?"

  I cast a startled look at Nick, but he watches me with a cool gaze, as if daring me to protest. The woman puts a hand to the small of my back and leads me to the dressing rooms, and she measures my breasts while my cheeks flame red with embarrassment. She gives me a size—34C—and we leave the dressing room.

  "You were right," the saleswoman sings out to Nick. "That one is much too big. We’ll find her something more suitable."

  He merely nods, ignoring my protesting glances as the woman heads to one particular part of the store.

  "Now," she says. "These are similar to what you had, but I think we can find something in your size." She pulls out a plain, smooth bra in a nude color. It is boring. It is like what I picked out, but I flip over the tag. It is no cheaper than the fancier items.

  And for some reason, I put my foot down. I have worn boring, plain clothing all my life. My father insisted on approving everything I wore, and as a result, I have never had anything pretty or bold in my life. So I think for a moment and shake my head at the nude bra the woman holds out to me. I head instead to a nearby rack and look at the bras there.

  They are lacy, frilly things. One is a silky pink and white gingham with a lacy design along the cups. It’s incredibly beautiful, and I touch it longingly.

  And then I look to Nick, as if seeking approval.

  He nods, and I could swear he looks pleased.

  "I think I want this one."

  "That’s a great choice," the saleswoman enthuses. "But you’ll need the matching panties."

  "Da," Nick says from afar before I can comment. "She needs several sets. Bras and panties. Shirts. Shoes. Dresses."

  I shoot him a glance, but he has his phone out and is scrolling through something. He’s not watching.

  "Don’t worry about him, honey." The saleswoman pats my arm. "He told me you are to get everything you want."

  Everything? I want all the pretty things in the store. I finger a pair of lacy, pink garter belts that match the bra and panties I’ve selected. "I’m not sure it’s appropriate for him to be buying me this stuff."

  "Are you kidding?" the saleswoman asks with a laugh. "Guys come in here and do this for their girlfriends all the time."

  I’m not Nick’s girlfriend, and I’m still not entirely sure it’s right, but I’m weakening at the sight of all the pretty things around me. As if sensing my hesitation, the woman puts the garter belts in the pile.

  And I don’t tell her no.

  I move to the next rack. It has a yellow, floral pattern. It’s sweet and pretty, and it makes me happy to see it. When I pause over it, t
he woman adds the bra and matching panties to my stack. I wonder if Nick told her to be aggressive.

  By the time I say “enough," her arms are full of colorful, beautiful undergarments in a rainbow of colors and soft, pleasing fabrics. There is nothing plain or ordinary—or even serviceable-looking—in the stack. They are all soft, sultry things.

  And even though I shouldn’t let a man buy them for me, I’m giddy at the thought of owning them.

  The saleswoman is having fun dressing me. She takes me to some of the racks at the front of the store after we’ve picked out piles of lingerie, and she adds sweaters and skirts and a few blouses to my overflowing arms. When I protest, she looks over at Nick, who nods approval, and she then takes me to the jeans counter, where we go through the same routine. Protest, look to Nick, pile onto my arms.

  When we head to the counter, I hesitate. "It’s too much."

  "Nyet, it is not," Nick says. "You deserve beautiful things." And his hand touches my back and rubs my shoulder blades.

  I like that touch. I want more, but I don’t ask for more. I glance around as the saleswoman rings us up. There is a couple nearby, and they’re holding hands as the woman browses through a rack. I look at their clasped hands with a bit of envy. Would Nick hold my hand like that if I asked him to?

  The total the woman calls out startles me. It is more money than I brought with me during my escape. "No," I protest, but Nick simply pulls out his wallet, and I watch as those tattooed fingers unfold several hundred-dollar bills. I spy more of them tucked into the billfold.

  I’m shocked. He’s not poor.

  I don’t know why I feel so momentarily betrayed by this information, but I am. I feel like Nick has lied to me. Our building is old, run down. Why is he living there if he casually carries around so much money? I want to ask him, but it seems rude.

  Instead of feeling scandalous that I let this exciting, strange man buy me panties, I feel…like a charity case. It’s no longer fun and a daring whim. Now I’m just sad.

  Does he do this for everyone? Find women in need and purchase them things? He might. He has a hard exterior, but I sense a kind, lonely heart underneath. I thought he and I had our poverty in common.