Male, 20s to 30s, GSW to forehead. East Lake Street and 16th Ave.
We have a 10-32.
Single shot?
Confirmed. Looks like a pro.
“What it is?” The light hand on my shoulder startles me.
I turn and place a kiss on it. “Execution in South Minneapolis. The 10-32 is a ten code for an assault with a gun. Single gunshot wound to the victim’s head.” Worry and fear for her plagues me. I turn and bring her into the circle of my arms. “This is the third single gunshot wound to the head in the last three weeks. Perhaps you should stay home.”
My suggestion is met with a frown. “This is a city. Shootings happen all the time when it comes to gangs. It’s drugs, you know.” Her eyes darken in pain and sadness. Her mother was killed by a drug addict. That death set off a chain of unfortunate events. Her father went mad, retreating to his house and locking Daisy in with him. She was a prisoner and is now free. I must remember that. In my desire to protect her, I cannot imprison her or I am no better than her worst fear. Forcing myself to loosen my grip, I give her a pained smile.
“Da, this is true. Go to your class. I will meet you after and we will go eat together.”
My effort to honor her independence is rewarded with a passionate kiss full of tongue. She leaves with her baked goods, her backpack, and all the sunshine. After five minutes, I exit as well. I carry my gun, my sketchpad, and textbook.
It is not known to me whether she understands I must follow her and see her safely to her classroom. I suspect she knows and tolerates me. As long as I do not inhibit her freedom, my lurking about is endured.
When she disappears inside her building, I race toward my classroom. Inside the life drawing class, the model has already disrobed, and most of the class has begun. The professor frowns at me but says nothing.
I prop my sketchbook onto the easel and begin the outline of the model’s forehead, nose, and mouth. I start with the face always. Others do the body, but I prefer to draw only the face.
Bodies do not interest me. It is the expression in the eyes or the lines around the mouth. Does the model smile readily, or is the face in repose one of relaxation or meditation? Some models fall asleep, others look bored. Still others are angry that they are here. Those are my favorite.
I draw their eyebrows in dark slashes, and their frowns are exaggerated by deep pencil marks at the corner. There is more truth in the angry face than there is in the bored one.
This model is a bored one. His face is interesting, though. There’s a scar that bisects his cheek. By the jagged path, it appears a serrated knife sliced him open and he healed poorly. But his face is otherwise symmetrical, if a little thick in the cheek. Though he is reclining, I can tell he has poor posture by the downward slope of his shoulders.
I become lost in executing the scar perfectly. There is nothing else of interest to me, so I draw that again and again, carefully shading and revising to get the exact three-dimensional texture of the shiny, puckered skin. Around me the other artists are drawing his body, many of them taking pains to detail his groin in exaggerated fashion.
We work silently for many minutes, maybe a half hour, when we are all jolted by the intercom system coming to life. There’s a commotion at the front of the room as the professor throws a sheet over the model and then turns to us.
Nervously he clears his throat. “We are on lockdown. There is a situation on campus, over by the student union, and we are locking students inside the building until the situation is resolved.”
Daisy.
A lockdown means physical danger to the student body. Panic ensues. The sound of screeching metal mixed with shouts of shock and fear and annoyance mix together. Students are throwing their supplies in their bags and rushing out of class. I follow, marking every red exit sign. The front door is locked as we’d been informed. Excited chatter fills the air. Retreating backward, I find the hallway I’d noted previously.
Following the red exit arrows, I speed down the empty hallway. The soles of my feet echo loudly against the tile. I encounter a few students but none stop me. At the end of the hallway, the red arrow directs me to the left. I’m sprinting now. The metal door at the end signals that it is an emergency exit only. I blow through the door and the alarm sounds immediately.
Leaving the loud barking emergency alarm behind me, I sprint toward Daisy’s building. Every foot I cover is too many that separates us. Around me the sidewalks are clear of people. I see a few security guards inside buildings. One or two of them may call to me but I ignore them. In less than three minutes, I’m at Daisy’s building. The doors are locked and guarded by two security officers and beyond them I see a crowd of agitated students but no Daisy.
