Last Hit: Reloaded Read online

  I laugh again. My Nick would be happy if the world consisted of no one but him and I. I wish I could be so easily pleased and not need outside friendship.

  “So,” Nick says as we return to washing dishes. “How do we call bar and tell them we have party there?”

  I shake my head and laugh as I dip a plate into the water. Count on Nick to do things backwards. “I can call them and make arrangements. When will it be?”

  “This Saturday.”

  “So soon?” It’s already Wednesday. My mind is aflutter with preparations.

  Nick’s upbringing was odd, but mine was an equal mess. I suppose that’s why we mesh so well together. My life was fine until my mother was murdered. From there, it was like a switch flipped inside my father. He became agoraphobic and withdrew into our farmhouse, turning it into a fortress. During the daytime, he’d homeschool me. At night, we’d practice firing guns in the basement. My father controlled every aspect of my life from that point on; from what I wore to what I read, and always what I watched on television or saw on the Internet. My only interactions with the outside world were when I left the house to run errands that my father couldn’t handle, and so my worldview is skewed. I can fire a gun with incredible accuracy but I’ve never seen a single show on MTV.

  On the television shows I watched—Happy Days, The Andy Griffith Show, I Love Lucy and Donna Reed—the only shows allowed to me growing up—parties were fascinating affairs with balloons and tablecloths and party dresses with puffy skirts. But I know from my few excursions with Regan that this isn’t how clubs are. How can these two things possibly mesh? Regan would know, but she hasn’t been quick to answer my texts lately because it’s calving season at the ranch, and they’re running ragged. Nick will have no idea, so I’ll have to call the bar and find out what I need to bring. “I think I might need a party dress,” I tell Nick. “Something with a nice skirt.”

  “Spare no expense,” Nick tells me.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not in charge of the finances,” I tease him. “Or you’d have me wearing a dress of pure gold.”

  “You need no adornments for your beauty,” Nick says.

  I rinse the last plate and then hand it to him. He dries it and I towel off my hands, eyeing him. “Will you wear a suit to the party?” Men always dress so proper on TV at parties. I should probably watch one of the modern shows like that Real Housewives thing, but I have so much homework and so much planning to do before Saturday. I’ll try to squeeze an episode in, maybe.

  “Would you like me in suit?” he asks.

  I imagine him dressed in black formal attire, beautiful and regal, and my hands go to his plain T-shirt. I smooth my fingers down his chest. “I’d love to see it.”

  ***

  The next day before class, we drop by my father’s apartment. It was difficult getting him to move in with us, even though he likes to be closer. It allows us to visit him every time that we head off to classes. Scheduled. Expected. Otherwise, my father panics. I wish I could say he was doing better now that he’s moved locations, but he’s doing the best he can. Inside his small apartment, the windows are tightly covered and sealed. He’s taped garbage bags over them to allow no light in, and I know he sits with a gun under the seat cushion of his favorite chair, as well as one under the bed. This is typical of my father. He no longer lives in the old farmhouse, but he still can’t let go of his agoraphobic tendencies. Someday, I hope he’ll be able to take down the window covers and enjoy the sunlight. For now, it’s a baby step just to have him here in the building with me.

  Nick and I approach Father’s door, and I knock four times in a row, each knock evenly spaced. It’s our signal to let him know it’s me and not a stranger. Then I wait patiently as he checks the peephole, unlocks the six deadbolts, and opens the door to let us in.

  “Daisy,” my father says, and kisses my cheek. “Come in, girl.”

  We have a pattern when we visit my father. Nick comes inside with me, but stands at the door as we do so. It is so my father can relax, he tells me, and it seems to work. My father is almost his old self when I visit.

  Almost.

  When we enter the apartment today, it reeks of dog urine and feces. I wrinkle my nose at the smell and try not to hold my nostrils closed. He has a dog walker that comes by three times a day to let Peanut out, but if the dog walker doesn’t arrive on schedule, Father won’t answer the door. Which means Peanut makes a mess. “Father?” I ask. “Was the dog walker late?”

