WIFE FOR A PRICE: A Hitman Fake Marriage Romance

by Thomas, Kathryn

  But she just smiles, a small, shy smile, and says, “Okay, then we’ll check it out sometime. But I have to get back to work now.”

  She turns and leaves me in the parking lot, clicking on her heels back toward The Lady Shack. I watch her go, feeling like I’ve got whiplash from her moods, anger and then a smile… I watch the entrance until the asshole I throttled leaves. I think about following him and doing some damage, something I would’ve done before, but I don’t have the taste for it. I’m just glad he isn’t in there anymore, bothering her.

  I get behind the wheel of the jeep and make my way back toward my apartment, stewing over Dean. Just up and leaving her, just flying the coop and leaving the only family he has left to deal with the massive shit he left in his wake. I don’t have kids so I guess I can’t judge, but I like to think I’d be more loyal than that. This is the first time in my life I’ve truly cared about something like this: about hurting a woman’s feelings. There’s something special about Daisy, something different, something that makes it so the idea that she might be in pain causes me some pain, too. It’s too confusing for me to understand. I’ve never been the best when it comes to knowing what’s going on inside myself. But I think I might be falling for this girl, falling for her more than the whole fake-wife thing accounts for. Fucking Dean, leaving her like that!

  And even if it wasn’t a huge fuck you to Daisy, it’s going to cause me some problems down the line. Not right away, since I bought myself some time with Mac, but sooner or later he’s going to start wondering where that money is.

  I grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, Daisy’s words echoing in my head: Just as dumb as you look, just as dumb as you look .

  Maybe I shouldn’t let them get to me, but the more they echo, the angrier I get. Not at her, because I’m sure she said them just to piss me off in the moment, but angry that she might be right. That maybe it is a bit of a fucking joke that a man like me thinks he can live any other life. It is a bit of a fucking joke that a man like me thinks he can do better. Maybe this whole thing is a fucking joke—the home out of town, a job where my knuckles don’t get bloodied, a life where I don’t cause pain—just a massive joke of a massive man thinking he can do better.

  I’m almost at my apartment when my cell starts to ring. I think it’s going to be Daisy so I answer it without checking. When I hear Mac’s voice, I veer to the side of the road and bring the car to a stop outside a gas station.

  “Boss,” I say.

  “Hound,” Mac replies, his voice unreadable. “Come by the bar. I have a job for you.”

  “Alright.”

  The bar is in the opposite direction, so I turn the car around, thinking to myself: So much for the peace of my apartment.

  I say hello to Nora, ignore the smell of piss coming from the toilets, and try not to let my anger get out of control when Ripper tries to put his hand on my elbow to lead me to the office. “Want your nose broken twice?” I say, not angry, just telling him how it’s going to be if he puts his hand on me. He quickly snatches his hand away, knowing better. He leads me into Mac’s office, where his brother stands in the corner, gripping those knuckle-dusters.

  Mac is counting cash, but he deigns to find the time to swipe a hand at the empty seat opposite him, letting me know I can sit down. I drop heavily into the seat and wait for him to talk, which takes about ten minutes of him just leisurely counting the cash. I know why he does this: to prove he’s in charge. I remember that I respect this man, and yet as I sit here, tracing the lines of that faded tattoo on his forehead, I struggle to remember why. He’s not out of the life, not really, not if he’s pulling shit like this. Finally, he says, “Did you know I was the champion in my block? The bare-knuckle boxing champion. Time passes, but I still think I could go a few rounds.” He smiles, one of the few times I’ve seen him smile. It doesn’t look natural on his face. “But that’s beside the point. Sometimes we have to let our minds wander, don’t we?” He sighs. “I remember when you came to me, Hound, after your father died. Do you remember what I said to you?”

  I shift in the seat. I remember it all right. “You looked me in the eye and told me I didn’t need my father because I had you.” And I believed you, you sick bastard. I let you make me into a weapon. Hell, I let Dad make me into a weapon.

  He smiles again. “So I know you’ll find Dean Dunham, wherever he is. I know you have contacts you don’t tell me about, which is as it should be. The owner of the abattoir scarcely gets down there with the pigs, does he?” He laughs, which is about as odd as him smiling. “Yes, you’ll find him, but that’s not why you’re here tonight. I need you to teach a few guys a lesson. They’ve forgotten who I am. Just a regular beat-and-remind job. Nothing too taxing. Make sure to tell them Mac says hello. Hitter, give him the address.”

  Five minutes later, I’m behind the wheel of my jeep heading toward the other side of town. Yes, you’ll find him . Loosely translated, you better find him . But at least he’s given me some time, at least he isn’t pressing me to get it done right now. Which means he still has some trust in me. I’m angry with myself as I drive through the city, angry at the pathetic pride I feel at him trusting me. Some asshole cash-counting big man, and he makes me proud. What a fucking joke.

