My grandma always used to tell me how lucky I was to have Daddy in my life, looking after me and making sure I didn't have to grow up like he did.
Once I got a little bit older, I started learning more about the world, and I started wondering whether Daddy was really so nice after all.
I learned about how people like him, in charge of big corporations, could hurt people without ever laying a finger on him. Which, I guess if you squint hard enough, you could still make it out to be something of a moral grey area. And so I kept on trying to ignore it.
But then I got a little bit older still. And I saw a little bit more. And I began to understand that the way my father hurt people wasn't so metaphorical after all.
It was the way people talked about him, I think, that made it start to click. I started recognizing the innuendos, the doublespeak people would start to use, whenever the subject of my father arose.
Like, just for an example, when I started dating in college, I would overhear the boys I would date being ribbed by their friends about me.
“Hey, McCallister! You better watch where you're putting that thing when you're out with Keisha on Saturday night. If you knock her up, old man Hillary might just have you knocked off!”
The more and more it kept happening, the harder and harder it became to turn a blind eye to it. But I did keep on trying.
It didn't help matters much, either, when Jay Sampson started showing up at my father's office, either.
God, that man... He looked like a cross between Rambo and the Terminator, and there was no doubt in my mind whenever he happened to show up when I was there exactly what he was being called in for. He terrified me. He terrified everybody.
His arms were covered in tattoos, and probably the rest of him as well. And there was something in his eyes that kind of did something to me. Like, I could never really figure it out.
There was always this coldness to him. This harshness. This need to keep people away. But beneath that, far below what I thought for certain was a murderous exterior, I saw something much gentler. Far more vulnerable.
As well equipped physically as he surely was for his unspoken but obvious line of work, there was just something about that eyes that tried to cry out to the world that they were not the eyes of a killer.
Of course, I could never look at them for very long.
I wasn't going to let myself fall into that trap. My life was screwed up enough without me going and developing a hopeless crush on one of my old man's contract killers. And anyway, I was never around Jay Sampson enough to actually know anything about him, he's just an example.
I think I'd only ever spoken a single sentence or two in his company, and I could probably count the number of times we'd bumped into one another on both hands.
I was always in my father's office asking him or a favor or something when he would show up. Asking him to borrow money, or something like that. And by borrow, of course, I just mean “have.”
And anyway, that all kind of circles back around to my original point.
I may have disapproved of my father, and his blatant wickedness, and all the harm he did to the world. But that didn't stop me from accepting his support, well into my adult years. If anything, I was enabling his horrible lifestyle. Making it seem necessary for him to keep on doing what he was doing, in order to provide for his family.
But what the hell could I do?
I felt utterly lost in the world, completely hopeless. Even if I thought there was anywhere I could possibly go where I could escape my father's shadow, even for a second, I would be totally incapable of taking care of myself. Daddy had never let me learn how.
My existential crises had overshadowed my life for so long now, I wasn't sure what else was left of me, and I was terrified of taking that leap out into the open, saying “screw it all” without any kind of safety net, and then finding out that I was way deeper into hot water than I'd meant to sign up for.
And anyway, it's not like my father, Marlon Hillary of all people, was just going to up and quit doing what he was doing just because I asked him to. If anything, he would make up some bullshit to placate me, to make it seem like things weren't as bad as they really were, and then just keep doing what he was doing in greater secrecy.
Why even bother with the drama?
And so I just kept doing what I was doing. Accepting money from my criminal father, and pretending that he was no such thing.
Trying and failing to establish relationships, or connections, or anything to pull me out of the rut I'd been sinking further and further into, ever since I was a teenager.
You know that webcomic with the dog wearing a hat, and he's in the house that's burning down, and he has the little speech bubble, “This is Fine”?
I know, I know. A real original metaphor for a millennial to be pulling out of her hat. But I felt like I had a right to compare myself to that dog, a lot more than most of the people who try to.
And so now, I wandered through the cold city streets, hugging myself for warmth, not paying much attention as the blocks spanned on and on, getting darker and shadier with every one I traversed.
I really should have been more careful. I cared more about my life, or what happened to me, I probably would have been. But my body and mind were both just so tired. And I was so far beyond caring anymore that I might have walked into a war zone, without even thinking twice about it.
