He’s not the man everyone thinks he is.
Dean knows how to hide his true self from the world. He wears a mask, a mighty fine one, well-made and convincing to those who only know him at a surface level. If you went into the local diner or stopped into the hardware shop to ask a local what they might think about Dean Ashcroft, they’d smile and tell you he’s a good ole boy. A farm boy. A good kid with a sensible head on his shoulders.
“Now, that’s a man who knows how to respect his elders and treat a lady right,” they might tell you with a smile. “Dean is an upstanding citizen and a good-lookin’ son of gun, to boot. Any young lady would be lucky to be the belle on his arm.”
Hell, I believed the hype myself when I first met him. He seemed so polite, so well-raised and affable. The kind of guy who smiles a lot and says “please,” “thank you,” and “ma’am.” But it’s all for show.
I’m learning that now.
“Open up, Miss Daisy! I know you’re in there!” he shouts, his voice only slightly muffled by the thick oak door.
I swallow hard and glance around the room, wishing I kept my shotgun closer by. It’s in the closet on the other side of the room, and normally that’s a little too close for comfort as is. I have never been a big fan of guns, even though I have grown up around them all my life out here in the country.
Besides, that shotgun is just for show. It’s an antique, a vintage piece of machinery bequeathed to me when my father passed away of cancer a couple years ago. It’s one impressive-looking item, and I keep it shiny and gleaming like my father always did— just one of the ways I try to maintain his legacy here at the farm— but it’s mostly useless, especially in my hands.
I don’t even own the shells for it. I just keep it around as a tool to make myself look more intimidating on the rare chance I might get an intruder or something. Not that I ever have.
So I’ve never had much of a need for a real gun with real bullets. Until now. Until Dean Ashcroft happened. I have been such a fool to even let him get close to me in the first place…
“Daisy Jensen!” he yells more viciously. His voice cracks and I can nearly hear the alcohol in his tone. “Open this goddamn door before I take it off its hinges!”
I whimper at the sound of his voice, pulling the sheets up to my neck and cowering in bed. I’m terrified to even move or breathe too hard. Not that it matters. He already knows I’m here. My clunky old blue truck parked off to the side of the house makes that abundantly clear. I silently swear to myself, wishing I didn’t have such a gigantic, obvious vehicle to make my presence known. If only I had some little moped I could tuck away in the shed…
“I will burn this old shack to the ground! Don’t you test me, princess!” Dean shouts, with cruel amusement. “I’m not here to play games, but I will if you make me. And trust me, sweetheart, when I play, I always win!” He pounds on the door several more times, with such intensity that I can see dust motes being shaken down from the ceiling to land on my bed.
I can’t take it anymore. I throw the sheets off of myself and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my heart racing as I hurry to get dressed. On these balmy summer nights I usually just sleep in a thin slip and panties—one of the few benefits to living alone. But tonight, I’m regretting that choice.
On tiptoe and barely allowing myself to breathe too heavily, I rush across the room and quietly open up my armoire. My hands are shaking as I rifle through the drawers, looking for something more substantial to put on. I don’t know yet where the hell I’m planning to go, but I know I have to get out of here, whatever it takes.
I whip out an old floral sundress I got at a church yard sale years ago and tug it on over my head, not even bothering to take off my slip dress first. Then I pull on a white knitted cardigan and slide my feet into a pair of soft ballet flats, foregoing my usual boots for something quieter.
I need to be quiet, unobtrusive.
And yet, I also need to move quickly.
It hits me once again how much like a prey animal I have become as a result of knowing a man like Dean. I am no longer the tough, proud, self-assured country girl who runs her own household and takes care of herself.
He has reduced me to something softer and quieter, someone so fearful and nervous I can hardly recognize her face in the mirror these days. That’s the part that makes me so upset, to be perfectly honest. I miss feeling so sure of myself. I miss having nothing in this world I feared. Dean Ashcroft has taken that sense of freedom away from me, and that is the sorriest thing he’s ever done to someone, I bet.