I pound on the doors. “Let me in!” I yell. One of their dumb lumbering heads turns. He looks at me and then whispers to his friend. The urge to pull out my handgun and shoot them both is overwhelming. Instead, though, I kick the frame, careful not to break the glass. They need to pay attention.
I kick once. Then twice. Finally the man opens the door, “Hey fucker, stop kicking—”
Immediately I dart inside, pushing him out of my way. “Daisy,” I yell. People are standing in my way and I push at them, weaving in and out looking for Daisy. I duck down a hallway and into a classroom but she is nowhere to be seen. Students run out of my way, cowering before me.
I must look menacing, but I’ve kept my head enough not to take my gun out.
In the back of my head I know I’m making a spectacle but I can’t stop. Every heartbeat, every ounce of blood in my veins is driving me toward her. I can’t lose her. Where is she? Where is she?
I burst into another room when I hear her. “Nick, is that you?”
Her beloved face pokes out of the last stall and I nearly fall on my knees in relief. “Daisy, Daisy,” I mutter sweeping her into my arms. “What’s going on?” she demands but I’m too busy kissing her all over her face, reassuring myself that she is unharmed. “Nick,” she repeats and I finally release her.
It’s only then that I notice the mouse Christine is behind her in the stall.
“You are not using the facilities?” I ask dumbly, finally realizing we are in the women’s bathroom.
“No, you’ve always said to go into the bathroom should there be an emergency, so I figured this place would be the safest in the building.” She smiles proudly.
“Ah kotehok, yes. I am so proud of you. Come now, we will move to safer place.” Grabbing her wrist, I move out but she tugs me backward. “What is it?”
She tips her head and behind her, the girl steps out. I can’t stop my frown. I’m here to protect Daisy and no one else. Under my fierce glare, Christine wilts.
“She’s my friend,” Daisy pleads. Having a friend is important to Daisy in ways I do not understand but . . . I can deny her nothing. With a sharp jerk of my head, I motion for them both to follow.
Out in the hall, it has mostly emptied. The students are milling in the front, near the windows. If there is a shooter, many of them would be injured, not just from a bullet coming through the glass but from the shrapnel that would result on impact between the bullet and any object between it. The security guards stand there acting like sentinels, keeping people in. “We go to the roof,” I tell them. “Highest point in this building is to our advantage.”
Daisy follows me without question as we race up the stairs. The roof access is not blocked. The doors lock from the outside, rather than in, and the university’s fire code would not allow for them to be locked when the front doors are secured.
On the roof we find a small crowd of people huddled near a structure. Some are smoking. There is one man stupidly leaning over the short barrier. This is a five-story building. A gust of wind, a brush of someone’s body next to his, and he’d fall to his death.
Leading the two girls to a corner, I make them sit with their backs to the short wall. I crouch and peek over the side. The sidewalks are eerily empty. The stillness reminds me of
the Christmas poem Daisy read to me . . . nothing is stirring, not even a mouse.
“Did you hear the reason?” Daisy asks. She has her arm around Christine, who is huddled into her. Christine’s coat is not designed for cold weather. Daisy should buy her a new one. I’ll mention it.
“I assume a shooter, perhaps a bomb threat, but I see no dogs.” The emptiness of the streets and the lockdown points toward a shooter. I scan the rooftops. The highest point on the campus would be the bell tower on the administration building. That’s where any smart shooter would be. I calculate the distance. There are maybe five hundred feet and two buildings between us. A large expanse of lawn with little cover between the last building and the bell tower presents a problem.
“Don’t do it,” Daisy warns.
“Do not do what?”
She swats my arm. “I see you plotting. I want you to stay here and keep me warm and safe.”
“I can keep you safe by locating the danger.” Is there movement at the bell tower? I stare, blocking out the structures and looking for any abnormality. My scope would be helpful here. I shift on the balls of my feet, ready to spring for the door.