  I get to the apartment and pull my usual trick of talking my way into the building, and then, since this doesn’t have to be done quietly, I crash through the door, kicking it clean off its hinges, and charge into the room. There are around five men, two of them with guns. I don’t really see or feel or smell or taste or anything at all, not really. I just let my body do what it knows best, go into Violence Mode. I pick up the TV and launch it at one of the men with a gun, smashing into his face and causing him to fall like a rock to the floor. Already I’m on the second guy, snapping his wrist like a twig and smashing him in the nose with the barrel of his own gun. One of the guys jumps on my back. I flip him over, slamming him across my knee, and then grab the heads of the remaining two and knock them together so that they both reel, dazed. By now a couple are back on their feet, but they’re easy enough to put down with a few jabs, one right hook, and then it’s just a matter of mopping up, making sure they all stay down. When that’s done and the place is trashed and there’s blood everywhere and I’m breathing heavily and shaking with rage even though really, back here watching it all, I feel nothing…when everything’s in place, I stand over them all and say, “Don’t fuck with Mac again, or I’ll have to come back.”

  Just as dumb as you look . I look at my bloody knuckles as I drive, sinking back into my body, Violence Mode over now. As dumb as you look . By the time I’m in my apartment, a one-room place with books everywhere and a noticeboard with the word Learning Objectives at the top, my laptop open at the table where I’ve been doing work for my online course, I feel like an imposter. I just beat the hell out of five men, five men whose worst crimes were probably playing some blackjack at one of Mac’s clubs and not having enough cash. And now they might be seriously injured. Now they have to explain to their wives and mothers what happened to them. Now they might not ever be able to work again. And here I stand, amidst books and noticeboards and laptops, a fucking joke .

  I tear the books apart, ripping the spines in half and tossing them across the room, pages fluttering everywhere, and then I crack the noticeboard in half over my knee just like I slammed one of those guys over my knee, and finally I snap the laptop in half and toss it at the wall, where it explodes in a shower of glass and plastic and keys.

  Sliding down the wall, body aching from the violence, pages crumpled at my feet, I try and tell myself that it all wasn’t a waste of time, that a man like me can change. But that’s a little hard to believe with blood drying on my hands.

  Chapter Eleven

  Daisy

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” Jack Michaels claps his hands together, looking like someone from the 1920’s in his flashy suit, wiggling his nose hairs as his face crumples up in a delighted smile.
“As you can see, we’ve cleared the place out for the auditions. We always do that.” As he speaks, he leads me into The Red Room . Last time, it was so jam-packed I could hardly get a look at it. Empty, it’s nothing more than a series of red lanterns and red couches, all set around a stage with a red-metal pole thrusting up from the floor to the ceiling. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you decided to take me up on the offer. What made you change your mind? You didn’t seem too, let me say, eager the last time we spoke about it.”

  “I’ve just been giving it some thought,” I say neutrally.

  “Well, giving it some thought and coming to a decision like this can’t be faltered, that’s what I say!”

  Jack leads me to a changing room with the word Auditions on the door, a printed sign fastened with a pin which looks grimy and not at all as glamorous as Jack is trying to make this seem. Why am I doing this? I ask myself as we walk through the hallways toward the changing room. And yet even as I ask the question, I know the answer. It isn’t complicated. I need the money.

  It’s been a week or so since the meeting with Hound in the parking lot, and since then I haven’t heard a word of Dad. Hound’s called me to arrange another house viewing, which we’re going to soon, but that doesn’t fix the Dad problem. I need cash: cash to hire a private investigator to look for Dad, cash to pay off his debts if anybody comes calling, and since he still has months left on his tenancy agreement, cash to pay his rent and bills. And if that means I have to get naked in front of men I don’t know, then I guess that’s the price I pay. And maybe if I can make some quick cash I can buy my way out of this thing with Hound anyway, and then all the confusing feelings will go away. Life will go back to normal, whatever normal means for me.

  For a second, as Jack talks on and on, I think of Other Daisy, living her life in a mystical world wearing a suit and making intellectual decisions. Other Daisy would never consider being a stripper. Other Daisy is too busy using her mind to make her way in the world. But even if I like to think I’m not at all stupid—even if I’ve read a few books and can hold my own in conversation—society doesn’t care if I haven’t got a piece of paper to prove it. So Other Daisy can stay in her mystical realm and I’ll stay here, where the only way of me paying my way is my tits and ass.

  “And this is it!” Jack says, gesturing at the grimy sign. I notice that the paint on the door is chipped. From behind the door, the chatter of women sounds. “These are all new girls, too, so you’ll fit right in.” He leans close to me. His breath smells like old-people candy, the kind I remember an elderly relative eating in a different life, before Mom died and before Dad went off the rails with the gambling. Sitting at an old man’s feet and wondering what that off smell was. “Mind you,” he says, and I can’t stop looking at his receding hairline, “I don’t think I can say of them what I can say of you, Daisy: that you’re a dead cert and their cert ainly not!” He laughs at his own joke and then leaves me at the door.

  I sigh, think briefly again of Other Daisy, think briefly of Hound (part of me wishing he was here, part of me confused about where we stand), and then open the door. All kinds of women are huddled around the ceiling-high mirrors, adjusting their bras and panties, turning here and there, dabbing their faces with makeup. Most of them don’t talk to each other, but a few girls have come together and huddle close. I walk by the girls to a free space at the mirror, dropping my bag and starting to get undressed. Once you’ve been in enough changing rooms, getting undressed isn’t a big deal, even in front of what must be twenty or so girls. I’m in my bra and panties, touching up my makeup, when Sarah drops into the seat next to me. At first I think I must be seeing things, but then I catch a glimpse of her face, her features locked in place from the plastic surgery, and I know it’s her.

