Last Breath (Hitman #2)(3)
Author: Jessica Clare

It didn’t come. Freeze and his guard talked for a long minute in Russian, the words sounding strange in his mouth, though I noticed that no one dared to correct his pronunciation. Then the bodyguard left, and Mr. Freeze stared at me with those cold eyes, watching me.

The Russian housemother came into the room a few minutes later with the bodyguard, and she was clearly nervous.

“This one,” Mr. Freeze said in English. “I like her. I will take her.”

“Fuck you,” I spat from my corner of the room. He wasn’t here to save me at all. He was here to fucking groom me. What an asshole.

“Very well,” the housemother said. “You know her price.”

“It is a rather high price for one that bites,” he said in a chilling voice. “She nearly took off my finger.”

The housemother stopped in place, and then she shot me a killing look. I was going to be punished, I knew it.

"You know how I like my girls,” he told her. They’re still speaking in English, which means he wants me to hear this. “Clean and broken. This one is not clean, nor is she broken.”

“We will keep her clean.”

“And?” He waited.

“I know where we can send her,” the housemother said quickly. “Give Senhor Gomes a month and he will have her gentle as a kitten.”

“A month,” he agreed. “Until then, I want you to have her brush her teeth three times a day. Vitamin supplements with her food. Bathe her daily and make sure someone shaves her twice a week. No hitting her in the face. Condoms for every client. And no drugs. Not even if she asks for them.”

The housemother nodded.

Mr. Freeze got back to his feet and left the room. “I will return to check on her.”

I figured out after that night that Freeze had a blonde fetish of some kind and he liked me. Lucky, lucky me.

He returned once more while I was in Russia, checking my teeth and body and tsking when I tried to bite the fingers he put in my mouth.

The next week, though, everything changed. After three weeks in the brothel in Russia, men came after me with needles full of drugs and a sack they shoved over my face. I’d been terrified, thinking that I’d outlived my usefulness as everyone’s favorite captive American pussy, and now they were going to kill me.

I’d fought, but they’d drugged me before I knew what was happening.

When I woke up, I was in my current room, my ankle chain locked to a new wall, and a dirty mattress in the corner for me. The room was no bigger than a walk-in closet, with a cracked tile floor that slanted toward a drain at the far end of the room and a nice corner bucket for me to shit and piss in. An industrial size box of condoms was set at the foot of the bed. There were cracks in the ceiling and no windows. I hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. I wondered if I’d ever see it again.

My new owners had given me clothing, though—an American flag string bikini covered in beads and itchy sequins. And they talked loudly in a different language. By listening at my door, I figured out that I was now in Rio de Janeiro.

And the Rio brothel was run by Senhor Gomes. I remembered that name—Freeze had mentioned it.

Being Freeze’s new little plaything had apparently gotten me sent here to Rio. But captive blonde American pussy was as hot in Rio, and neither Gomes nor Freeze cared who fucked me as long as they didn’t mess me up.

Freeze has visited me once while I’ve been in Rio. I bit and fought and spit in his face. It was like he didn’t notice, though. He simply watched me with those cold eyes, checked my teeth, insisted that they wax my eyebrows into shape, and left.

He’d wait for me to be broken.

The customers in Rio are no different than the Russian customers. They like to rough a fighter up. They like to hit and smack around a girl before they fuck her. I’m sure there are nice men out in the world that just want to screw and cuddle, but that’s not who come to the whorehouse of Senhor Gomes. They’re here because they like to be rough with girls, and I’m here because Freeze wants to break me. But I’m not broken yet.

I sit upright, and Alma comes to me with a towel and a shower cap. We’ve fallen into habit already, and I move to the corner of the room, above the drain and as far as the chain will let me go. Today isn’t shaving day, so I pull my hair into the shower cap and she turns on a water-hose that is connected to the sink in the room. Like an animal, she hoses me down, and I feel a little more of my humanity die with this ritual.

Paying customers don’t want to touch a dirty whore. Everyone uses condoms, not just because Freeze says so, but because they don’t want to catch anything I might have. Fuckers.

Once my awful shower is done, I towel off, trying to ignore the fact that the towel smells like someone else’s perfume. I don’t want to think about how many other whores have used it before me. I let down my hair, and she hands me my American flag bikini again. It’s faded and grimy, but I never get to wear it for long.

Then, I’m given a travel toothbrush and toothpaste, and I brush my teeth obligingly, then spit into the grate. Ironic that now I get to spit instead of swallow.

Alma gives me an apologetic smile and grabs the towel, refolds it, and leaves the room quietly.

I curl up on the mattress, hugging my legs to my chest and waiting. There will be another man soon enough, and then Freeze, so I enjoy the moment of silence while I can. My lip hurts, a bit puffy from where the last man hit me, and I touch it with my fingertips, wincing.

Then, I lay my head back against the wall, thinking. My mind is filled with the gun and the man I was forced to service, and my stomach roils uncomfortably again. I swallow hard and force myself to think of zombie movies, instead. E. I don’t know what movies begin with E. This one will require some thought. Maybe something with “Enemy” in the title.

I ponder this for minutes, staring at nothing, when there is a knock at the door again. I get to my feet automatically. God, I hope it’s not the man with the gun again. I don’t think I could stomach seeing him twice in one night.

But when the door opens, it’s not Freeze.

The man that steps in is unexpected. He’s accompanied by Senhor Gomes, the master, a man I have only seen once but hear about all the time. Gomes looked me over when I arrived and then left, as if I were an uninteresting piece of property.

The man with him is tall, good-looking, and wears a casual suit. He’s got nice brown hair, sharp eyes, and I can tell immediately from the cast of his features that he’s American.