Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  “Nyet, I drive. I know area.” He tries the door of the car, but it’s locked.

  “Is that your car?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  I do, actually. But this seems to be a chastisement, so I quiet and don’t offer to drive again. Strangers are always so prickly and difficult to read.

  He looks around again, grabs a nearby rock, and then smashes it through the window. Glass rains down and he sweeps it aside with a sleeve, then unlocks the car door and opens it. More glass is brushed onto the concrete, and then he hunches under the steering column. Long moments pass, and he cusses.

  I adjust my cap again and glance around. This man is stealing someone’s car. No one’s coming out to stop us, though, and I wonder if he’s a frightening man. Am I supposed to be frightened? I have a hard time reading emotions, and so I don’t get scared of the same people that most do. But I remember Daniel’s girlfriend looked alarmed when this man glared at her. I study him as he crouches at the floorboard and jerks a panel off of the car.

  He’s a large man. Enormous, really. He’s taller than anyone I know, and his arms are as big around as a tree trunk. His blond hair is cut short, and his clothes are crisp. That’s good. I like neat clothing. Messy people have messy minds. He carries a gun, too, I remember. Maybe that’s what makes him scary. I mostly find guns interesting. All those moving parts working in harmony.

  After a moment, he swears again and jerks at the wiring. “Are you trying to steal this car?” I ask, since he looks like he needs help.

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re not very pleasant.” Even I know that this man’s an ass.

  “Unless you want bullet in brain, shut up.”

  I don’t want a bullet in my brain, actually, so I quiet. But I continue to watch him fumble with the wiring and fail miserably at hot-wiring the car. It’s obvious this man’s not an Aspie like me. If he were, he’d be able to actually figure out which wires start the ignition.

  After a long moment, he swears and emerges from the front seat, a dark scowl on his face. He glances down the street. “Come. We walk.”

  “We’re not taking this car?”

  “Nyet.”

  “But you just broke the window—”

  “Walk,” he snarls.

  I consider this for a moment, then climb into the car’s front seat. “Do you have a knife?”

  He stares at me. “Come, we go.”

  This man’s favorite word is apparently come. Maybe he needs to learn more English. I will suggest a language website for him to visit later, after we’ve figured out the car situation. “Did you want to take this car? I can hot-wire it for you, but I need a knife.”

  He stares at me for so long that I wonder if he didn’t hear me. Then, he shifts and takes a pocketknife out of his slacks and flips the blade open, pointing it at my face.

  It’s an inch from my eyeball. Not an ideal place to hold a knife, but all I can see is that it’s perfect for what I need. I smile and pluck the blade from him. “Thank you.” I take it and jam it into the ignition, then pound on the end until I’m sure it’s shoved in hard. Then, I give it a twist. I gun the gas pedal, admiring the way it purrs. Oh, I like this car. It’s not pretty on the inside, but the engine is clearly refurbished. “There we go.” I beam at it and pet the steering column. I love cars. Then I look at the stranger to see if he’s as impressed with my handiwork. “On some older models, you can break the locking pins in the ignition. I’ve used a screwdriver in the past, but your knife works just as well.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me—it looks like a blond caterpillar. Then he gestures at the passenger seat. Right, I don’t get to drive. I brush a few crumbs of glass off the seat and then slide over. He gets in on the driver’s side and pulls away from the curb.

  Not a word of thank you. Hmph. Disgruntled, I buckle in and try not to touch anything that I don’t have to.

  Germs, you know.

  “You’re not a very good thief,” I point out to him.

  “I am not thief,” he says in a rather unpleasant tone. “I am boss.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  VASILY

  When I pull up to Tivoli Mofarrej in São Paulo, the doorman is affronted. It is a testament to the high ethos of service that he opens the door for Naomi to exit the car. I slip him one hundred euros.

  “Shall I valet this?” he asks.

  I nod as if I did not just bring a vehicle that is barely drivable to the most expensive hotel in Brazil. I’ve long since learned that if you act as if you belong, everyone will treat you accordingly. Naomi is planted in the middle of the portico, looking upward at the glass tiles. Placing my hand on her back, I urge her forward.

