Last Hit (Hitman)

by Jessica Clare

  It's like I've entered another world.

  Regan says something, and I can barely hear her, even though her mouth is moving. I shake my head, and she yells it louder. "Let's find a table and get some drinks."

  I nod and she grabs my hand to lead me through the crowd. With my other, I shove my phone in my purse.

  A few minutes later, we are situated at the back of the club at a cramped table sandwiched between several other cramped tables. Becca is eyeing the dance floor, her arms raised above her head and moving to the beat. She clearly can't wait to dance. Her breasts bounce with her movements. Men are watching her as she gyrates, and I suspect that this is exactly what Becca wants. She thrives on attention.

  I am starting to shrink into myself. The club is noisy, and I don't want to be here. There are people everywhere, and I'm getting a headache from the noise. This is about as far from my sheltered old life as I could get, and I'm not sure I like it. Like my father, I like my day neat, ordered, and controlled. This chaos in front of me is as far from control as I can imagine.

  As soon as I sit down, Becca tosses her purse on the table and disappears into the crowd, swaying to the music. Regan just looks at me and rolls her eyes as if to say, what do you expect, that's Becca. I simply smile and look around, trying to have a good time for Regan's sake.

  She pats my hand to get my attention as I stare, wide-eyed, at our surroundings. "I'll go to the bar and get us drinks," she shouts in my ear over the blasting music. "You stay here and hold the table."

  I nod, and a moment later, she vanishes into the crowd as well. Now I am all alone. I glance around at the nearby tables, but they are empty, littered with belongings that have been tossed into chairs. A balding man is seated alone at a nearby table, and when I look over, he waves.

  I freeze in place, terrified that he'll come and hit on me. Isn't that what happens in clubs? I avert my eyes and pull out my phone so I can look busy. I was probably just rude to the man, but I don't know what else to do. So I try to make myself as small as possible, concentrating on my phone.

  I have three texts from Nick.

  Nick (9:19PM): You what?

  Nick (9:20PM): Are you all right, Daisy?

  Nick (9:25PM): Text me back. Now, or I am coming down there.

  The last one was sent five minutes ago. Oh dear. My cut-off message had him worried, and now he's making empty promises. He doesn't know where we are, but the protective sentiment is sweet. I type a message back quickly. I'm here. Sorry.

  Nick: Good. Very good. He responds immediately.

  D8Z: Sorry. Becca grabbed my phone.

  Nick: I should cut off Becca's hands.

  D8Z: It's fine. I was just walking slow. Distracted by sending you messages. We are at the club now so I should be fine. I'll probably be slow to respond for the next few hours. Becca and Regan are determined for us to have a good time tonight.

  Nick: I would rather you were with me tonight.

  I smile at my phone's screen, the chaos of the club momentarily forgotten. I would rather I was with him, too.

  D8Z: It's just a different sort of thing than I am used to. I will just try to have fun. Don't worry about me.

  Nick: If you need me, say the word. I will be there to rescue you.

  D8Z: I'll be fine.

  I cap my message with a smiley face so it seems friendly. Regan returns a moment later with three drinks, chatting with a guy. I lock my phone screen and put it back into my purse, returning my attention to my friend. After a few more minutes of talking that I can't make out, he waves and leaves, and Regan shoots me a relieved look. She gestures for me to lean in.

  "He was trying to pick us up for his buddies," she yells in my ear, the club equivalent of a whisper. "Wanted to know if we were meeting someone."

  My eyes widen and I shoot a look back at the retreating guy. I want to shrink under the table. I don't want to be picked up. I want Nick. "But you're seeing someone, and so am I," I yell back at her. The words feel good to say. Nick is my boyfriend, isn't he? Maybe? I'm not sure what to call it.

  "I know," she says back. "That's why I sent him packing." She pushes a drink toward me and gestures for me to try it. It's reddish and there's a stick in the cup with some fruit speared on it. I taste it, and it's fruity and sweet, but the alcohol flavor overwhelms everything. I put the back of my hand to my mouth and cough at the taste. Next to me, Regan chugs her drink like it's nothing. Maybe I'm being a sissy. I take another game swig, and it burns my throat. It doesn't taste better on the second try.

