Last Hit (Hitman)

by Jessica Clare

  And he quiets.

  My eyes are wide and I stare at the phone with a mixture of terror and longing. Longing, because going back home to my father means a return to the familiar. It will make him happy to have me back under his thumb again. All will be right in his world.

  All of this terrifies me because it is the last thing I want. "I'm sorry, Father," I say and hang up the phone.

  I stare down at it, panting. I am so anxious and unhappy at hearing my father's misery that I feel as if I've taken it all into myself. How selfish of me to run away. My father isn't well. I know this, but I can't help myself. I have to get away. I have to.

  "Well, that was…depressing," Regan says, and she tips her cup back to finish her drink.

  I put mine down. "I think I need to throw up." It's more than the too-strong schnapps. It's my father's unhappiness and my own sense of failing at being my own person. I'm too boring to play fun games with Regan. My job sucks. I've been sheltered from everything, and I don't know how to fit in. And the worst of it all? A gorgeous, sexy man asked me on a date, and I somehow ruined it.

  I make it to the toilet before I puke my guts up. At least the world is kind to me in that aspect.

  I'M MOPING AT WORK THE next day.

  It's not a hangover. I didn't drink enough to make myself ill, not like Regan, who hung out in a dark room all day and complained about her head.

  I am sick at heart. I'm an awful person. I've abandoned my father, knowing his fears, to selfishly chase after my own life. And where has it gotten me? I am not making enough money to go to college. I am sitting alone in a gas station at ten o'clock at night, handing out cigarettes to customers.

  This doesn't seem like the life I'd dreamed of when I lay in bed every night, praying that I could escape my father. I wanted a life and freedom, and now I feel more trapped by my guilt than ever. I have spent all night crying, and my eyes are red and puffy and aching.

  My choices weigh me down as the night drags on. I can't concentrate on Regan's borrowed textbook, my normal reading. I'm too focused on the what ifs.

  What if I am doing the wrong thing?

  What if my father is alone and something happens to him?

  What if Nick never calls me again? He's been silent since our date two nights ago.

  I am an awful person, because it is the last item that obsesses me most. I check my silly disposable cellphone at least once an hour, hoping for a missed text, but there is nothing.

  It's foolish of me to obsess over one date and one kiss, but I can't help it. I want more. Maybe I'm the only one. Maybe Nick didn't like the way I kissed and picked a fight simply to end the date.

  The door to the gas station opens, the chime alerting me. I look up from another fruitless check of my phone to see Nick walk in, dressed in dark clothing, a somber expression on his face. It's as if my thoughts have conjured him.

  I don't know what to say. I stare at him mutely as he comes to the counter as if he wants to purchase something, but I know he doesn't. Nick doesn't seem to ever need anything, even me. He's always prepared, always independent. I wish for a moment that he was as shaken at the sight of me as I am of him.

  I wish I'd worn makeup. I wish I wasn't wearing this stupid work polo, and that I'd done something special with my hair. It lays flat on my shoulders, unattractive. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Can I…can I help you?"

  "You know I come to see you, Daisy." His accent is thick today, his voice soft. His hands flatten on the counter, those tattoos catching my eye. They're inches away from where mine rest, but he makes no move to touch me.

  I wish he would. If he touches me, then I know everything is okay. That he wants me.

  "It's nice to see you," I say after a moment. I try to smile brightly at him. I'm not sure how to act after a failed date. I can't be mad at him. I want him to want me too badly. "How are you?"

  He studies my face for a long moment. "Something is wrong. You are sad."

  I try to shake my head to deny it, but I feel my face crumple even as I do. A loud sniff escapes me. "It's nothing."

  The chill in his icy eyes intensifies, and his hand brushes mine on the counter. "Who has hurt you? Say their name. I will handle it. They will never bother you again."

  For some reason, I find this declaration incredibly sweet. It only makes my eyes stream tears even harder. I swipe them away. "It's n-nothing." My voice has such a childish warble in it. I can't believe I'm crying in front of him. I'm a wreck, though. It's my father, and my guilt, and the fact that I know he's here to dump me.