  “It was a stranger today,” my father says. “You know I don’t let strangers in.” He returns to his favorite chair and picks up his newspaper. As he does, Peanut runs over and jumps in his lap, burrowing down happily.

  I sigh in frustration. “You have a dog, Father. He needs to go outside to use the bathroom. You know if the dog walker doesn’t come by, you can call me and I’ll take care of it.”

  “I don’t want you wandering around outside, either, Daisy. It’s not safe.” He gives me an incredulous look. “There are criminals outside.” But he pets the dog’s long, floppy ears and looks more relaxed than normal, so I let it go. If my father is happy with his apartment reeking of dog poop for a few days, so be it. I shoot Nick an unhappy look, and he simply gives his head a small shake. “I’ll come by this weekend and steam your carpets clean, Father. Just tell me what time you want me to come.”

  “I will look at my schedule,” my father says gravely, though we both know he doesn’t have a schedule.

  “Not Saturday,” Nick says from his post by the door. “Saturday, Daisy is busy.”

  I light up at the reminder. “Yes! Father, Nick and I are having a party at a pub this Saturday.” I had to offer lots of money to the pub for them to accept our “surprise” party but it’s all scheduled now, and I’m excited. “There will be lots of students and free beer. Would you like to come?”

  A flash of terror crosses my father’s face, and the hand stroking Peanut’s long ears tightens. The dog flinches, but doesn’t move away. Good dog. “No parties for me, daughter.”

  I nod my understanding, though my heart hurts that he won’t leave his apartment. Despite all the progress we’ve made, my father is just as much a hermit as before. What’s worse, he won’t even try.

  I feel a stab of pity for him . . . and then for myself.

  Father won’t even try to go out and make friends. Am I the same? Am I turning into my father without even realizing it? Do I not make friends because I don’t try hard enough?

  As I reach out and squeeze my father’s hand, I resolve that I won’t end up in the same situation as him. I won’t be alone, friendless, and afraid of life. With Nick at my side, I can do anything.

  I simply have to try harder.

  ***

  At lunch between classes, I head to my usual table to sit alone, and then I stop. There, at a bench in the patio area, the girl from Principles of Architecture is there. She is bent over a book—a paper one—and furiously working on what looks like the homework from the day before. I see her sitting there, and I clutch my brown bag lunch a little tighter.

  She’s all alone. We have something in common. How hard can it possibly be to sit down and make a friend?

  My stomach clenches in fear at the thought, but I ignore it. I have to try. So I suck up my courage, hold my lunch in front of me, and approach the table.

  She looks up and flinches as I sit down across from her, as if startled.

  “You’re looking at me as if I’m waving a gun,” I say, and I’m trying to make my tone all casual, but it comes out choked up and awkward.

  Her eyes widen and she starts to gather her things.

  I’ve done it again. “Oh, please don’t go!” I blurt out. “I don’t bite and I don’t have a gun, I promise.”

  She looks startled at my words.

  “Please,” I repeat. I’m not above begging. “I’m sorry if I’m strange. I’m just . . . I don’t have friends and don’t know how to make one. And the more nervous
I get, the more words just fall out of my mouth.”

  She hesitates, but she’s not leaving anymore. Her big brown eyes blink at me a moment, and then she offers the tiniest of smiles. “I’m Christine.”

  I exhale an enormous breath. “I’m so relieved. I mean . . . I’m Daisy.”

  Her smile grows a bit wider, as if my audible discomfort is relaxing to her. “New student?”

  “Homeschooled up until I started college,” I tell her. It sounds overly simplistic, but I don’t share my background with others.

  The look on her face turns utterly sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” I say, smiling. “I did better when I had an outgoing friend, but she’s moved away and now I don’t know what to say to people without her here.”

  “Ah,” Christine says.

  We smile at each other an awkward moment longer, and then she gestures at the paperwork in front of her. “I really should work on this. I’m close to failing class as it is.”

  “Do you need help?” I offer, eager to be of assistance. I fumble to take out my notes. “I finished the questions last night.”

  “Can I copy your papers?” she asks.