  We nurse our drinks for a bit, but it's hard to talk in the club with the pounding music searing into your eardrums. Becca hasn't returned to the table, and I see her surface occasionally in the pit of dancing bodies. She's clearly having a great time. I'm content to sit in the shadows and watch her dance, but Regan looks restless. She's finished her drink, and she is watching the dancers, tapping her foot. She gets a refill on her drink and downs it almost as quickly. I'm still working on my drink, which is not even halfway empty.

  When a young guy comes up, speaks to her, and then gestures at the dance floor, she glances at me. It's clear she wants to be out there and having a good time. I wave her off. I will just sit here by myself, then. I pull my phone out again, but Nick hasn't texted me back. I put it away, not wanting to bother him.

  A few minutes later, the music shifts to something slower, and a DJ rambles something into a microphone. His mouth is so close to the mike I can't make out what he says, but the dance floor clears momentarily and someone takes the center of the floor, moving in an intricate dance as everyone else circles around to watch. I'm eager to see the dancer, but Becca and Regan return to the table a minute later, both sweaty and having a great time. Becca is flushed and laughing, and Regan's cheeks are pink with delight, her blonde hair sticking to the sides of her face.

  Becca slides into the chair next to me and leans in. "You going to go out there and have fun, Pollyanna?" she yells at me. "We brought you here to loosen up."

  "I'm fine," I tell her. "Really."

  "You can't hide in a corner all night."

  That is exactly what I want to do. But I just smile at her words.

  The music changes and the crowd screams enthusiasm. "All you ladies get on the dance floor," the DJ yells into the microphone. "It's time for 'Ladies' Night!'"

  The crowd cheers and both Becca and Regan surge to their feet. When I don't get up, Becca grabs my hand and tugs on it. "Come on," she says. "You have to go out and dance to 'Ladies' Night'!"

  I don't want to dance—at least, not the way the couples on the floor have been dancing. They grind their hips together and put their hands all over each other, and I want no part of that. But right now, the floor is filling with women, and they have their hands in the air as they dance along to the rollicking beat of a song that seems familiar to everyone but me.

  After a moment's hesitation, I give in and abandon my purse and the safety of the table. I don't want to be seen as the friend that won't have fun. Becca and Regan are my first friends. I want them to like me.

  So I go out on the dance floor with them and I dance. I'm awkward and reluctant at first, but soon I am laughing and dancing along with the others to the pounding music. It's all women and we jump around and dance like fools, but it's all fun. For a few minutes, I am having a great time, and I feel alive all over again.

  The music changes far too soon, and the crowd on the dance floor shifts. Another hard, thumping song starts, and the people change, press closer. I'm not ready to give up on the dancing just yet, so I continue to move to the beat, lost in my own world. I'm feeling sweaty and warm, and my skirt is twirling, and I wonder what Nick would think if he saw me now, with my hair flying around my shoulders as I am having a great time. The song playing is something dirty, the lyrics something about grinding, and I notice there are couples starting to dance nearby, hips pushed together. I remain on the dance floor, looking for Becca and Regan, but I don't see them anywhere.


  Someone grabs my hips and begins to rub up against me from behind. I'm startled to feel him against me. He didn't ask permission; he just came right up and grabbed me.

  I try to jerk away, but the dance floor is an oppressive crush of bodies, and it's hard to move without running into someone else. The man pushing up against me mistakes my actions and drags me harder against him, assuming I want his touch.

  I want to slam away from him. I want to fling him from me, jab a knee between his legs for daring to touch me. It's my body. I should be the one in control, and I want to punish him for making me think otherwise.

  But there are so many people nearby that I can't do anything. Whenever I raise my arms, I'm jostled, like a minnow caught in a riptide.

  I panic.

  I have no control over any of these people.