  "It is not nothing," he says thickly. Through the stream of my tears, I notice his hand lifts from mine. A second later, he is coming behind the counter, and he envelops me in a warm, delicious hug, pulling my body against him, my face brushing against his coat.

  I am lost.

  I burrow against him, letting the tears go. For the first time in years, I am being held and comforted by someone. It feels amazing. I didn't know what I was missing until Nick put his arms around me.

  I've been so lonely. I'm trying to be so strong, and it's so hard. I feel completely out of my depth.

  And I desperately, desperately want him to like me despite the fact that I am an awful woman who has abandoned her mentally ill father.

  His hand strokes my back. "Shhh," he comforts me. "I will make it better for you. Tell me what I can do. Tell me who has upset you."

  I huddle closer, not speaking. I want to stay in his arms forever. He's strong, and warm, and so comforting. After a few moments of weeping, I realize how uncomfortable this must be for him. He probably came here to let me down easy, and found himself comforting me instead. I reluctantly pull away, wiping my eyes and then smoothing a hand down the front of his expensive jacket. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be doing this."

  He bares his teeth as if he would snarl. "Let them fire you."

  I blink up at him in surprise. "I…no. I mean, I shouldn't be crying on you. I'm sure you came here to break up with me—"

  Nick's fingers brush my cheek in a tender caress. "No, kotehok. Break up with you? Is this why you cry?"

  I can't meet his eyes. It's one reason, of course—I want him to like me as much as I like him. But it's more than that, too. I can't talk about my father, or else he'll learn what an awful person I am. So I simply shrug my shoulders and look away. I am so ashamed to break down in front of him.

  His fingers continue to stroke my cheek gently, and when I try to pull away, he holds me against him. I am pinned between his big body and the counter, but I'm not afraid. I know instinctively that Nick would never hurt me. "Hush, Daisy. Do not cry. I came to apologize to you. I acted badly when we parted."

  I pull back in surprise. "You're apologizing? I don't understand. I thought I did something wrong. I haven't been on many dates, so I didn't know—"

  His eyes are no longer ice; they warm as they gaze upon me. His fingers continue to stroke my cheek, as if he can't help but touch me. "I always speak wrong when I am around you. My words never come out right." His fingers brush over my mouth, oh so gently. "I want to get things right, but I just make worse. You deserve better."

  If only he knew what a small, mean person I was on the inside. I shake my head, and my fingers continue to smooth down the front of his coat, and I wish it was bare skin I was touching. "No, that's not true—"

  "Da," he says, and there is a flash of self-hatred in his eyes that startles me. "You are too good—"

  I lean forward to kiss him, silencing him before he can disagree with me. It's impulsive, but I can't resist. His mouth is so close to mine, his touch maddening, and I want to put my mouth on him. I'm clumsy, though, and my mouth brushes his chin and lower lip, and I cringe inwardly. I am a terrible kisser.

  But the effect is the desired one—he stiffens against me with surprise, and he goes silent. A mere moment later, his fingers brush my chin. He parts my mouth, and then presses his lips to mine in a proper kiss. A hot, wet, slick, tongue-filled kiss.
>
  I'm stunned by his visceral response. Heat pulses through my body, and I open my mouth for his possessive invasion. I may have started the kiss, but it's clear Nick has taken charge now. His mouth slants over mine, his lips caressing my own. His tongue slides against my own, and my breath hitches at the intensity of sensation it brings. My nipples harden as I press against him, and I'm shocked—and intoxicated—by my own response. I thought the kiss we'd shared in the parking lot was wonderful, but it pales in comparison to the need surging in this one. I am weak in the knees…and I want to experience more.

  His fervor should frighten me, but I hunger for it. This is what I have wanted all my life. In Nick's arms, I feel truly alive. My hand slides to his neck, and I brush my fingers over the hot skin of his nape. I wish he wore no shirt so I could touch all of him. I need much more than a simple kiss. "Touch me," I breathe against his mouth when he breaks the kiss.

  He gives a soft groan—he hears my words.

