Last Hit (Hitman)

by Jessica Clare

  I do not have a book or magazine, so I pull out my phone and pretend to be checking the Internet. I'm holding my own breath because this will be the closest I have ever been to her. My hands shake with anticipation. I clench my phone harder to keep her from seeing how she affects me. I do not want to frighten her, so I say, "Allo," as soon as she turns the corner.

  This is still unexpected and she jumps, placing her delicate hand to her chest. She has no idea that the action draws emphasis to her beautiful breasts. I want to see those breasts exposed to my gaze. I want to touch them with my hands. I want to rub my face between their valley, thumb her nipples, and lick every round inch of those swells. My cock hardens at the thought. I'm grateful that I am leaning over so she can't see the evidence of my arousal. Perhaps it is better that I've never been this close. I'd come at the first touch of her hand on my bare flesh.

  "I-I didn't see you there," she stammers sweetly. Her voice is clear and melodic. I'm completely entranced.

  "Nyet, it is my fault. I apologize for startling you." Is it uncouth to remain seated? With fuckhead behind me, I feel like I cannot stand up. Him and my aching cock.

  "That's okay." She smiles at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. "I've just moved in, so I don't know everyone in the building. I'm Daisy Miller."

  Daisy. I roll her name over my tongue. It fits her, like her smooth soft hands and her clear complexion. The women in the Ukraine, some of them would wash their faces in goat’s milk to keep a perfect countenance. I wonder if this is what she does. Her skin is creamy but golden as if she lives outdoors instead of within the stained brick walls of this dirty rundown apartment complex. Her eyelashes are thick and rest like lace curtains against the curve of her cheek.

  "Daisy Miller," I repeat. "Like Henry James?" The Daisy Miller of Henry James’s story is light and intangible, all beauty and no substance. It does not match this woman.

  She frowns at me, clearly not following my conversation attempt. "Beg pardon?"

  "Is nothing."

  She holds out her hand and offers it to me. I want to get up and touch it but I cannot. Instead, I slide the chair slightly forward and lean toward her, offering my own hand in greeting. She looks at me uncertainly like I'm some dolboeb who won't cross the distance to her. I should've beaten that man unconscious so I wouldn't have to be worried about him. I rise up slowly to see if there is any reaction, and I hear a slight movement. Gripping the chair as I stand up, I swiftly lift and then bring down the leg of the chair on some body part of the thief. It might be his calf. I hear a choked sound.

  "Do you hear something?" Daisy looks around, and I take the opportunity to shove the chair back. The sound is cut off. The thief has received my message.

  "I do not. Nick Anders." I say, walking toward her. My given name is Nikolai Andrushko, but I tell that to no one. I pull her tiny hand in mine and lift it to my mouth. It smells of lemon and detergent. I brush my mouth lightly over it, amazed I do not fall onto her and ravage her like an animal. Rather than tempt myself further, I let her hand drop to her side. She is blushing now, and her other hand is covering her mouth. I rub a thumb across one flushed cheek. "Daisy. It is a lovely name."

  "Thank you."

  I hear more sounds in the corner. "This place sounds like there are animals in the walls. I think unsafe, perhaps, for someone like you?"

  "Like me?" She frowns. She does not like this. I grapple for a better response.

  "For anyone. For women, especially alone. Come," I draw her toward her washing machine. "Let's finish this."

  "Um, you don't have to wait for me. I'm just going to drop this all in the dryer and then come back when it is done."

  "Da, I will watch," I offer. I want to wait with her, but I have a loose end I must take care of.

  She looks uncertainly at me again, and I offer her a benign smile. It is enough, because she quickly transfers her items from one machine to another, although it is apparent she is separating out her tender under-things to take somewhere else. She pauses and then looks back at me, still flushed. Is she embarrassed? She shouldn't be. She should know that her delicate items only make her more desirable. I frown, wondering if the jackal behind me can see. I spread my legs and cross my arms, hoping to make a bigger barrier so he cannot see. I do not want anyone to see her private things. I wonder if she should wash them again.