  I can't breathe. Hands are rubbing up and down on my arms, and I freeze in place. The man continues to roll against my hips, and I can feel his erection prodding against the thin material of my skirt. This man that is trying to dance with me has an erection, and he's pushing it against me.

  It's too much. I blindly shove away, trying to get out of the crowd. The music is splitting my head now, and my friends are nowhere to be seen. I squirm away from the man only to run into someone else, and new hands grab at me. There are people everywhere.

  I hate it. I hate people. I want to go home where it's safe.

  A muffled whimper escapes my throat, but the club is so noisy I can't even hear it. I can't breathe; air won't get into my lungs. It's too hot in the club and there's just no air. The bass has pounded it all away. I stumble, pushing my way off the dance floor, heedless of the fact that I'm pissing off people as I shove past them. Finally, I emerge from the crowd and arrive at the tables. I spot the man who waved at me earlier. I'm on the verge of tears now. I ignore his attempt to get my attention again and snatch my purse off of the table I share with Regan and Becca, who are still missing.

  And then I run out of the club. I don't stop running until I'm out in the street. It's dark outside, and the music is still pounding in my head. I run away from the door and stop about halfway down the block, and then I curl up against the brick wall.

  I feel as if I've been assaulted.

  I've never been touched like that. Never. So casually, so ruthlessly. I just wanted to dance, and I was manhandled by a man with an erection. It's too much for my senses to handle, and I sob quietly to myself.

  "You okay, honey?"

  I look up at the face of the big bouncer. He's fat, middle-aged and balding, and he looks irritated that he had to come to check on me.

  "I'm fine," I tell him. Go away. Go away.

  "Anyone bothering you?"

  Just you, I want to say, but I realize he's trying to help me. So I shake my head and say nothing until he goes away. I can't stop trembling. It's cold outside, but I like the crisp air. It feels so different from the steamy atmosphere of the club and the pressing bodies. I want a shower. I feel dirty. Someone touched me without my permission, and it was awful.

  The man calls down the street at me, one more time. "You need me to call you a cab, girlie?"

  "I have a ride," I call back hoarsely, and when he turns away, I wipe at my cheeks, trying to stop crying.

  I'm not good at that. I can't seem to stop. I'm glad Regan and Becca can't see me like this. They won't understand. Only one person seems to understand me.

  I get my phone out and stare at the texts I sent him earlier.

  Nick: If you need me, say the word. I will be there to rescue you.

  D8Z: I'll be fine.

  Then I send him three little words. I'm not fine.

  NIKOLAI

  My phone is on vibrate because it is too loud in this club. This basement club is a death trap. I can see only three exits, and the space is over capacity. Drunk people are stumbling everywhere. I could kill at least half of them by starting a stampede.

  It is clear to me that Daisy can never be left alone. She is too trusting and too willing to try out new things without the leavening effect of fear. She's not experienced enough fear in her life, I think. The mere fact that she wants me in her life is evidence enough of her precious naiveté. But it is the one thing about her that draws me to her, and I do not want to stamp it out. So I've followed her here. It is easy with the GPS. There are men who smile at her, who pass their hands over her back. I want to howl that she belongs to me; she is mine.

  My jaw is sore from grinding my teeth together. I hate that she is here surrounded by sweaty palms and unclean thoughts. I see the lust in the eyes of the men around her. She exudes freshness in this stale air, and they want a taste of it. I fold one hand over the fist I've made and squeeze; the cracking of joints relieves a tiny bit of tension. I repeat the gesture with the other hand. I try to shake my shoulders and roll my head to ease the pressure, but none of it really works. The only way I will feel good is when I've removed myself from this box, and I won't do that until Daisy is ready to leave.

  I do not need advice from Daniel to know that I cannot drag Daisy out of this place. I've already made multiple missteps with her. The only thing I can do now is to wait, collect information by watching my mark, and then use that information to acquire the mark. It is different work than I've done in the past. The ending steps must conclude with her liking me instead of her dead on the floor.