  I cling to him, lifting my mouth for another kiss even as his hand slides around my waist and he drags me closer to him. I want—

  The door chimes, jarring me back to reality. Nick releases me immediately, and I stumble away from him, turning to the counter in a daze. A lone man walks in wearing a camo baseball cap, jeans, and a dirty t-shirt. He barely glances at me and heads to the back of the store for the beer.

  The moment is gone.

  I press the back of a hand to my flushed cheeks, trying to cool them down. My nipples ache, and I hope they aren't visible through my shirt. I've never felt quite so aroused, and this is all from just a kiss.

  Well, not a simple kiss. Kissing Nick is anything but ordinary-feeling.

  I glance over at him, but he's not looking in my direction. His gaze is riveted on the man in the store, and his eyes have gone cold again, calculating. He moves down a nearby aisle and watches the man, though he feigns interest in a long-expired box of Pop Tarts.

  The man comes to the counter with a soda a minute later and points at a pack of cigarettes. I ring him up and he leaves without saying a word about the fact that he found me kissing a man a short moment ago. When he's gone, I turn back to Nick.

  He comes to the counter again, but he stays on the other side of it, like a customer. I'm disappointed, because I know he won't kiss me again. To my surprise, he puts a smart phone down in front of me. "I purchased this for you."

  I stare at it. For a moment, I think it's his phone and that he's going to show me something on the screen. Then I realize he has purchased a phone for me. "I have a phone, Nick."

  "Is better phone." He nudges it toward me. "I think your other phone does not work so well. Sometimes I don't get your texts very quickly." His eyelids shade his expression, like he's embarrassed that he wishes I responded faster to his texts.

  He's spending too much money on me. It makes me uncomfortable. I know smartphones aren't cheap. I priced them out when looking for a disposable and the data plan alone is more than I can spend a month on something so frivolous. Not when I am eating ramen noodles every night of the week. "But why did you get me a phone when I already have one?"

  "Take it. Is so you can text complete sentences."

  I give him a hurt look. "I text the best I can."

  Nick sighs and reaches across the counter to grab my hand before I can pull away. He rubs a thumb over it and shakes his head. "Again, I misspeak. Around you, my tongue is foolish."

  The smile he gives me is wry, self-deprecating. "I am greedy man, Daisy. I want more from you than just a few words. I want all of your attention. When you think of me, you text me. I don't want you to hunt for short words because is easier to type. I want everything you have to say. This makes it easier." He gestures at the phone. "Take it for me?"

  I eye the phone. I hate the thought of more charity, but the ability to text Nick with ease fills me with anticipation. "Once I get my own, you will take it back?"

  "Da." His eyes gleam; he knows he has won the battle with flattery.

  I give him a shrewd look. "If I say no, are you going to find a way to break my existing phone?"

  "I am wounded you think such things of me, Daisy," he says, but there is a boyish grin on his face.

  "You're terrible," I tell him with a laugh. "None of my things are safe around you."

  "Not if I think you deserve better," he says, and he has gone all serious again.

  I sigh and take the phone, since I know I have about as much choice in this as I did with the jacket. "Thank you, Nick."

  He looks as if he wishes to say more to me, but after a moment's hesitation, he simply nods and leaves, and I am left alone in the store all over again.

  I clutch it to my chest, watching him disappear into a sedan parked outside. I kissed him. He didn't kiss me until I'd made the first move. Was that stupid of me? He didn't ask me out again.

  But then I think of his words. I came here to apologize.

  And he brought me a gift. I feel giddy with excitement despite my initial misgivings, and I run my fingers across the screen. It is the latest model of a popular, expensive brand of smartphones, and I know Regan will envy it. Nick has already programmed my name into the phone as D8Z, and the background is a picture of white daisies. How sweet. I flip through the apps and on impulse, click on the photo album to see if he has left me anything there.

  It is blank. I'm disappointed to see that, but it doesn't mean I can't return the favor. I experiment with the camera for a long minute and manage to eventually take a selfie blowing a kiss at the camera. His number is the only one programmed into my phone—under nothing more than "N" for his name—and I text him the picture, along with a quick message: Thank you for being so thoughtful.