I open up my closet door, wincing at how loudly it creaks and whines in its rusting hinges, and I gingerly reach to take out that old shotgun. It’s heavy and unwieldy in my untrained hands, and I hold it at arm’s length as though it’s a bomb that might go off at any second. I hastily remind myself that it doesn’t have a bullet in it and hasn’t been cocked in probably at least a couple decades, and I hold it closer to my chest with some hesitation. Even though it’s useless as a weapon, I am hoping that it just might give me a few more seconds of bluffing time if the situation comes right down to it.
But lord, do I hope it doesn’t go that way.
I know there’s no point in trying to talk to Dean. That’s what he wants. To intimidate me into opening that front door and letting him inside. Just like he knock-knock-knocked on my heart and asked to come into my little universe.
Except back then he was more polite, even if that dark intention was secretly there all along. I knew I should not have fallen for it. I should have kept that boy at a distance and let him fantasize about me from afar. But he’s like a damn vampire. Once you break down and give him that invitation to come in, he’ll just about drain every drop of life out of you without a second thought. I bet if a detective was to dig up Dean’s past, he’d find a long, lonely trail of girls drained of vivacity and turned into empty shells.
Luckily, I still have at least a few more drops of life left in me, and I intend to fight for them with every ounce of strength and determination I got. He can’t take everything away from me, not without one hell of a fight, and my daddy didn’t raise a coward.
I tiptoe over to the wide bay window at the side of my bedroom. Tonight there’s a full moon hanging in the sky, like a luminous face winking down at me. There’s this old country song my dad used to play all the time about the moon keeping score between the sinners and the saints.
I would like to think that tonight, she’s looking after me. Rooting for me. At the very least, the moon will help to guide my way as I sneak out the window and make a run for it. I only hope my legs don’t let me down.
“Daisy! Don’t make me come in there! We can do this the easy way or the hard way, and I have a feelin’ you’re not gonna like it the hard way,” he snarls, whacking the door with his fists several more times. I take the opportunity while he’s making such a racket to unlock the window and slide the pane up to open it.
His knocking drowns out the sound of the latches, thankfully.
A gust of warm midnight breeze ruffles my strawberry-blonde hair. I bite my lip, peering out the window nervously. No. This won’t work. The bedroom is still too close to Dean. He will see me climbing out and catch me like a butterfly in a net. And if I even think about heading to the other end of the house, he will see me. The front door has a big pane of crystal in the center of it which will give him a clear view of the staircase. If I go downstairs, he’ll see me instantly.
Another idea occurs to me. Not even bothering to close the window, I clutch the gun to my chest and tiptoe out of the bedroom, to the next room over. It’s an old-timey bathroom complete with a claw foot tub, and there’s a small, square window higher up by the ceiling. I wonder if I can even fit through there. When I was a rebellious teenager, I sneaked out of there a few times. Not to do anything too risky or anything. Usually I just met up with my girlfriends to have a little bonfire out in the woods. No underage smoking or drinking involved.
&n
bsp; I could almost smile at the memory if I wasn’t so terrified right now. I used to think I was so tough.
I need to channel that rebellious spirit right now.
I hurry across the bathroom and climb up to stand on the toilet, looking down at my presumed escape route. I will have to shimmy through the window, drop down onto the stooping roof, and drop down. From there, I will bolt to my truck on the side of the house. I keep the keys in the front seat, just like everybody else who lives out here.
With the exception of Dean Ashcroft, there’s not a soul in this town that would even think about messing with someone else’s property. There’s a sort of innocence and trust here in this town, but the likes of Dean might just be enough to scrub that naiveté right out of my heart.
I realize with a jolt of dismay that I can’t carry that antique gun and climb through the window at the same time, so I set the gun down on the sink counter and turn back to the window. I hold my breath, waiting for the right moment.
One, two, three… and the pounding at the front door starts up again.
