Last Hit (Hitman) (8 page)

We walk a few steps outside of the store, and Nick halts. I barely notice until his hands are on my shoulders, and he’s suddenly standing in front of me.

"Daisy," he murmurs, and his fingers touch my chin to make me look up at him. Those intense eyes are devouring me. "What is wrong?"

For some reason, my lip trembles. "I…you shouldn’t have bought me these things."

His eyes narrow. "Why?" His accent is so thick it sounds more like "vyyy."

"That woman…she thought you were my boyfriend."

He stills and when he speaks, his voice is hard. "You have a boyfriend already? He will be jealous?"

"What? No." I shake my head. "No boyfriend. I just—she doesn’t realize you were just being kind."

A harsh laugh escapes him. "Daisy, there are many things you can call me, but ‘kind’ is not one of them."

It is an odd thing to say. He has been nothing but kind to me.

"It’s too much money."

He considers this for a moment, and then he puts his hand out for the bag. I hand it to him, feeling crushing disappointment. Why am I so hung up on lovely, silky panties? Perhaps it’s not the items themselves, but what they represent.

Old, timid Daisy would never wear such flimsy, sweet, colorful things. And new Daisy wants them more than anything. I want to see that gleam of approval in Nick’s eyes as he sees them on me.

I want to feel special to him. I wonder if he realizes how messed up I am. I’m already clinging to him. I’m a strange, needy little package.

Nick reaches into the bag. He pulls out the receipt, and to my surprise, he crumples it in his hand and tosses it into a nearby trash bin. Then, he holds the bag out to me. "Now you have no choice but to accept my gift,
da?
"

I look at him with wide eyes. “But, Nick. The money…”

He leans in. His pale eyes seem to caress my face, his stare almost too direct. "Which part bothers you," he asks after a moment. "The money or the fact that she thinks you belong to me?"

I feel trapped under Nick’s gaze. He’s staring down at me as if the world hinges on my answer. I feel the same way. I need to find a way to admit how I feel without embarrassing myself. Regan would have something smooth and funny to say in this moment, but all I feel is stupid. Like I’m reading way too much into things and making both of us incredibly uncomfortable.

"Just the money," I whisper. The thought of belonging to him makes me feel hot and breathless. For some reason, I think belonging to Nick would be nothing like my father’s oppressive control. Nick would let me run free, I think. Give me just enough to let me do what I want, but he would always be there to protect me if I needed him.

His hand reaches up and touches my face. Ever so softly, his thumb grazes across my skin. Prickles of awareness shoot through me, and I feel goosebumps rise. I should push his hand away. I should.

I don’t.

Instead, I meet his gaze, incredibly drawn to him. That small, simple touch is mesmerizing me. He leans in, as if he wants to tell me a secret—or kiss me—if I lean in to meet him. The thought makes my pulse flutter all over again.

As he does, I notice his open collar has shifted, and I can see a hint of black on his neck. I’m fascinated. “Is that a tattoo?"

It is the wrong thing to ask. He stiffens, his eyes going cold. He pulls back and shrugs his shoulders, and the enticing glimpse of tattooed skin is gone. He drops his hand, and I’m left cold and alone all over again.

"So," he says. "The clothing is a gift."

I’ve offended him. How awful. I should apologize. But he’s not looking at me anymore, and I can’t find the way to form the words. Instead, I clutch the bag closer. "Thank you."

We walk toward the next store in silence, and I see another couple holding hands. Suddenly, I want that, too. If I brush my hand against his, will he take it? Or will he ignore me?

This, I think, will tell me how he feels about me. If he’s as messed up over me as I already am over him. A normal girl would not be so attached so quickly…but I’m not normal.

I switch the bag to my other hand, leaving one free. Very carefully, I brush it against his as we walk.

He glances over, and I think he realizes what I’m doing. I’m more obvious than I think. I should be embarrassed.

Nick’s fingers lace with mine, and we walk, hand in hand, to the next store. My heart thrums in my chest like it is dancing.

Today is the best day of my life.

Three stores and three large bags of clothing later, I glance at the clock on the wall. "I should get going. I don’t want to be out too late." That, and if I spend any more time with him, he will continue to throw money my way.