  She jerks away as if I have burned her. “I don’t like to be touched.”

  “It is destiny,” I quip. “I do not enjoy being touched either, but standing out in the portico is not enjoyable, so let us enter.”

  Slowly she moves forward, mouthing something that sounds like numbers. She sounds as if she is . . . counting. Counting the glass tiles? The tiles on the floor? I know not and neither do I care. I want to get to our suite, shower off the glass, blood, and scum, and find our target. I pray it is not here, because Brazil is too hot for my blood. I prefer the harsh, bitter winters to the humid air that at times is as thick as a swamp.

  The lobby of the Tivoli Mofarrej is blinding in its whiteness from the sheets of polished limestone tile to the white desks and white limestone wall partitions.

  Naomi stops short. “I like this.”

  “What?” I ask impatiently.

  “The white. It’s soothing.”

  Images of the black leather sofas populating the suite we’re staying in materialize in my mind. “You’ll like black, too,” I tell her and push her forward.

  “I told you I don’t like to be touched. Do you have a hearing deficit?” She frowns. “Because at first I was concerned that perhaps it is your English, but you seem to speak it quite well. Maybe it is your hearing then? You are young to have hearing problems. Is it hereditary? The most common birth defect is diminished hearing. Genetics are responsible for at least sixty percent of hearing deficits in infants so it’s most likely your hearing loss is due to your parents. Were one or more of your parents hearing challenged?”

  I look at her blankly.

  “Deaf. That’s what I mean by hearing challenged. Challenged is the word you’re supposed to use instead of other things. Like instead of mute, voice challenged. Or instead of handicapped, it’s physically challenged. I learned that in college. I’m socially challenged, but maybe it doesn’t translate into Russian. You’re Russian, right?”

  “Yes. What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t. There was a Russian student in my art history course. Your accent was similar. I remember him telling me he was from a certain region—southern maybe? I didn’t much like the course. My advisor forced me to take it, saying that I needed some liberal arts to make my education well rounded, but learning about painting and politics did not assist me in creating better code. I like to write code. Code makes sense. Art does not.”

  “No, I suppose it does not. It is meant to make you feel.” She looks disgusted as if feelings are a cursed thing. Naomi Hays is an odd girl, even odder than her fast-talking brother. “You are not much like your brother,” I remark.

  This makes her scowl deepen. “Because he is funny. Everyone likes funny people.”

  After a deluge of words, she shuts up at this. I make note to avoid comparisons with her brother in the future.

  “I do not find Daniel Hays humorous,” I answer. “Rather he is irritating but competent. I suspect that is a trait you both share.”

  “Competent.” She considers that word for a moment, possibly running through all the dictionary definitions and permutations before responding. “I’ll accept that. Why are we standing in the lobby?”

  I open my mouth to tell her that I have been waiting for her. Instead, I g
ive her a brief smile and, remembering her earlier complaints, I do not touch her but instead gesture for the elevator. “Shall we go up to our room?”

  “Do I have my own room? I like quiet. I don’t want to be disturbed. Will we be going home after this?”

  “You shall have your own room. There are three bedrooms in the presidential suite. One overlooks Trianon Park.”

  When we step into the elevator, I note that she stands in the precise middle and hold her arms close to her sides. She counts again, not the floor numbers that tick by as we speed to the twenty-second floor, but something else.

  “What do you count, Naomi?” I ask, curious.

  She does not respond or look at me. I realize then that she rarely looks at my face. In the lobby she looked around her and at my chest but hardly ever at my face. At first I thought that she was busy taking in her surroundings, but now I think it is something else. Her fingers brush over the rim of her cap repeatedly. It’s so tattered that the white board of the bill is peeking through the loose threads.

  Many women like my face. Too many. I’ve scars but it does little to deter the opposite sex. Yet, she is not interested. I peruse her body as her attention is distracted. She’s voluptuous—large breasted, nipped-in waist, and wide hips. If I were a man who enjoyed sex, I would want her.

