WIFE FOR A PRICE: A Hitman Fake Marriage Romance

by Thomas, Kathryn

  “Where were you?” I ask him.

  “I can’t say,” he replies. If he talks quietly, barely moving his lips, his voice is clearer and it seems to cause him less pain. “I wish I could, but, not yet, not yet…”

  “Who did this to you, then?”

  “I don’t know.” He winces. “I can’t remember. I don’t think I was facing them. I was—I was getting into my car, I think. I’ve talked to the police, but you know me, Daisy. You know I can’t really talk to the police.” He winces again, and then says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  A pause lengthens between us and I realize, with a terrible sense of failure, that we have nothing to say to each other. We’ve never talked, not properly. Our lives for the past decade has just been Dad spending the money I make him. We haven’t had time to talk. I wonder now, as I sit here with the silence growing more and more uncomfortable, if what I’ve been protecting all these years isn’t Dad, but an idea of Dad, or the man he was when Mom was alive, or some other phantom that was never realer than fog.

  “I hate seeing you like this,” I say, and I mean it.

  I mean it. Or am I just trying to convince myself? Is it that I hate seeing Dad hurt, or that I hate feeling like I’ve failed him—failed myself? I look up and down his bloodied, bandaged body and feel a profound sense of loss, but I’m not sure if that’s loss of Dad or loss of myself. If I can’t protect Dad, what am I? What have I spent these past ten years doing? Wasting away my twenties dealing with assholes at the Shack, never really even trying at anything better, using Dad as an excuse when in the end I’ll fail anyway? Is that all I’m worth? Is that all my baby’s worth? I tell myself I’m being selfish, but even if that’s true, it doesn’t change the way I feel.

  “What is it, Daisy?” Dad asks, his eyes looking small as they turn to me in his bumpy face.

  “I—” My fists are clenched. I’m shaking. I need to get myself under control, but my anger at Hound and my anger at myself and, yes, my anger at Dad is making it too difficult. “I—You should’ve been there for me.” I speak the words softly, decades-long-withheld words, words which have always lived between us but which neither of us have ever acknowledged as being alive. “You should’ve been there for me!” I repeat, voice cracking. “I was a child, Dad, I was a child and—and—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “No!” Dad shouts. He collapses in pain at the effort. “No,” he wheezes. “You need to say this. I owe you that much, at least.”

  “I just…” I take a deep breath. I don’t know how we got here. I was supposed to come in and play the good, supportive daughter. The elephant in the room was supposed to stay hidden, as he’s been for ten years. But we’re here now, so…“I used to hate you, Dad. I really used to hate you. Hate you with, like, a hatred that scared the shit out of me. I used to lie awake at night thinking of Mom and wondering how she would react to what you were turning me into. Oh, no, you didn’t make me drop out of school. You didn’t make me start working straightaway. No, you didn’t force me, or hit me, or anything. But you manipulated me, I’m sure of it. I’ve been sure of it for a long time.

  “I remember a couple of weeks after Mom died when you were drunk sitting on the couch, getting more and more drunk, when I came to sit with you. You turned to me with red eyes, looked me right in the face with those red eyes, eyes I still see every time I look at you, and you said to me, Dad, you said: ‘They’re going to kill me if I don’t start paying. If I don’t get them their money, they’re going to kill me. And I can’t work! Nobody will hire me!’ And when I told you how I was doing at school, you’d grunt and shrug. But, oh, when I came home one day and told you I’d gotten a job, you jumped up and wrapped your arms around me and told me you were the proudest you’d ever been!”

  I pause, wiping tears from my cheeks. Dad just stares down at his feet. I think he’s crying, too, but it’s difficult to tell with his puffed-up eyes.

  “Do you have any idea what that does to a daughter? Do you have any clue what it’s like to come home with your homework and have your dad grunt at you like an animal, and then have him all but push you into a job? Do you have an idea what it’s like for all your friends to be graduating and going off to college until you don’t have any friends left, not really, and you look back and wonder, What the hell happened to my life? You never supported me, Dad. I know it hurts to hear. I know it must really upset you. And I know I’ve kept quiet for too long. But it’s the truth. You killed a part of me the first time you took my money. It died. Because all I could think was, Shouldn’t he be protecting me? Shouldn’t he be the strong one? I never even got to grieve for Mom. That’s what it feels like.”

  I wipe the tears from my eyes, but there are so many now I’ve no sooner wiped my cheeks that they’re soaking again. Dad is trembling in bed, wincing in pain as his tears sting his bruised eyes. I grip my belly, thinking I might be sick, trying to get a hold of myself. All the pain of unvoiced anger, resentment, rage, self-loathing, washes over me, crippling me. A thousand memories of Dad snatching an envelope out of my hand whilst avoiding my gaze hit me. I remember asking him once if he wanted to go to the movies, and he agreed, but then he spent the whole time checking the time on his phone and tapping his foot. At the end, he jumped up and paced out of the theatre as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to hang out with his daughter. He wanted to party. He wanted to get away from his daughter as fast as he could, never mind that she was paying for the partying.