  Her unease is evident, and I know I should leave her. Not just because of the wary glances that she flicks toward me but because everything about her is in direct conflict to my entire existence. I can scarcely breathe standing this close to her, watching her in the flesh.

  Her thin but capable arms are moving swiftly to lift and carry her clothing. Her hands are delicate with elegant fingers, perfectly shaped for her body. I imagine those fingers stretched around my shaft. There are freckles on her cheeks and forehead. Standing so close, there are details here that I could not have captured from my scope, my night vision goggles, my paltry imagination. Daisy is a riot of colors with her chestnut-colored hair and her blue eyes. Her pale skin is lovely even in this dimly lit basement. It is a good thing, I decide, that I’ve yet to see Daisy fully exposed in the sun. I may die.

  Ah, but that would be a happy death.

  Chapter Three

  DAISY

  HE’S NOT LEAVING.

  My stomach is all nervous flutters. I should be concentrating on the machines, but all I can think about is the tall, gorgeous man standing down here in the laundry room with me.

  He kissed my hand. He touched my cheek. It’s like something out of a romance novel. I want to giggle like a schoolgirl, but I suspect he would think I’m silly. So I bite my lip and haul my basket of clothing to the dryer. My fingers tremble as I push quarters into the slot. Regan complains that the landlords charge us for the washer and dryer, but I like clean clothing, so I view it as a necessary evil.

  I notice things about him. I notice that he’s wearing nice clothes, or at least, nicer than mine. I notice that he’s got tattoos on his fingers, and that when they touched mine, they were callused. The tattoos are a bit unnerving, but I have seen a lot of tattoos on people on the streets. Perhaps he simply appreciates the artistry of them.

  I pick up a pair of wet jeans and shame hits me. They’re old and baggy, and there’s a bleach stain on one cuff. There’s nothing in my basket that could impress a man like him. I sneak a glance over at him, just in case he’s not watching me.

  He is, though.

  I flush and glance away again, hastily shoving my old, worn second-hand clothing into the dryer. Now I’m just being an idiot. Be bold, Daisy! I tell myself. He kissed your hand!

  "So your name is Nick?" Duh, Daisy. He just told you that. Could you come up with a stupider question?

  "Da."

  "It’s a lovely name. Is it Russian? You sound...foreign." Oh dear. Now I sound really foolish. Regan would laugh at my Pollyanna ways.

  "I am from Ukraine."

  I glance over at him again, and he’s watching me still, his flicking gaze cataloging my movements. It’s not an unfriendly gaze, even though he’s not smiling. It’s intense, though. All gray eyes and piercing stare. Like he wants to know all my secrets. I smile at him again. "I like your accent," I say shyly. "It’s not one I’ve heard often." Ever. Maybe on the internet in a video once. It sounds like he is caressing his syllables with his tongue, but I don’t say this. I’m not quite that bold yet.

  "You are too kind. I know other languages but I am never able to shed my roots," he says, and that accent makes my pulse flutter all over again.

  I wish he would talk more. He seems on edge. Is it because I’m trying to flirt with him, and I’m pathetic at it? “Which floor are you on?"

  He swiftly answers. "Second."

  I light up. "Me too. We’re neighbors." I finish tossing my laundry into the dryer, and then there’s nothing else to do. Should I continue talking to him? I’m suddenly out of answers. I clutch my laundry basket, feeling h
elpless. He hasn’t moved from his wide-legged stance over in the shadowy corner of the laundry room. "I…guess if we’re on the same floor, I’ll see you around?"

  He inclines his head at me. "Da, I will see you." He looks down as if he’s embarrassed by something, and then he adds, "I should like that."

  "Me too. It was nice to meet you, Nick." I feel my cheeks heat. "I’m in 224, if you ever need to borrow detergent or anything. Just let me know."

  Again, he inclines his head.

  I feel a little silly for offering up so much information, but I can’t help myself. "Well, bye now." I turn to the door, feeling as if I’ve just flubbed my first chance at flirting with a man.

  His gaze moves to the flip phone I have shoved in my pocket. "Give me your phone," he says and puts a hand out. "I will give you my number. You call me if you need anything."