“Nick!” Her voice is sharp, commanding, and so unlike her regular soft tones. “You need to stay here.” Her voice gentles. “Please. This isn’t our problem. It’s the school’s. Let them take care of it.”
Her soft hand rests upon my arm, nearly weightless, but I cannot move for her touch is as effective as a shackle. I sigh and then settle next to her, giving her comfort as she extends it to her friend. At least we are together. That is all that matters. We sit there in the cold wind and blowing snow until the bell tower rings signaling the all clear.
Chapter 9
Daisy
I’m really worried about Nick.
As we return to class, his gloved hand clutches mine, his grip tight and unrelenting. I don’t mind it—I know Nick is possessive. I actually like it. And I understand his quirks, his need to walk me to and from class, his need to carry a gun, the knives under the mattress he thinks I don’t know about. Nick has idiosyncrasies that I ignore, because I love him. But there are some things I cannot ignore.
There’s a wild look in his eyes right now. A tension in his shoulders. His free hand keeps flicking around his pocket, and I know he’s ready to draw his gun at any moment.
And that is a very bad thing, especially with the campus locked down because of a threat.
Thing is, even though Nick and I have a fairly new relationship, I spent years in hiding with my father. I have learned to recognize a man teetering on the edge of control, and I see that edge when I look at my Nick. He’s always so controlled, so capable of handling almost any situation that it alarms me.
So as Nick turns down the path toward my class, I squeeze his hand. “I . . . I don’t think I want to go to class today, Nick. I want to skip. Will you take me home?”
The dark-eyed look he gives me is full of relief, and I know I’ve chosen the right thing. At home, Nick can protect me. At home, Nick can devour me with hands and eyes to his heart’s content, until he feels settled again. And home is where we need to be. So I feign a little more fear than I actually have and give him my most helpless look. “You don’t mind, do you, Nick?”
“Nyet,” he breathes, and pulls me close for a quick kiss. “Anything for you, kotehok.”
I give Christine an apologetic look even as Nick pulls me away. “Will you be okay?”
She nods, and starts to say something, but Nick’s dragging me away so fast that I don’t catch it. All I can do is wave as we head to the student parking lot and get into our bland sedan, and Nick drives like a bat out of hell for our apartment.
I watch him, my brain in a state of calm. Whenever my father got agitated, I would distract him by changing his focus. My father’s panic was driven by the outside world. Whenever he would get too manic, too edgy, I’d do something small to set him off. Maybe I’d drop a plate at dinner. Maybe I’d burn the soup. Maybe I’d wear a bit of eye shadow. My father would lose his mind with anger and erupt, and it was always bad for a day or so, but then he’d decompress and he’d be better once his focus had changed from the outside world to me.
I can do the same for Nick.
When we get to the apartment building, Nick practically slams into our parking space. Then, we get out of the car and he’s dragging me by the hand up to our apartment. Once we’re there, he locks the door and immediately heads to the spare bedroom, the only room that overlooks the street. With his finger, he nudges the blinds open just a crack and surveys the road below.
This is a side of Nick I don’t often see—the hit man. Not that he’s not a hit man every day of his life, but I don’t see the paranoia, the watchfulness, the predatory gleam in his eyes. His gun is out now, in one hand as the other continues to hold the blinds, his gaze scanning the streets. Always scanning.
Wanting to be ready to protect me.
I shrug off my coat and hang it on the hook by the door, then remove my gloves and shoes. I know what I need to do to get him back to the right state of mind. With my father, it was a necessary evil to do something to anger him and make him snap.
With Nick, there is no evil. There’s no anger, and there’s certainly no duty involved. “Kolya,” I call. “Come away from the window.”
The diminutive of his name gets his attention. “If someone has followed us home,” he begins.
“They have not,” I tell him. I unzip my corduroy jeans and drop them to the carpet. “Come. I’m sweaty and want a shower. Come with me?”
His gaze is on my legs, and I have his attention now. I continue stripping off my clothing and wander toward the bathroom, as if this were a normal day and Nick is not close to freaking out on me. The key is that I have to be normal, and it won’t seem odd to Nick that his shy Daisy is going to maul him midday. I’m definitely planning a mauling.