  “And I never really considered stopping,” I say. “I never truly thought that it was time to stop paying your way. I never wanted to see you hurt. And now—and now look at you. So what’s the point of it all, Dad? I wasn’t helping you. I wasn’t making you better. I was enabling you. That’s the truth. I was making it so you never had to get better. I was making it so you never needed to stand up and do something.”

  We both cry for ten or more minutes in silence. As time goes on, I find myself shocked at my words. But I also find that there’s far less tension than there usually is with me and Dad. There’s no longer a collection of unspoken agony between us. It’s all out there, except for one thing…

  “I’m pregnant,” I tell him. “I can’t tell you who the father is, not yet.” Why not? Maybe because I’m not sure about Hound; maybe because I don’t yet know if Hound has anything to do with this. “You’re going to be a grandfather.” I should leave it at that, but I can’t. “Let’s hope you’re better to your grandchild than you’ve been to me,” I add bitterly.

  Dad breaks down, weeping violently for around a minute, and then manages to calm himself down by breathing steadily. “Oh, Daisy,” he moans. “Daisy, Daisy. Fuck, I’ve been—I’ve been a horrible father. It’s true. You’re not wrong. Everything you’ve said is right. I’ve been a coward. When your mother died, I just—I froze, I guess. I froze and I stopped thinking of the next day or the next week and all I thought of was now, because at least now I didn’t have to think of her. But then what about you? I’ve been the world’s biggest coward, hiding from my problems. I hate myself!” He spasms in bed. I think he’s trying to punch the mattress, or the railing, but he’s too injured. He cries out in pain and slumps down. “I wish I was dead. I should’ve died, and your mother should’ve lived.”

  “Don’t say that,” I whisper. I touch his hand softly, careful not to hurt it.

  “Why not? It’s true. We both know it’s true.”

  “Maybe it is. I don’t know. But don’t say it.”

  He shakes his head as much as his bindings will allow. “I’ve always promised myself that tomorrow I would be better. I always did that, Daisy. I would lie awake, drunk and wheezing, and promise to myself that tomorrow, I would clean it all up. No booze, no poker, no blackjack, no anything . Some days I would even get to around four pm, but then I would start to see her, sitting sweaty after giving birth to you, or when we first met, turning her head to smile at me, and—”

  But he can’t go on. He starts crying again for a
long, long time.

  “A grandfather,” he says. I start, sitting up. I thought he was asleep. “Me, a grandfather. Maybe if this thing works, it won’t be so—But life isn’t built on maybes. Whatever happens, I’ll be better. I can be better. I know I can.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “I really do hope so, Dad.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hound

  I sit outside the hospital in my jeep, watching. I need confirmation from Dean that it was the twins, not that I know what I’ll do with that information. I know that, above all, Mac is a businessman, so perhaps if I can convince him that Dean is going to pay soon, he’ll drop this vendetta and let it rest at that. But it’d have to be a damn lot of money to make him drop his interest in me. I think about the way he’s always looked at me, what I at first mistook for pride. That was my big mistake, thinking the old man was proud of me, and basking in that pride like an excited little kid. I was an excited little kid. I should’ve spit in his face and got the hell out of there the day Dad died. But no, I was too busy puffing up my chest and looking tough and liking it when the guys slapped me on the back.

  The night is dark, the moon hid behind a veil of deep black clouds, the stars winking out once or twice before retreating again. I lean back and half-close my eyes, doing the kind of resting I’ve done countless times before, while waiting on countless marks to show their faces. Usually at times like these, my mind will go to my one abiding fantasy: the massive house, the normal life. But whereas before I met Daisy I was always walking around the place alone—in a bathrobe, more relaxed than I could ever be in the city—now I’m walking around with a toddler’s legs on my shoulders, to the sound of Daisy’s voice calling me from the end of the hallway.

  When I see her leave the hospital at half two in the morning, I want to go to her, hold her, but I’m not here for that. I need to confirm with Dean so that I can…but it’s difficult to think of plans and scheming with Daisy passing within yards of the car. She walks into the glare of a streetlamp and I see that her eyes are red, her cheeks reflective with tears. I swallow down a pain I barely understand. When she’s out of sight, I climb from the car and enter the hospital. Denton told me Dean’s room number, so I go straight up. The hospital is dead to the world, silent, eerie, the only sounds coughing and rolling over and the occasional scree-scree of bed-wheels. I enter Dean’s room silently, close the door behind me, and then sit close by his Call Nurse button to make sure he doesn’t alert anyone that I’m here.

  He wakes with a jolt.

  “Ah, Hound—it’s Hound, right?”

  “Sir,” I mutter. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too much.”

  “I thought you were a bear.” He whispers, since his face is such a mess. “I was dreaming and I thought…It doesn’t matter. Are you here to kill me?”

  “No, sir. I’m here to talk to you.”

  “Talk?” He laughs, or makes as close to a laughing sound as he can when laid up like that. “You’re not what I expected you to be at all. Do you remember the first few times we met, lad? I guess met is the wrong word, but you know what I’m saying.”