For all intents and purposes, that's exactly what I did.
I'd just taken a step forward, in front of an alleyway so dark that the street itself just seemed to fall into inky black shadow at the point where it intersected with the sidewalk. I'd just started yawning, thinking I should turn back toward the restaurant and drive home, when out of nowhere a hand shot out from the darkness, cupping hard across my mouth, interfering with any attempt I might have made to scream.
All of the sudden, I found the notion that I'd given up on my willingness to live challenged in a way that I couldn't have imagined.
My muffled cries rang out, and I realized that it wasn't just a hand cupped over my mouth, but a rag- soaked with a strong chemical.
I started kicking, and clawing at my captor's arms, and reaching for the mace that I kept in my purse, knowing all the while that it was almost certainly in vain.
“Sh, sh, sh! It's okay! You're okay! I'm not going to hurt you! I promise you, I'm not going to hurt you!”
A voice that sounded familiar whispered these words of would-be condolence into my ears, but I didn't believe them for a New York second. Instead, I just kept struggling harder, trying to kick him in the balls, and bite his fingers through the rag, and do anything and everything I could think of to try and break myself free of him.
But the chemical's effects were setting in, soaking deep and fast into my system. I could feel myself fading, and the world getting light, weightless around me, as my field of vision grew darker and darker.
And then I was out.
In spite of my efforts, I felt everything fade away. I was left in a pitch black darkness, incapable even of wondering whether I would ever wake.
Jay
I watched her sleeping.
She was like the most delicate of angels, lying on the couch. Vulnerable. Unconscious.
I could hardly believe that a man as vile and as heartless Marlon Hillary could be even remotely connected to a being as perfect as Keisha. Much less that he'd fathered her.
Something strange was eating at me in the pit of my stomach. Something I tried my best to ignore, but to very little avail. Part of it was guilt, at having done this to her, and gotten her in the middle of all this.
Part of it was dread, imagining the limits Marlon would go to in order to get his only daughter back. And part of it was that familiar voice, which had started the moment I'd left Marlon's office, and never let up ever since:
This is the dumbest fucking idea you've ever had in your life!
Still, high off the thrill of what I'd done, I noticed as
Keisha began to stir. I stepped back, suddenly on edge. I held my breath and watched as she looked around, still bleary, still trying to get a handle on her surroundings.
Then it all seemed to come flooding back to her.
She turned her head toward me, and screamed, scrambling to climb back away from me, despite being pressed back as far against the wall as she could possibly go.
“Hey! Hey! You're okay Keisha, you're okay! I'm not going to hurt you!”
“You keep saying that!” she shot back, and I realized she was right. My words probably weren't much consolation to her.
I held up my hands in the air, to show her I really meant her no harm, and I stayed where I was, thinking it was best to give her some space.
She looked around more, studying the empty, windowless walls of the room, then finally turning her head back to the place where I stood.
“Where am I? What the fuck is going on? What the fuck do you want from me?!”
“Easy... Easy,” I said, pushing my hands forward in what I hoped was a placating motion. “One thing at a time. First things first. You know who I am, don't you?”
She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears, and finally managed to shake her head, very, very slowly.
“I'm Jay,” I said anyway. “Jay Sampson. I um... I work for your father.”
“I know,” she said, and it was kind of a blink and you'll miss it sort of thing, but I thought I saw some of the tenderness in her eyes that was sometimes there whenever she would look at me in Marlon's office. But then it was gone again, and I tried not to dwell too much on it.
“Okay. Good. I'm very, very sorry for this. All of this. Believe me, I am. But he's the reason you're here. Do you know what I do for your father, Keisha?”
She looked at me for a long time, like she couldn't believe I was asking her to come right out and say it.
“I'm guessing you're not from the accounting department,” she said dryly, and I smiled, even though I really probably shouldn't have.
I could be wrong, but I thought I could see her almost starting to smile too. She didn't, though.
“No,” I said. “No, I'm not.”
“You're a hitman,” she said, and then shivered. Like it was the first time in her life she'd ever confronted her father's criminality aloud.
The way she looked when she said it was like a punch to the gut, like she thought I was disgusting. Like I was a monster.