  My cheeks pinken, and I pull out my small flip phone. It is a disposable, the cheapest model. Regan’s made laughing comments about me getting a smart phone so I can use the GPS and not get lost in the “big city," but that’s more money each month than I want to spend on something so frivolous. Not when I don’t have a job yet. But I hand it to him and try not to feel ashamed of how pathetic it is.

  He says nothing, simply examines it, and then flips it open and begins to type with one thumb. I watch his tattooed fingers fly and wonder at the markings on each knuckle. It seems impolite to ask what they mean. After a moment, he snaps my phone shut and hands it back. "You call me, da? If you need things. I will call you if I need…detergent."

  I nod mutely, give him what I hope is a friendly smile (and not a terrified one) and escape.

  It seems I have two friends now. Regan and my Ukrainian neighbor who is so incredibly handsome that I could stare at him all day. I clutch my laundry basket to my hip and leave, feeling his eyes on my back. Once I am safely back in my apartment, I pull my phone out, flipping it open and paging through my tiny list of numbers to see what he has put there. A personal message? Something flirty?

  Nick.

  Just Nick.

  I won’t have the courage to call him, of course, but I’ll think about it day and night. And when I touch myself tonight? It will be Nick’s face I’ll imagine. Tomorrow, I will borrow Regan’s laptop and research all I can about the Ukraine. I want to learn about him.

  There’s something about Nick that draws me to him, that makes me stare at his phone number in wonder. I have met a few other men this week, some for longer than the short conversation I just had. But no one has tried to kiss my hand or given me their phone number.

  It’s a personal connection, and I don’t have many of those. A personal connection with a tall, mysterious, handsome man? It is the stuff of my wildest dreams.

  It’s more than that, though. There’s something about Nick, and I lay down on my bed, considering. After a moment, I realize what it is. He has intensity. There is something so vibrant, so aware, so alive about him that it sings to me. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Is it because my father has always been a shadow of himself and because he did his best to break me? Nick, I think, would never be broken.

  I like that about him.

  NIKOLAI

  DAISY. SHE REMINDS ME OF the paintings by an American painter from a city not so far away. The pictures are full of rolling hills and symmetrically planted wheat. Those images look pure, wholesome, and peaceful. Even her name evokes the same images. Whereas I am like the dark tormenter envisioned by Dante and made grotesque by Hieronymous Bosch.

  At fifteen, I was ordered to terminate an art curator who had a predilection for American art and American boys. It was a satisfying job, as I learned much about art from watching the curator. The order to put him down had nothing to do with his pedophilia and everything to do with money. Always about the money.

  It was the last hit I made under Aleksandr’s watch. I still didn’t know why he had released me, if it was the way I carried out the hit that made him decide I was too much of a liability or just that I was getting too old to control. It was rather messy. But after watching the curator for two weeks, I couldn’t merely put a bullet in his head. I rub the inscription on my chest again. Death is mercy. And those boys he’d kept had deserved their own revenge. Still the memory of it reminds me of how similar I am to this broken, run-down building with its bricks falling out and its interior filled with trash.

  "Can I—can I stand now?"

  I turn toward the thief. "Get up." I command.

  He struggles to his feet; he is maimed. His fortitude is impressive. He hasn’t pissed himself, and he was quiet for the most part. I decide to let him go with just a warning.

  "What is your apartment number?" I ask.

  "122," he says. He looks small despite his size. Now that I’ve had a moment to collect myself and look at him, I am surprised to see that he is about my height, but he has no strength.

  "I suggest you look for a new place to live. I do not care what you do with other women’s clothing, but you are not to be near her. You are not to touch her or breathe the same air." I’m still looking at the dryer. My lip curls at the thought of the animal’s hands on her clothes. I cannot allow them to touch her body. I spy a bottle of bleach, old and probably forgotten. It will ruin her clothes, but I can buy her new ones. Ones that haven’t been worn before; ones made of material as pure and precious as she.

  "B-b-but you didn’t even know her before you came down here!” the thief whines at me.