By the time I start the shower, Nick has followed me. The gun is placed on the bathroom counter, and I’m fully nude at this point. I turn to Nick and begin to loosen his clothing, unbuttoning his jacket and removing his scarf. It’s always like unwrapping a present when I get to undress Nick, and I’m never tired of his beautiful, incredible body. By the time I get down to skin, Nick’s concentration is on me and he’s erect under his boxers.
I smile at him and tug the waistband of his boxers down. Then, in the steamy bathroom, I kneel on the rug before Nick and take him in my mouth. His hard length caresses my tongue a moment before his fingers fist in my dark hair.
“Do you distract me, my Daisy?” he murmurs.
I only give him a sultry smile and lick the head of his cock in answer.
His eyes flare with lust as I gaze up at him. “Da, I think you do,” he breathes. “I should ask why I warrant such a distraction, but I find I cannot think when you put your glorious mouth on me.”
“No distraction,” I say sweetly. “I just want your mind here with me, like the rest of you is.” My hand curls around the base of his cock and I give him a quick stroke.
“Lick your palm,” he tells me in a hoarse voice. “Make it wet from your mouth. Then stroke me again.”
I feel a little silly slobbering on my hand, but the intensity in Nick’s gaze takes away any shyness I feel. I get my palm good and wet, then wrap it around his cock again, and tug once more. The aching groan that escapes him fascinates me. Did I think it was silly? Not any longer. Now I want to slide my mouth all over him, wet him down, and jerk him with my fist so he will make that sound again. I drag lips and tongue over his sensitive skin, trying to keep him wet so I can continue to pump him with my tight hand, but it’s a losing battle.
“Take me in your mouth,” he says, smoothing my hair away from my face so he can watch.
“Give me more instructions,” I tell him, breathless. “Tell me exactly what you want. I want to please you.”
“Oh, Daisy, you always please me,” he groans, but he directs my lips toward the head of his cock.
“Your every touch, your every caress, it is an utter delight. When your mouth leaves my skin, I am devastated at its loss. There is no heaven beyond your lips.”
Such pretty words. I am reminded that my Nick is an assassin with an artistic soul. I give him a lick and then purse my lips around him.
“Use your tongue,” he instructs me.
And because pleasing him makes me wet with arousal, I do. I caress him with the tip of my tongue and then take him fully in my mouth. I rub my tongue along the underside of his cock. I feel the shiver that ripples through his body, and it encourages me to be more inventive. I suck hard, pulling him deep into my throat and then flexing as if trying to swallow. I cough and gag on his thick length, but his swift intake of breath is worth the effort, so I try again.
His hand fists in my hair again, and then he’s tugging me off of his cock. He turns and lifts me up onto the counter. “I must be inside you. Are you wet?”
“So wet,” I breathe, spreading my legs wider so he can see for himself. Touching him turns me on so very much.
My Nick is tall enough that with me seated on the edge of the counter, his cock is near even with my sex. He takes himself in hand and rubs the head of his cock through my folds, slicking it. “Look at that,” he tells me. “Look at the way your pussy clings to my cock, hungry for more.”
I lean back, my hands braced on the sink, and watch the head of his cock push through my wet folds, back and forth, the crown appearing between them as he rubs against my clit. It’s an obscene view, but somehow incredibly arousing, and I moan my need for him.
“You are so beautiful, my Daisy.”
“You are so dramatic, my Nick,” I tell him. “Just make love to me, won’t you?” He grins, and my heart stutters at how insanely beautiful he is. Like a dark god. Now I’m the one being dramatic. “Oh, I love you,” I blurt out. “I love you so much.”
His gaze grows intense, and one hard arm latches around my waist. As he pulls me against him, he seats me on him in one hard thrust, and then I’m not sitting on the counter as much as I’m sitting on his cock. He’s so hard and he fills me so well. Nick’s face tenses as he begins to pump into me, his strokes hard, vicious, and so damn good.
Last Hit: Reloaded Page 7