I felt my face getting red at the word. Like she'd just seen me naked. Knew me for what I really what I was underneath.
I would have enjoyed it a hell of a lot more if she had seen me naked, instead...
“I was a hitman,” I corrected her. “But as of yesterday, I'm retired from that particular line of work.”
“Oh, that's good to know,” she said. “So what you're into kidnapping now?”
She pouted, her tiny brown nose twitching with displeasure as her face twisted into a scowl that I'm sure was intended to be intimidating.
I shook my head.
“No. Keisha, the night before last, I- I killed someone. Someone your father asked me to kill. A very bad man. And a very high priority on your father's- list.”
“Oh, congratulations,” she said dryly. “Very bad you say? Worse than my father?”
She was starting to seem less afraid she was about to die, and developing a bit of an attitude about her situation. Not that I blamed her for that one bit.
Actually, I kind of liked it...
“Eh. About neck and neck,” I said. “I've never been proud of what I do for a living, Keisha. What I did. But it's the only thing I've ever known. I did my best to make sure that I only killed the right people for the right reasons. That the only people who got hurt were the ones who deserved it. Killers. Criminals. The worst of the worst...”
“Other killers, you mean?” she asked and it stung worse than I would have imagined it to.
I think she saw it in my eyes and, surprisingly, her expression softened. She looked apologetic, like somehow she was actually the one in the wrong here, and not me. She looked down at the floor.
“Sorry,” she said.
I almost laughed. “Don't be. You're right. But that's exactly why I decided to walk out on that life. That last job was supposed to be the one to give me my freedom. It was going to earn me enough money that I would never have to worry about money again. That I would never have to end another life or make another human being suffer just to get by. I know that I can't unend a life."
I fell silent, searching for the right words and feeling like I owed her an explanation. She was too good to get caught up in this. She was just... convenient.
I continued, "I can live with what I'd done, but I can't live with the thought of keeping on doing what I was doing. That's what I told Marlon. I'm finished.”
“And that's why I'm here?” Keisha asked, piecing it together before I'd even finished speaking. I nodded at her.
“That's why you're here. Your father wasn't going to let me go without a fight. He refused to give me what he owed me for that last job. He tried to force me to keep working for him. I had to do something.”
“You needed a bargaining chip,” said Keisha, her eyes glinting with a coldness that gave her fathers' a run for their money.
I suddenly felt very guilty, barely able to hold her gaze.
“I'm sorry,” I said again, like all the apologizing I was capable of really changed anything. “But yes. I did. I need that money, and to get out of this life once and for all, and you were the only way I could think of I could get through to your father. He took something that was mine, and I needed to show him that he'd fucked with the wrong man. So I took something that was his.”
“My father doesn't own me!” Keisha snapped, the implication making her angrier than even the fact of my kidnapping seemed to do.
“No. You're right. I know,” I said, a tone of apology to my voice. “But you matter to him. More than most people. And if I was ever going to see that money, short of killing his entire hit list of enemies and rivals until he was satisfied, I had to have something that he cared about. You're in a safe house. A place your father doesn't know about, that I bought in case of an emergency.”
“My father knows,” she said, fixing me with another cold stare. “My father knows everything about everyone he hires. If it's yours, he knows about it.”
I smiled at her, feeling like this was a challenge somehow.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said. “But he doesn't know about this place. I bought it off the record. Paid cash. No paper trail. Not even the seller knows my name. I'm the only one in the world who has any clue as to where we are right now. Your father knows I have you, though. I gave him ten days to agree to pay me what he owes me if he wants to see you back. I'm not sure what he thinks I'll do to you after that."
I raked my hands through my hair, the long wheat colored strands falling down to my shoulders.
"I'm not going to do anything awful. Consider this... a vacation. You're safe here."
“You're not,” she replied when I finally finished, and the way she looked at me sent a chill along my spine.
It was coldness, and pity, and a look that seemed to say, “you have no idea how stupid you are,” all rolled into one.
“You're making the biggest mistake of your life...”
Her tone wasn't threatening. Or bitter. It was a warning. A warning I was far too familiar with her father not to heed.
Mr. Too Big: BWWM Hitman Romance Novella Page 4