  He’s talking about the couple of times I warned him to pay Mac, before that meeting in the alleyway: the meeting that changed my life.

  “I remember,” I say. “Don’t like to, though.”

  “No? I thought you were pretty fair, as far as collectors go. Don’t look surprised. Do you think you’re the only collector I’ve ever had to deal with? You walked up to me and placed your hand on my shoulder—I could tell you were being gentle, lad, a big man like you, I could tell you were being careful not to hurt me—and told me, as respectful as you please, ‘Sir, you need to pay Mac, or I’m afraid something very bad is going to happen.’ And did I listen! Coward! Coward!” His voice cracks, which confuses me since I don’t think I scared him too much. “No, I just carried on doing what I was doing. Do you remember the second time? You talked to me about books, some book about a married couple in the fifties, if I remember correctly, and then you politely asked me to pay Mac again. It’s only the third time that you threatened violence.”

  “I’m not a good man, sir. I may not have hurt you, but I would have.”

  “I’m not a good man, either. I’m not going to judge you.”

  “Who did this to you, sir? Can you remember? I know you’ve talked to the police, but a man with your background, I’m guessing you haven’t said much to them.”

  He smiles tightly. “No, but then, I don’t remember much. The only thing the doctor can tell me is that it looks like I was beaten with knuckle-dusters. Well, they said it might be knuckle-dusters.”

  “Makes sense.” I nod. So it was Ripper and Hitter who went in on him, which means it was Mac who gave the order. My blood turns cold at the thought of Mac playing with me like a chess piece, not only because he’s treating me like a kid now, but also because I guess he must’ve done it in the past without me noticing. Big dumb fucking Hound. Big over-excited fucking Hound. “I want you to know I’m doing everything I can to keep you and your daughter safe, sir.”

  “My daughter?” Dean grinds his teeth. At first I think it’s in anger, but it’s more like he’s thinking deeply. After a long pause, he says, “You and Daisy…Is that possible? That would explain why you’re not killing me.”

  “If she hasn’t told you anything, I don’t think it’s my place.”

  His smile is small and almost shy from his over-inflated face. “But I think you already have, lad.”

  My shoulders slump. “I guess so. I want to tell you something else, too, but I can’t without revealing something that isn’t mine to—”

  “I know that Daisy’s pregnant.”

  I sigh. “I’m the father,” I say. I don’t know what prompts me to come out with this. Maybe I just want to see how he’ll react. All my life I’ve been seeking the approval of men like Dean: father-aged men, men who’ll offer me some kind of encouragement to do something good for a change. “I hope you don’t find that too scary. I only learnt about it earlier today. I guess it’d be yesterday now. I just want you to know that I’ll be the best goddamn father I can be. I swear to that, sir.” If Daisy lets me, I add silently. If Daisy keeps it.

  “Like I said, I’ve met many debt collectors, too damn many, is the truth. And you’re the only one I’ve ever met who I’d consider son-in-law material. But you have to get out of the life, somehow. I might be able to help with that, but—Things are in motion. I think. I hope.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, but the way he’s swaddled, it’s more like he wiggles his eyes. “I really can’t say. Don’t want to risk it.”

  “Alright,” I murmur, wondering if the pain meds are making him speak funny. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  I don’t get a chance to ask, either, because he closes his eyes and starts to snore lightly, drawing in breaths which sound hollow and raspy. The twins really fucked him over, by the sounds of it, but he’ll heal. Which is what Mac wanted: hurt but at no risk of dying, so when he does die, it’s good old obedient Hound who does the job.

  I stand up, looking down at this man and wondering if I ever could’ve busted in his face and collected his teeth like I threatened. Could I have just turned off my brain, like I always do, and went to work on him? I’m not sure. I like to think I wouldn’t have. I like to think I wouldn’t have been able to, since he’s old and broken-looking. But I can’t say for definite, and that scares the shit out of me. Sometimes, it’s like I don’t even know who I am.

  I’m walking through the hospital’s automatic doors, trying to figure out what exactly I’m going to do—persuade Mac that Dean has some money on the way and then try and raise that money myself is looking like the only real option—when Daisy walks toward me. We both stop, looking at each other over the harsh glare of the outside hospital lights, the concrete lit so that you can see every old stain and scuff mark. She’s holding a takeout bag in one hand and a
drink in the other. She slowly removes the straw from her lips.

  “What have you done?” she whispers. “What have you done to him!”

  “Wait!” I approach her, wincing when she recoils from me. “I haven’t hurt him, Daisy. I swear on it.”

  “Then what’re you doing here?” She believes me. That has to count for something.

  Without discussing it, we move to one of the benches which sit along the hospital’s perimeter, away from the lights, where we can only make out each other’s faces by the light coming from the hospital windows and the hiding moon. I tell her about talking with him, about Ripper and Hitter, about Mac, all of it.

  “He wants you to kill Dad as some kind of a test ? He’s a sadist, Hound. How did you ever look up to this man?”