I stop with my white-gloved hand on the door and my back to Bogdan. "Then I will have lived for something important in my life."
"Bring me your mercy then," Bogdan pleads. "You know I cannot take the poison. You know this."
Bogdan is Catholic. He crosses himself before each kill, rape, assault. He believes that if he takes the poison, he’ll go to hell. Not because of any of the deeds he committed, but because he believes taking his own life means that his last deed will be a sin. I rub the inscription on my chest. I can hear the whimpering pleas behind me. Mercy, then.
I turn and shoot.
When I arrive at the airport, I am met with the news that my return flight is delayed. I bargain with the ticket counter, offering more money and nearly losing my temper in an effort to get a quicker flight back. My phone has remained annoyingly silent. I do not know if Daisy has gone to the café without me. Whether she has decided she will not talk to me again.
Daisy is not a girl to wait on. If she has gone to the café, there will be dozens of wolves circling her, scenting her distress, and wanting to pounce on her. My nostrils flare, and the ticket agent’s hand moves to hover over a distress button.
"Sorry," I say to alleviate her concern. Doorak, idiot. I give her my best crestfallen look, the one I saw on Daisy’s face when she thought I spent too much money on her at the mall. She does not realize yet I will keep buying her things to give her the life she deserves. Already, I have ordered her a leather jacket she admired and passed by at the store. I had it delivered to my apartment for when I get home. I will give it to her after I ruin the one tissue-thin coat she owns.
This is the right gesture because the agent smiles at me and removes her hand from the panic button.
"There’s a flight that leaves in forty minutes, but you may not be able to make the gate."
I will make the gate. "Sounds great," I hand her my ticket, and she keys in the change.
I make the gate and arrive in Minneapolis without further delay, but I’ve still missed our date and had no response from Daisy. While I know she is not at the café, I run there anyway. Perhaps she likes the place so much she returns, I hope stupidly. But of course she is not there.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I kick the brick wall of the restaurant, but it does not alleviate my frustration. Two girls walk by and stare at me in horror. I want to bare my teeth at them and give them something real to be afraid of. Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead against the brick wall. The crisp night air should be refreshing, but all I can think about is how my sweet Daisy would have been here alone, waiting for me. She could’ve been cold and needed my arms. Had she felt unwanted? I release a low moan of despair. I wonder if I’ve already allowed her to slip away.
I decide to text her again.
Daisy, I am here at the café. I know it is two days late but my business trip was unavoidable. Forgive me. Please.
I lean against the brick wall and will the phone to respond. I wonder at her cellphone. It’s cheap and must be hard to send messages. This is good in that it prevents her from texting other males, but bad in that it makes it challenging for her to communicate easily with me.
The next time I see her, I will break her phone, accidentally of course, and then she will allow me to buy her a new one. Cheered by my new plan, I decide to go to the cellular phone carrier located three blocks away and buy the phone right now. That there will be a GPS locator in the phone is only so that I can keep track of her safety—or so I tell myself.
My phone dings, and I raise the screen immediately. It is her. My breath quickens.
Why didn’t u txt or call?
Good question. "I was busy shooting two Russian criminals” was not the right answer.
I did text three days ago before I left. Did you not get it?
I do not get an immediate response. Was it possible that she did not receive my message? I take a screenshot of the message I sent as proof. I think it must be her phone. Perhaps I do not have to break it. I will explain to her that her phone is already not working right and that I should replace it. Perhaps the gift will make her forgive me more quickly. Instantly, I feel much better. Good job, Nikolai, I think. This is smart.
As you can see I send message. One thousand apologies for being so disrespectful of your time. Please allow me to make it up to you.
Inside the store, I pick out the latest smartphone.
"With a new contract, sir?"
"No, without." I will have it activated after I gift her the phone.
The purchase is completed before I receive another response from her.
Oh. I didnt get ur msg. Felt stupid. Didn’t know how long 2 wait.
Ah gods, I made her feel alone and uncertain. I should knife myself in punishment.
I beg of you to flush this incident from your memory. Give me one more chance. I promise I will not fail you this time, lapochka.
lapo-what?
I tell you when I see you.
I wait for her response but none comes.
I go back to my apartment and wait. The night grows long, and there is no response. Perhaps Daisy is right to have rejected my attempts at reparation. Why should she want to be with filth like me? The past forty-eight hours weigh upon me. I have killed two men while she struggles to feed herself. I kill men for money, and if she knew the truth, she would spit in my face. I knew from the moment she caught my eye as I was watching Mr. Brown that she was an angel. But thoughts of Daisy make me ache. My cock is stiff and my balls are drawn up tight against my body.
Suddenly, I remember that I have something of Daisy’s. The jeans I wore during the laundry confrontation lie folded in the corner. In the back pocket, I pull out the pale pink cotton that once touched Daisy’s ass, her pussy lips, and the soft thatch of hair between her legs. I lift the cotton to my nose, but it smells only of detergent; the soap had washed away what I knew must be a delicious scent.
Still…I unzip my jeans and pull out my cock. It is hard to imagine Daisy in this place, this desolate space I call my living quarters. Closing my eyes, I fantasize that my hands are Daisy’s hands and that I’ve just removed these panties from her body. The crotch of the panties are still soaking wet because of the double layer of fabric, and I use the moisture to wet my cock.
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.
Chapter Five
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.
Last Hit (Hitman) Page 8