While the house is shaking with that racket, I quickly slide the window open and hoist myself up. Even with my hands shaking, I have to be strong. And fast. It’s a tight squeeze, as my curves have filled out quite a bit since I was a teenager, but I manage to scrape my way through. With the night air blowing through my hair and lifting up the hem of my sundress, I carefully scoot down the roof, trying not to lose my footing. When I get to the edge, it seems farther down than I remembered. I know that landing is going to hurt. But it’s too late to turn back now.
I jump down, letting out an involuntary gasp at the sharp jolt of pain radiating up through my calves. I nearly crumple to the ground, but I know I don’t have time to wait for the pain to pass. I have to run, even if it hurts like hell.
Especially because now that the banging has stopped, I can hear a much more horrifying sound: footsteps. Coming my way. He must have heard my gasp. I pick myself up and start running, my heart pounding so fast I can hardly breathe. I have never been so afraid in my life.
“Daisy, you little bitch!” Dean screeches. His voice is closer behind me now, and I dare not even glance back. I round the corner of the house so quickly that I almost fall, my legs feeling like jello.
My dad’s trusty old truck sits dewy and peaceful in the evening mist, and I use every last fiber of strength in my body to make a dash for it. With Dean’s boots thumping only a few yards behind me, I fling open the door to the truck and leap into the front seat. I fumble for the keys in the dim light, muttering nonsensically to myself.
“Come on, come on, oh god,” I whisper frantically. Finally my fingers close around the keyring and I jam the key into the ignition, almost snapping the thing in half as the engine roars to life after a few stutters. The high beams flicker on instantly and I glance up to see Dean Ashcroft, in his flannel and cowboy boots, illuminated in the eerie glow. There’s a wild look in his brown eyes, like a rabid coyote with his teeth bared.
“Shit!” I yelp, jerking the wheel to the right and plowing through the tall grass as I peel out toward the gravel road.
“You little—” he screams. I glance up at my rearview mirror to see him dashing for his own truck to chase me. My chest is heaving with panicked breaths as I switch off my headlights and trundle off into the dark wooded path. There’s only one gravel road that leads into town, but what Dean probably doesn’t know is that there is a dirt path that takes a longer way ‘round. It’s a narrow, harrowing trek through the thick trees, especially in a big ole clunker like my truck, but I’ve grown up in these woods. I know the way. I know every twist and turn, every downed tree and rocky outcropping. I can follow the whispering creek all the way to the outskirts of town even without the lights on to guide me. Tonight, the moon will have to be enough.
After a while, I can’t even hear the rumble of Dean’s truck on gravel. I’m far enough out of the way that I must have lost him. But I know it’s not safe for me to return home right now. And besides, I’m too keyed up. I don’t want to be alone. I need to be somewhere public. Somewhere with other people. But it’s the middle of the night in a small town where everything closes after supper time. Except for one place.
The Sugar Creek Tavern. That little farmers’ bar on the edge of town.
I take a deep breath and make that my destination. After about a half hour of rumbling through the woods, I come rolling out under a streetlight and pull onto the lonely highway, the only street in town to boast the need for an intersection light.
From there it’s only a few more minutes until I pull into the little gravel parking lot behind the bar. I put the car in park, turn off the trembling engine, and breathe slowly. I lean forward and close my eyes for a moment, just resting my forehead on the steering wheel while I gather my wits.
I made it.
At least for now, I should be safe. Who knows what fresh hell tomorrow may bring, but tonight, I’m okay.
I slide out of the truck and realize with a sigh of relief that my wallet is under the front seat, where I usually keep it. I have a feeling that’s another strange country custom nowhere else in the world is familiar with, but right now I’m mighty grateful. This time, though, I lock up my truck and take my wallet and keys in with me as I walk through the crooked door of the bar, under the flickering green neon sign.