  I feel a twinge of unhappiness at that, but she’s smiling at me, so I stuff that feeling away. “Of course.” I give her my paper and she begins to immediately copy down all of the answers I spent hours poring over last night.

  There’s nothing new to converse about, and I watch her work, feeling awkward. I feel as if I speak, I’ll interrupt her. So I grab my brown-bag lunch instead and pull out my food. Nick is in charge of lunches, and he always crams the bag full of things because he wants to make sure I am well fed. Today I have a huge stuffed sandwich, two kinds of chips, a cookie, an apple, and a bottle of soda.

  As I unwrap my sandwich, Christine’s gaze jerks up from the paper and she stares at my food. She looks hungry, but she’s not eating. I bite my lip in worry. Have I made a faux pas by pulling out my food? “I’m sorry—should I put this away?”

  “No, of course not,” she says. “It’s lunchtime. You should eat.” Even as she says this, her stomach growls. She ignores it and bends over her textbook again.

  For the first time, I note her clothing. She wears an old T-shirt and jeans, and her jacket is threadbare at the cuffs. Her textbook is old, highlighted from previous users, and the pages are puffy with water damage. It must have been dirt cheap. She has no iPad, no smartphone, nothing.

  Me, on the other hand? I am wearing matching La Perla panties and bra, a cashmere sweater Nick bought me, and an expensive pair of black slacks. I refuse to wear the floor-length fur Nick bought me when it’s cold, so I bundle with soft alpaca scarves that probably cost more than this girl’s entire wardrobe.

  I’m such a jerk. Maybe she can’t afford lunch. I think for a moment, and then pick up one bag of chips. “I . . . I hate to ask,” I say, not sure how she’s going to take my lie. “But I have too much food here and I’m trying to watch what I eat. Do you want some of this?”

  She looks at me hungrily again, and then looks around. I wonder what she’s looking for. Eventually, she stops scanning the area and hunches low over the table. “I shouldn’t eat your lunch,” she says. “I’m . . . my boyfriend wants me to lose weight, too.”

  “We can split my sandwich,” I say. “It’s cut into two parts.” I offer her one and a bag of chips. I want to give her the cookie and the apple, too, but one thing at a time.

  She takes it, wolfs a huge bite out of the sandwich, and then sets it down on the table closer to me than to her. Her hands cover her face and she’s doing her best to look as if she’s not eating at all. I take a small bite out of my sandwich, wondering at her behavior. “If anyone asks,” she says after a moment, “that’s not my food, okay?”

  I nod, mystified. I take another bite of my sandwich, and she does that weird commons-scan again before reaching across the table to grab another bite of her half.

  As we finish our food and Christine hands back my notes, I’m feeling warm. I’ve shared lunch with a friend who probably doesn’t have the money to afford lunch. We’ve shared notes for class. Christine and I have a bond now. “Do you want to come to a party this Saturday?” I ask her. When her expression remains cautious, I offer, “It’s free beer and food.”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I’ll see if my boyfriend wants to go,” she says.

  I brighten. This is the second mention she’s made of a boyfriend. “My fiancé, Nick, is the one throwing the party,” I tell her. “I’ll have to introduce you sometime. He’s a little scary looking to most people but I promise he’s wonderful.”

  For some reason, Christine’s hunted expression softens. She smiles. “That’s how my Saul is. People think he’s no good, or that I shouldn’t be with him . . . but they don’t know him.”

  “Exactly,” I say, shocked at how well she’s summed up things. “That’s exactly it. Like they don’t know the man that I do, and they’re just judging based on outward appearances.”

  She nods again, and her smile widens. “I know just what you mean.”

  We walk to class together, and it’s like the ice has broken between us. Christine and I chat about trivial things like the next topic on the syllabus or how we’re going to possibly get to class on time when the heavy Minnesota snows come. During class, we sit next to each other, and I feel a weird sense of pride when she’s able to turn in her homework, and she flashes a grateful smile at me.

  I’m practically lit up with pleasure by the time class is over, and when everyone surges out of class, I’m there with the rest of them. Nick is waiting by the door, and I fling myself into his arms, joyful, and kiss his wonderful, handsome face.