  I whirl around and pin him back against the machines with one hand to his throat. My earlier feelings of leniency have fled. I squeeze tightly. "I’ve ended lives over a lesser slight. Move and live. Don’t move. Die. Simple." I am puzzled by this man’s lack of comprehension. The deprivation of oxygen is perhaps affecting his thinking, and I ease my grip. "This is not such a hard choice, right? There are so many other dumps you can live in."

  "But my security deposit," he coughs out.

  Money, always money. Still holding him around the throat, I dip into my pocket and pull out two one-hundred dollar bills from my wallet.

  "Enough?" I wave them at him. His eyes widen, and he nods vigorously. He reaches for the money, but I hold it away from him. "Uh uh. Tell me what you will do."

  "I’ll move out."

  "When?"

  "Today."

  "When?"

  "Now," he gasps.

  I nod and let him go. He grabs the money and runs. I will check later to see if 122 is empty. If not, I will make it so.

  Now I need to fix Daisy’s clothing problem. One that she isn’t aware she has.

  I have no change, so I bypass the coin slots with two thin sticks of plastic from my lock kit. Angling them into the slots, I make the machine believe it is being fed two coins. I’m not stealing, really. I have no clothes to wash. But if Daisy returns to find me here, waiting, I will need a cover story.

  I set the machine to a long wash and sit down to wait for her return. Daisy’s dryer dings to signal its completion. My body tenses at the thought of her return. I have had little interaction with a girl like Daisy. Most of the women I’ve known, I’ve paid for. For the money I give to them, they treat me however I want, which is mostly to service me and then go away. I do not care what the whores think of me—but with Daisy…with Daisy, I care.

  She stops short when she sees me. Obvious surprise is evident on her fine features. I offer her a small smile, my facial muscles protesting at the unfamiliar use.

  "Hi again," she says tentatively.

  "Your dryer, it is done," I reply. Her expression is no longer surprise but wariness. Neither emotion is one I want to invoke, although what I want from her is not fully known, even to me. Desire, yes. Want, yes. Tender emotions, yes…or no. I am beset with uncertainty and in unfamiliar territory, so I respond with stoicism, which in turn makes her even more cautious. I can see it.

  It is devolving so quickly. Nikolai, do something, I command myself.

  I swiftly walk over to her. Ta
king her hand, I gently guide Daisy to her machine. "I’m sorry, have I frightened you? I just wait for my own things." I gesture toward the machine I manipulated earlier.

  "No, I was just surprised to see anyone here." She stands in front of the machine and makes no effort to withdraw her clothes. A light pink stain upon her cheeks gives me a clue. She is embarrassed. I have no idea why, but I turn away and then to go sit in my chair. Her unease is distressing me, and I do not know what to do to make it go away other than to leave her. My throat feels tight. Maybe if I visit a whore again I will pay her to teach me to flirt.

  My own cheeks feel hot, and I pretend to read my emails while Daisy empties the contents of her machine into a plastic basket with broken webbing. A cry of dismay has me ricocheting out of my chair, but there is no threat to her. Daisy is staring at her belongings, one item in each hand and the stains from bleach I placed in her dryer are obvious. Guilt strikes me hard, harder than I’d imagined.

  "What is it?" I ask, pretending I don’t know that I have likely ruined her only clothes. She bows her head, and I wonder if she will cry. Please, kotehok, please do not cry.

  In the end no tears fall, but her fatalism, her resigned acceptance of this loss makes me feel even worse, as if I have physically squeezed a little of her happiness from her.

  Abruptly I stand again, and the chair rattles backward into the machine.

  "Kotehok, what is wrong?" My hand hovers over her bowed shoulders. I want to touch her but feel too guilty.

  She sighs and then turns to me with a slight shake of her head. "Just my luck, I guess. I must have put the clothes in a machine that had bleach in it." She holds up a pair of jeans that look too big for her, with ragged cuffs. There is a large discoloration on the back. The shirt she holds in the other hand has the same problem. "The jeans I might get away with, but this shirt?"

  "It was me," I declare. I fist the shirt in my hands and tug it from her. "You must allow me to fix this for you."