As soon as I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of whiskey and tobacco, mingled with the scent of cedar. The bar is small, hardly larger than a trailer, with wood paneling and deer antlers mounted on the walls. An ancient jukebox in the corner is mournfully churning out sad old country tunes, the likes of which my father used to sing.
There aren’t a lot of customers in here tonight, and the clientele who are up this time of night aren’t the liveliest folks. There are a couple of silent old men with tall hats and thick white mustaches playing billiards in the back, and a few more men seated several stools apart at the bar counter. I stroll up to the counter and take a seat, trying not to draw much attention to myself.
The bartender turns and does a double take when he catches sight of me, and confusion clouds his expression for a second before he remembers he’s supposed to play it cool. He walks over and asks in a low voice, “Miss Daisy, I know it’s been a few years since I saw you last, but are you really old enough to be drinkin’ yet?”
I smile warmly, his familiar face dawning on me. He used to be a regular customer of my father’s at the mechanic shop he ran up until his passing.
“Mr. Redd,” I greet him. “It’s been a longer time than you remember, I think.”
I pull out my ID and hand it to him. He smiles, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. He looks back at me and lays my card down on the counter.
“My, my. Time does go by so fast these days, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”
I nod.
“Yes, sir. It sure does.”
“What’re you havin’ tonight?” he asks, leaning on the counter.
I bite my lip, realizing that I have no clue what it is I want. These days I don’t have much time or cash to go drinking. I default to the order my dad used to always repeat: “Whiskey on the rocks, please, Mister.”
A look of wistful sadness crosses his face and I know he’s thinking about my Daddy. But he taps the counter and says, “Yes, ma’am. Comin’ right up.”
As he’s bringing it back to me, I reach for my wallet to hand him some cash, but a tall, broad-shouldered stranger in a leather jacket sidles up next to me and says in a low, raspy voice, “That’ll be on my tab, Redd. Along with whatever else the lady likes.”
Alexei
Daisy looks up at me in surprise and confusion, as if she’s looking at a stranger. The next second, a flicker of recognition comes over her face, and she bats her eyelashes at me.
“Oh, I remember you. You were at the store today,” she says, and she brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Sorry, I’m a little jumpy tonight. What was that for?”
&
nbsp; She says it with a friendly smile on her face even though I can tell she’s a little shaken about something. I don’t have to wonder what that something is, after what I saw at the store.
“You seem like you could use a drink,” I say with a reassuring smile.
“That’s an understatement,” she says with a soft laugh of her own. Her laugh suits her beautifully. Still, there’s a hint of suspicion in there that doesn’t surprise me. She’s wary of strangers buying her drinks, as she should be.
I’m not going to push her far here, if she doesn’t want it. But the moment I saw her come into the bar, I knew I couldn’t just let her come and go. She’s been on my mind all day. Her beauty. Her troubles.
This is a woman who needs help. The least I can do is find out a little more.
Our drinks arrive, and she quickly takes a sip of hers while I do the same. She clearly needs the alcohol and wants a mouth full of something that doesn’t make introductions any more awkward than they inevitably will be.
“I don’t think we’ve actually met,” I say.
“You’re not in the store too much, if we haven’t met,” she quips.
“This is true,” I admit. “I’m not in town as much as I would like. It’s a nice place.”
Her face shows a little confusion as she listens to me speak a longer sentence, and her eyes widen in understanding as she registers my accent.
“Oh! Oh. I knew you weren’t from around here, everyone knows everyone. But I didn’t realize you were from…” She trails off, wincing as she realizes she doesn’t exactly know where to guess I’m from.
“You can say Russia,” I assure her with a smile, “you’d be correct.”
She laughs, relaxing a little.
“Sorry, there’s not really a way to ask that without it being awkward. And I guess calling attention to that doesn’t help, huh?” Her face gets shades of pinker as she talks, and I can’t keep a smile off my face. Finally, she nervously runs a few fingers through her hair and extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Daisy, and I don’t know how to stop talking.”
I Hired a Hitman Page 2