  When the bell rings signaling our arrival on the floor, she does not immediately step off. Instead she watches as the doors open and then as they begin to close again. Swiftly I extend an arm and press the Door Open button and I wait. My body is close to hers, close but not touching. There’s a hand’s width of space between us. If I leaned forward, we would be flush from groin to ass and chest to back. And still we wait.

  Her breathing evens out to match mine. From my much taller vantage point, I watch her large tits rise and fall with each measured intake and exhale. My hands are oversized but I suspect if I palmed her breasts, they would overflow my palms. My heart rate quickens slightly as an image of her tied to my bed while I fuck her generous tits plays out in glorious Technicolor.

  “Your breathing is erratic,” she says.

  “Yours as well,” I note. Her chest is moving rapidly, the rhythm giving a sprightly bounce to her fleshy mounds. I visualize what they might look like at the moment her bra is loosened, how they’d spill out, bouncing nicely. Insane. I shake myself, for I am not one to be transported by lust. I do not like to be touched. I do not like women. Lust is not in my vocabulary.

  “Why is yours getting faster?” Her tone holds genuine curiosity. Could it be this easy? Could I seduce her into complying with my demands? I have fucked women I’ve hated, and I do not hate Naomi. Apparently my body likes her quite well. I glance down at my waist to see if there is visible evidence of arousal. I so rarely feel physical desire that the tightening of my trousers is foreign and almost strange.

  “If I share with you, will you return the favor?” I murmur.

  “Certainly,” she responds immediately.

  “I’m visualizing you on my bed, nude. Your hands are tied above your head. Your back is arched. My hands are pushing your breasts together to form a snug channel for my cock. As I shuttle between your breasts, my cockhead hits your chin. Your tongue darts out to lick it occasionally.” I take an infinitesimal step forward, still not touching her but so close that the slightest movement would have her pressed against my growing erection. Despite my aversion to touching, there is something about her that calls to me. Her lushness, perhaps? Or merely my own inexplicable physical response to her nearness. I dip my head down close to her ear. “What is your excuse?”

  She presses a hand to her chest, touching the top of one of those beautiful tits. “I don’t know.” She sounds genuinely bewildered—as am I. She won’t look at me, but she leans closer, as if compelled. Encouraging.

  Before I can question her more, the security buzzer sounds on the elevator. The sharp, intrusive sound causes Naomi to yelp and clap her hands over her ears. Dropping to the floor, she begins to rock much like she did in the van when shots were being fired at our backs.

  The buzzing of the elevator along with Naomi’s cries fill the room with cacophonous sound and brings Aleksei at a run. Any arousal I felt vanishes. Naomi is my most important weapon in the fight for my sister, my Bratva. If she is not well, my trip is for naught. I must be careful with her.

  “What in Christ’s name is wrong?” he bellows.

  “Nothing,” I yell back. Disregarding Naomi’s desire to remain untouched, I pick her up and carry her into the living room and deposit her on a black sofa. She remains stiff in her crouched position, hands clapped over her ears. The elevator is still buzzing.

  “Go, Aleksei,” I order. “Get rid of the elevator. And the noise.”

  Crouching down by Naomi, I ask, “What can I get for you?” Had I shocked her with my words? I curse my low-class upbringing. Naomi, with her tender skin and delicate appearance, is too gentle for my street roughness. No matter that I look like I belong, I do not. I am not born to the Bratva or to some higher family. I am simply a killer with an elevated status, looking for an obscene painting that will cement my position as king of evildoers. It is disgust for me that she is displaying.

  I cast around for the right words to say to her. “I should not have talked in that fashion to you,” I say, dropping my head so she need not look at my face. The sound of the elevator ceases, and the footsteps of Aleksei stop directly behind me.

  “What are you doing?” He sounds scandalized, likely affronted that I am beneath this woman. For I am Vasily Petrovich, the ostensible leader of the most powerful criminal brotherhood in northern Europe. We Petrovichs bow to no one and most assuredly not in front of a slip of a woman.