  I sit in the corner of the club, unseen. Occasionally, a drunk girl will stumble back here and try out her wiles on me, but a cold stare seems to penetrate even the densest of heads. Their hindbrain knows the truth their muddled consciousness does not. I'm a danger, and these girls in here don't want dangerous.

  I've encountered some that do; some that are turned on by it and some that are attracted to it. But not tonight. Tonight is filled with little dolls, tottering on their tiny heels, clothed in their tiny dresses. A man and a woman stumble back beside me. The dark corner provides them with a false sense of privacy. He lifts her skirt and they begin to copulate. In the cocoon of space beyond the dance floor, I can hear the sounds of their sloppy sex mix with the beats spun out by the DJ. I wonder what the man would do if I reached over and stroked a hand down the back of the girl. Would he even know, lost in his own pleasure? She is glassy eyed from either the drink or the heat or both. It's not passion I see in her eyes when they meet mine. It's triumph. We stare at each other for a minute. She is suffused with excitement at being watched, so I turn away and seek out the object of my own desire.

  Daisy is now on the dance floor, no longer texting me. Her purse is abandoned on the table. Vultures circle around it. If left there much longer, no doubt someone will come along and pilfer the contents. Daisy works so hard for what little money she earns, and since I cannot stand guard over her body here inside this club, I will protect her belongings. As I rise to walk to the bar top that Daisy has left, I feel a hand on my shirt.

  I look down and it is the red-tipped fingernails of the girl, still being tupped by the drunk male, who has no idea that his partner's attention has so completely detached from his experience. "Stay," she mouths at me, her matching red lips forming words that I cannot hear. "Stay, and I'll do you next."

  I shake off her hand like it is a snake. I hear a mewling cry behind me as I walk away. The man takes it to be encouragement and not disappointment. "Yes, baby," he groans, and I roll my eyes. He is like that man of Daisy's roommate. So much about his own pleasure and about not seeing to the one he is with.

  But perhaps it is because he does not have a Daisy, someone whose pleasure in everything brings its own delight. The crowd parts for me as I walk forward, mostly because I do not hesitate. Or because they understand instinctively that I am not moving for them. There is a light-fingered hand that rests on Daisy's purse. It is not her hand, and it is just as I feared. I glance quickly at Daisy, who is dancing, her skirt twirling around her and her body being watched by so many in this club. My blood heats and instinct makes me want to shut this place down, but first
, before I go to her, I rescue her purse.

  My hand slams down on the table beside the thief's hand, making its owner jump. The girl is not her roommate or her friend who has come with them tonight. Some other woman with painted nails and a painted face. She grimaces and then smiles at me, smoothing down her brown hair with one hand, not moving her other from Daisy's purse. She intends to either pretend this purse is Daisy's or to try to make a move on me. Neither will work, and I glare at her, trying to impart the message. She is too dumb to get it, for she moves closer to me, her fingers running down the front of my chest. I glance again at the dance floor, but Daisy has been swallowed up.

  Impatiently, I grip the offensive hand in mine. "If you do not want me to break your wrist with one squeeze of my hand, you will do two things immediately. First, you will remove your hand from my woman's purse. Second, you will remove your hand from this shirt. It is attached to the body that belongs to the owner of the purse."

  Her hands slip away after an infinitesimal pause. Daisy has reappeared from the crowd looking upset and distraught. I wonder if she's seen the whore's hand on my shirt. I turn in anger to face the intruder, but she's melted into the crowd. I hesitate, wondering if Daisy would be upset if I were here. I think she would be. This is not the zoo or a picnic, as Daniel had suggested. And I've given Daisy multiple opportunities to invite me with her…none of which she has accepted. I allow the crowd to hide me as I watch Daisy snatch up her purse and head for one of the exits. She does not wait for either of her companions but instead pushes her way out. I follow behind. Before I can reach her, another man intercepts me.

  "Bro," he says. "There's no exit here."

  "I disagree," I say, pointing to the illuminated sign above the door, which spells out the word in red letters.