This makes him unhappy. He frowns fiercely, and his hand clutches mine tighter. He glances at his watch. "It is barely night."

"Yes it is," I tell him. "Regan told me it’s not safe to hang out outside of the building after dark, though, so I should head in before it gets too late." Regan knows the apartment and knows more about the world outside than I possibly can, so when she warns me, I listen.

"I will go with you to your door."

"I—you don’t have to."

"I do." And he frowns in my direction. "I will keep you safe."

"Of course." I swallow hard, reluctant to leave. I like being here with him. Like talking to him softly about things. While we’ve shopped, I have told him about Regan and my life. Well, as much as I tell anyone. I tell him I’m from a farm, just like I told Regan. I tell him I’m an orphan. I tell him I’m here to find a job and go to college, which is the truth.

Tomorrow I planned on going to the nearby stores and looking for a job that would support me. I need a job desperately. But…I want to see Nick again. And I clutch his hand a little harder. After today, am I going to see him again? I can’t wash my clothes every day in the hopes he will show up. "Do…do you want to go out for coffee tomorrow?"

His cold demeanor melts a little. “Is this—?" He gropes for a word. "A date?" The word sounds foreign on his tongue, like he’s never been on date, let alone used the word before.

"My treat this time," I tell him. “A thank you for the clothing." Even with my meager savings, I can afford a couple of coffees and some sandwiches. And I want to see him again. "I’m not sure what time because my day is pretty busy…but I’d like to get together."

Nick nods. "We will meet. You text me." We walk out to his bike and arrange my bags to ensure they don’t fly away, anchoring them with straps. Then he is putting the helmet back on me, and we’re ready to go home.

I never want to go home ever again. I want to stay here with him, feel the flutter in my stomach when his fingers brush mine. I want that forever.

We drive home in the twilight, down the streets of the nearby neighborhoods. When he pulls up to the crowded apartment building, he coasts up into the parking garage and then stops in front of the elevator.

He’s silent as we head into our building. I’m silent, too. We go up the elevator to the second floor, and I head immediately toward Regan’s apartment. If he asks me to go into his, I don’t know that I have the sense to tell him no.

Not with the memory of his hand on mine, driving me wild and turning my thoughts toward sexual things. We get to the second floor, and I glance around. "Which door is yours?" How close has he been all this time? I can’t believe I’ve lived here for almost two weeks and haven’t seen him before now.

He’s silent for so long that I worry I’ve offended him…or worse, that he doesn’t want to tell me. "It’s okay," I say in a soft voice and turn away. "It’s not a big deal. I was just curious."

His hand grasps mine before I can retreat. "
Nyet,
Daisy. I…I apologize. I do not live in your building."

"You don’t?" I think back to him downstairs and frown.

"My washing machines were broken. Some
mudak
puts bleach in the dryers, so I come borrow yours."

I laugh, relieved. So he doesn’t live in this building and didn’t want to confess? I feel better. "I’m just down the hall," I say shyly, and I gesture toward the doorstep of my apartment. I put my hands out for the bags that he has insisted on carrying for me. "That’s me."

 
“Da.
" He holds the bags for a moment longer, and then he hands them to me. His fingers caress mine as we switch the handles from his fingers to my smaller ones, and I can’t help but gasp at the sensation that moves through me at the gentle caress. My nipples won’t stop hardening while I think about it.

He’s my first flirtation with arousal. I’m twenty-one, and I’ve never been touched so intimately. I think of how scandalized my father would be at the thought of me riding on some man’s motorcycle, of me asking him for a coffee date tomorrow. I can’t help it. He’s forbidden fruit, and I’m Eve standing in front of the apple.

Nick gives me a stiff bow and waits. I realize he won’t leave until I’m safely in, so I give him a trembling, distracted smile and race inside, breathless.

Regan and Mike are making out on the futon sofa. His hands are in her shirt, and I’m pretty sure her jeans are unbuttoned, judging by the way they sag against her bottom. She’s sprawled over Mike, her hips are nestled between his legs, and her tongue snakes across his lips. She glances up at me, gives me a dopey, passion-glazed smile, wiggles her fingers, and then returns her attention back to Mike.