  He chuckles at my exuberance. “Well, hello to you, kotehok.”

  “Nick,” I breathe. “Kolya! I have a friend.” And I kiss him again, so happy I could burst.

  Chapter 4

  Nikolai

  I squeeze one shot off and then three more in quick succession. Under the protective headgear, I hear the crack of the bullet as it exits the barrel of my .357 Magnum. It is a used gun I have purchased off of Craigslist, a veritable treasure trove of unlicensed weaponry. I buy several a week, all untraceable because even though I am no longer a hit man, I must continue to hone my skills. There are dangers everywhere. Some very close to home. I fire the rest of the magazine into the target at the far end. There are not enough bullets in this room to shoot the stupidity out of my target.

  I know because I have exhausted nearly fifty rounds and remain dissatisfied. With a press of the button, the target speeds toward me. It is a nice constellation of shots, four in the heart and seven in the forehead. I shot them in an arch from one temple to the other.

  Ripping down the paper, I attach another target and send it down the firing lane. Methodically, I insert eleven new bullets into the magazine and slam it into place. I’ve never been so angry when I’ve shot a firearm. Being a hit man requires cool precision, not hotheaded rage.

  “You’re quite the marksman,” a man says from my rear. I do not need to turn to look to see who is the speaker. It is a dark-haired male, six feet, approximately twenty-five to thirty, wearing light blue jeans, and a plaid shirt that is partially untucked in the front. He is wearing boots and has an easy familiarity with the Smith & Wesson M&P 9-millimeter handgun. An easy weapon to use for a beginner and one that I have seen on the hip of every municipal police officer I have encountered.

  He has watched me before but I am trying to assimilate, and there are only a few indoor ranges in this city that have long-distance firing lanes, so I have returned to this one, closest to my home. This is the first time he has spoken to me.

  “Thank you,” I answer. Another time I would have ignored him, but not after the disastrous party. That evening revealed how poorly Daisy and I are integrating into society. I am forcing myself to take actions that are antithetical to me, such as replying to this strange man.

  In the reflection of the
large protective eyewear we are forced to wear, I can make out his shape. He leans against the wall, his ankles and arms crossed. It’s a pose of feigned nonchalance. The tops of his fingers brush against the gun holstered at his waist, and his shoulders are tense. If I turned with the gun in my hand, he would no doubt attempt to subdue me.

  “Trying to kill someone?” he asks lightly.

  “Yes,” is my terse reply. “Myself.”

  I fire again to shut him out. The party was a catastrophe. If I read people better, I might have picked up on the odd looks of the bartenders as we walked into the shabby pub. The waitstaff stared at us with raised eyebrows. Foolishly I believed it was because of Daisy’s beauty. But as the night wore on, even one as dense as I am knew we looked like fools—me in my dark suit and tie, carefully picked out at a designer suit store at the mall, and Daisy in her frock. We looked ridiculous—caricatures of people.

  The students who came to eat our food and drink our beer stared at us with wide eyes and stifled laughs behind their hands. Beside me, Daisy was a wilted flower, the edges of her mouth turned down, her hair hanging limply around her neck, and her shoulders drooping.

  We retreated to a corner, where we stood alone, my arm around her bared shoulders giving what weak comfort I could. Her eyes scanned the room again and again, looking for her friend, but that person never appeared.

  The gun that hung at the small of my back called for me to release it from its confines as if bullets could somehow right our tottering ship.

  Now I aim that gun at the target, envisioning the head and torso as my own. In my stupidity, I allowed Daisy to be mocked. She has never felt as ostracized and weird as she does now. Her sleep was restless, and this morning her beautiful face was tight and pinched. When I suggested she skip her class on Monday, she refused but I could see the dread surrounding her like a dark, ugly cloud.

  Another round, another perfect constellation of holes in the target, yet my dissatisfaction is unrelieved. As I pack my case, the watcher ambles over. He grabs one of the discarded targets and holds it up to the light. This one I’ve shot out the eyes, mouth and made a large hole in the center of the forehead. “I haven’t seen that kind of control over that distance since the FBI sent in a sharpshooter to train some of my coworkers.”