  “She is the Emperor,” I say simply.

  A short silence ensues and then, “I see.”

  His footsteps carry him away to the far side. I hear the clink of glass and then he returns. “Here, vodka,” he offers.

  Naomi has stopped rocking, but it is as if she is unaware that we are here. I rise from my crouching position and sit beside her on the sofa. I take the vodka and gesture for Aleksei to bring another. “Bring the bottle,” I call when he reaches the bar. Naomi flinches at my loud voice.

  I take note of that, too. She does not like to be touched. She does not like loud noises. She likes white. Perhaps I should call the butler assigned to our suite and see if the black furnishings can be traded out for white. I’ll see how long we need to stay here before I do. I take a long sip of my vodka. “Good stuff.” I tip my glass toward Aleksei in a mock salute.

  He cocks his head toward Naomi with a wordless question.

  “We are in no hurry,” I respond. “Nothing needs to be done today.”

  Following my lead, Aleksei drinks his vodka and I pour him another. Stretching one arm across the back of the sofa, I turn my body slightly to form a barrier for Naomi. She may not like to be touched, but I want her to be clear that she is safe here.

  “What happened?”

  “Daniel Hays and I with the help of Senhor Mendoza mounted an offensive against Hudson during his birthday party. Hays discovered his woman and Naomi here in the basement. Naomi is Mr. Hays’s sister.”

  “Ahhh.” His eyebrows shoot up. “Mr. Hays allowed you to take his sister.”

  I laugh, but cognizant that Naomi is sitting next to me, I give a partial truth. “Mr. Hays and his woman went with Mendoza. We came here.”

  He nods, understanding. “Then all is well.”

  “Yes, all is well,” I confirm.

  “I can call for the jet.”

  Looking at Naomi, who has now dropped her hands from her ears and is currently sitting cross-legged with her hands in her lap but still not fully present, I shake my head. “Not yet. We will wait. But do call the concierge and have some clothes delivered. Perhaps from the Miu Miu store on the corner. Shoes, undergarments. All of it.”

  With that, Aleksei drains his vodka and then rises. “I will leave you, then. Call
if you need more assistance.”

  I watch him as he leaves. I’ve brought him along because . . . I do not trust him. Better to keep your enemies closer. When he disappears into one of the bedrooms, I turn my attention back to Naomi.

  Setting the glass on the coffee table, I pour another finger. A hand reaches out to stop me from lifting it to my lips.

  “Can I try?” Naomi asks.

  “Certainly.” I hand her my glass and she turns it all the way around until she finds the place on the rim of the glass where I placed my own mouth. Shockingly, her tongue darts out and runs along the edge. I feel the reverberation of her actions in my groin. The cheap wool of my borrowed pants is once again constricting, and the need to reach down and squeeze my cock to ease the sudden ache seizes me. Her lips open then and cover the exact location where mine touched. I muffle a groan. She turns the glass to the opposite side and takes another sip.

  “I think it’s sweeter when I drink where you drink. Will you try again so I can test it?”

  What can I do but agree. “Lift it to my lips, then,” I order.

  She does and I drink, ensuring a wide placement of my tongue and lips on the glass. The test is run again as she drinks first from my side of the glass and then the opposite.

  “Your heart is beating erratically again.”

  “So it is,” I say. My blood is pounding in my ears and in my cock, but I don’t make the mistake of telling her this. I do not want to scare her away. Truly, I don’t know what I want. I’ve never sat so close to a woman as fine as Naomi; even with her odd quirks she is lovely to behold and interesting to listen to. I cannot help but move closer.

  “Mine too.” She places her hand over her chest again. “You were saying things in the elevator and they made my heart pound faster and I felt warm. Very warm.”

  I shutter my eyes to hide my shock. She was aroused by my words, not disgusted. Carefully I test her. “Would you want me to talk to you like that again?”

  I watch her think about it. It is as if I can actually see the gears moving inside her brilliant mind as she considers my request.