  I turn away, but it’s too late.

  “Daisy Dumpster!” she cries, giggling and sidling over to me, her chair screeching on the floor. “What a coincidence this is! What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing as you, I imagine.” I carry on with my makeup, telling myself that since she’s here as well, she can’t exactly start making fun of me.

  “I’m here because if God gave it to you, you should use it, you know? Look at these.” She doesn’t seem to see the irony when she massages her fake breasts, saying, “Yeah, God did me good.”

  Even though we’re not at the Shack, I’m wary of saying anything to Sarah that might cause offence. I know she’s not above carrying tales to Steve, tales and a shaking ass and a promise of a steamy night if he does what she wants, which might well be having me fired. So I just stay silent and dab at my face, though my makeup is done now; I’m layered in the stuff, my real face hidden far beneath the shield of foundation and blusher and mascara and eye-shadow. It feels thick, a protective seal over my skin. I think that will make the dancing easier.

  I feel my heartbeat speeding up as I sit here surrounded by the girls, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to work out who I am. I was never going to be the sort of girl who went to audition at a strip club. I was never going to be the sort of girl who took off her clothes for random men to look at, all for some cash. I was going to have principals. I was going to use my mind. I remember Mom, when I was a little kid, lifting me above her head and laughing when I said I thought I was flying. “You are flying,” she told me. “And you’ll always fly. You can do anything you want to, Daisy. Anything in the whole world.” Mom worked as an insurance agent in an office, but I never knew that at the time. At the time, all I knew was she’d leave the house in the morning in sleek black tights and shiny black heels and a buttoned-up white shirt, glasses perched on her nose. All I know is, I was jealous even then.

  An older woman walks into the room holding a clipboard. “Can we get Candy Spice, please?” A round of giggles sounds at that name; even for a stripper’s fake name, it’s silly. But I don’t laugh because all I can think is that I’m an idiot for not choosing a fake name.

  “I’m Dawn Spring,” Sarah says, pouting and applying thick red lipstick to her over-inflated lips. “Isn’t it clever? It makes you think of something, just, like, well, just sexy , right? What are you? Dumpster Dumpling?” She throws her head back and laughs raucously, ending it with a harsh coughing giggle. When she sees that I don’t laugh, she shakes her head. “You’re no fun. I’m only messing with you and you sit there like I’m some sort of monster. I mean, can’t you just take a joke, for once?”

  “What if I told you that your lips were—” I cut myself short. I can already see by watching her face that she isn’t going to take it as a joke. I can already see a plan formulating in her mind, a plan which involves snitching to Steve. “Never mind,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She nods matter-of-factly. “Well, that’s probably for the best. There are jokes, and then there’s just being mean.”

  I push my breasts up in the bra, arranging them, wondering if I’m even going to be able to dance. I request the new Taylor Swift song, which is fast-paced and sassy, hoping I can just bounce around enough so that nobody will notice that I haven’t danced properly in years, since I was a teenager, really. All these girls around me have probably spent countless wild nights at clubs, with all their girlfriends, dancing until their heels snapped or they stumbled drunkenly home or into the arms of a stranger, all while I was earning money so that Dad could go out and have the fun. I tell myself to stop being self-pitying, but by the time Alexis Crystal is called, the other girls returning to get changed, my foot is tapping against the leg of my chair frantically.

  “My mom was a stripper,” Sarah says, after a few minutes of blessed quiet (or as quiet as a chattering changing room can be). She waits for me to respond, but I don’t, so she just goes on anyway, “Yeah, she used to dance at a place called Nudes, just Nudes, and sometimes I would go and sit in the back and watch her and watch all the men staring at her. I was—maybe five, maybe four, maybe six. I’m not really sure. Isn’t that just hilarious?”


  “Hilarious,” I agree.

  “I didn’t know that people thought it was naughty until I got older. I didn’t know that people looked down on you, I mean, but I knew better. Mommy taught me right.” She pauses, and then adds, “She had C-cups, I think. Real.”

  “Okay.”

  “Miley Hot.”

  “That one isn’t very inventive,” I mutter, still annoyed at myself. When they call my name, it will be Daisy Dunham, and I know that all the girls in the room will know it’s my real name because it doesn’t sound ridiculous.

  One by one, the girls are called, ridiculous name after ridiculous name. I watch the door they return through, looking at the girls’ faced. Some of them have subtle smiles, some of them looked dazed and confused as though they only learnt onstage that they were supposed to take their clothes off. One girl, a beautiful Asian woman with dyed pink hair, sprints into the room crying, collects her things, and then runs back out again. I overhear her friend say: “She said she didn’t like the way they were looking at her ass.”

  Sarah scoffs. “That’s rich.”

  I have to agree. It’s like a lumberjack not liking the way a tree falls.