  His reply comes while I'm with the next customer, and it takes everything I have not to grab at my phone when it vibrates. He doesn't send me a picture back, but the text makes me smile. If I am rewarded with such beauty by a simple gift, I shall buy you a car next.

  Don't you dare.

  Chapter Eight

  DAISY

  "COME ON, POLLYANNA," BECCA GROANS. "Why are you walking so freaking slow?"

  "I'm coming," I yell at her from several paces behind on the sidewalk. I'm trying to text and walk at the same time, and I'm not good at it, but I'm not willing to give up on my message. Since Nick gave me the phone yesterday, I've been obsessed with it…and with Nick. Even though I was initially skeptical about the gift, I admit to myself that I adore the phone. Texting is so much easier.

  And since he's given it to me? We have texted non-stop.

  He texted to me all night last night as I worked. His text Good night, milaya moya was the last thing I saw when I went to bed. When I awoke, I texted him a Good morning, and we'd been texting off and on all day.

  He won't send me pictures, which makes me sad. Says I don't need to see his ugly face constantly. He's crazy—I think he is beautiful, his profile noble, his eyes slightly sad. If he sent me a picture, I would stare at it all day long. It would look much better as the background of my phone than the sweet, girly daisies he has set up for me.

  I missed out on this by being homeschooled, this playful tease of flirtation. I'm also glad that I'm learning to flirt with Nick instead of someone else, because he seems just as bad at it as I am. Like we're learning together. Maybe he was homeschooled too. The idea of Nick as a high school student makes me smile. He seems like he was born world-weary. I can't envision him as a carefree child. Of course, I can't imagine myself as one either. Perhaps that is why we've bonded so quickly. Our old souls recognize each other.

  Nick keeps asking me to send him more photos, though. I refuse to do so until he sends me one of himself, so we are at an impasse. It has become a teasing game to us, one that continues even now.

  Why do you not send me a picture of you, Daisy? I did not realize you had such cruelty in you.

  I giggle to myself as I read it again. I am composing the perfect response, but I type slowly. You should see my skirt. I am feeli
ng very bold. It's very pretty. Becca says I look like a nun, but I like it. I—

  Becca's hand, with its long pink fingernails, close over my screen, sending the message before I can finish it. "Dude. Seriously. Walk faster. I'd like to get to the club before it closes?" She casts me an annoyed stare.

  "Sorry." I lower my phone and give her a guilty look, but I don't feel all that guilty at the moment. Not really. I'd rather be at home texting Nick and chatting instead of out with Becca and Regan, but Regan insisted. Becca wants to go to a club to pick up a new man, and it's clear that what Becca wants, Becca gets. Regan reasons that because both she and I have men we are seeing, we can keep each other company and drink at a table while Becca tries to meet a guy.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, but Becca is shooting me dirty looks and Regan is patiently waiting down the street, so I force myself to ignore it and jog a little to catch up to them. I'm wearing the Mary Janes that Regan gave me—my only dress shoes—and a knee-length swingy skirt with a sparkly tank top. The clothes are new, and I love them. They're full of color and flash, and I am tempted to send Nick a picture anyhow…but I don't. I won't give in on this.

  I catch up to Regan and Becca and rub my bare arms briskly. I wanted to wear a sweater, but Becca declared it 'frumpy' and shamed me into leaving it at home. I wish I had it now; the walk from the bus stop to the club is longer than I would like. I haven't been to this part of downtown, and despite the late hour, the streets are crowded with people and noisy. I can hear a thrumming bass beat somewhere nearby, and it vibrates in my ears.

  Then we are at the door of the club. It's a downstairs club, below street level. We wait our turn to get in as Becca chatters excitedly to Regan, and my phone vibrates with another message. I will check it in a minute, I decide, as soon as Becca turns away. The anticipation of what Nick has sent me burns warm in my belly.

  The doorman checks our ID. He stares at mine for a long moment, as if not quite believing I am twenty-one, and then ushers us inside. We are swallowed up by the club, and the pounding beat blasts in my head. The interior of the club is dark and feels a little misty; there are lights flashing everywhere and bodies pressed to each other on the dance floor.