"I’m just going to my room," I breathe, and I leave them behind. Normally I’d be scandalized by Regan’s behavior, but right now I could care less. I want to go to my room so I can think privately about my Ukrainian.

My Ukrainian. Just the thought makes me ache and throb between my legs, which is delicious and terrible all at once.

I head to my room and sling my bags onto the floor. I shut the door and flop down on my bed. I lay there for a long time, thinking. My window is wide open—but I don’t even glance at it. Tonight I’m not missing the stars. Tonight I’m thinking about my Ukrainian.

My Ukrainian. As if he belongs to me. As if he is harboring the same silly crush I have. He held my hand. Bought me panties because he ruined mine. This doesn’t make attraction. I tell myself this even as I pull open my phone and text him.

With my cheap, terrible phone, it’s difficult to text complete sentences, but I manage to type
Let’s meet @ coffee shop dwn street nite aftr tmrw.
If I agree to meet him tomorrow, he will think me too eager. I’ll add a day in there, just so it seems like I’m busier than I really am. I think for a moment more and then send, 6pm k? Then I lay back on the bed and wait, unable to do anything but lose track of the world and daydream.

My phone buzzes sooner than I anticipate. I snatch it up, flip it open, and read the message.

This is not good neighborhood. My apartment is safer. You come to me?

The thrill of excitement fades away under a pang of alarm. Go to his apartment? Now that I have been able to catch my breath away from him, I realize that it would be too forward of me to go to meet him mere feet from his bed. Have I made a bad move, then? Was asking him for coffee akin to me saying "I want to sleep with you?"

I’m naïve, but I’m not stupid. For some reason, this invitation makes me angry. I snap back a text.
Nvrmnd.

Never mind?

I’m not meeting u, however nice, at yr apt.

So you think I am nice, Daisy? I am pleased.

I am flustered at his flirty response.
Im afraid I hav 2 dcline.
It’s hard to text on my stupid phone. I have to constantly click the number key until it scrolls to the right letter, but I do it anyhow, because texting is safer than talking.

He answers immediately.
Apologies. Coffee is fine?

He knows he’s offended me. For some reason, that deflates all of my anger, and I’m left feeling a bit foolish. Maybe in the Ukraine it’s not a big deal for guys to invite girls to their apartments. Maybe it’s not a big deal if you’re dating. But we’re not, and I know I’m a ninny. A Pollyanna, as Regan likes to call me. But this Pollyanna is cautious.

So I reply after thinking it over carefully.
K,
I send back. The coffeehouse is a nice, well lit, central location for us to meet. And I will tell Regan where I am and have her pick me up. If anything weird should arise, I’ll have her come and get me. The coffeehouse is safe enough.

I will see you in two days,
he sends back.

I have a date.
No, not a date,
I tell my fevered mind. It’s simply a thank you. He bought me clothes and gave me a ride on his motorcycle. It’s nothing more than that.

The next day is frustrating. I’ve
worn a modest sweater over a white, high collared blouse. My hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and I am wearing makeup and pressed slacks. I look ready to go to church as I pass out my resume to every business I can find near our building and fill out applications. Most are not hiring. The economy is bad, it’s the wrong time of year for jobs, and I have no work experience at all. The only thing I have going for me is a willingness to work any hours for bad pay.

In the end, the only leads I have are a nearby gas station that needs someone for the overnight shift and another restaurant that also needs someone for a late shift. They promise they will call me.

Job hunting complete, I return home and mope for the entire evening. I wish I’d told Nick that we’d meet tonight, but I had to pretend to be a strong, independent woman. I hate that.

The next day follows much the same—I job hunt until the afternoon winds down, and when I can stand it no longer, I head to the coffeehouse a bit early and get a booth. I bought lip gloss at the corner store and put it on in the bathroom so I can look my best when my Ukrainian arrives. Then, I return to the private booth in the back of the coffee house and open the newspaper I’ve bought, scanning for jobs as I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

It isn’t until six thirty that I realize I have been stood up.