Last Breath (Hitman #2)(45)
Author: Jessica Clare

I tune out as Daniel keeps up a steady stream of chatter with both me and the cab driver. He’s playing the role of a young newlywed tourist with great aplomb, occasionally giving me affectionate little touches that keep reminding me of the surprise kiss I reacted so badly to a short time ago. I do my part to keep up the pretense, but I’m sure it’s clear to both Daniel and the cabbie that I’m miles away mentally.

We get to the hotel, check in, and head up to our room—all the while Daniel is yakking in my ear about sightseeing tours and the nude beaches of Brazil, hand at my waist. It rests close to my gun, a reminder that despite the smiling people and pristine appearance of this hotel, we’re no safer than we were before.

The room is gorgeous, though. It has a king-size bed with fresh linens, a stack of fluffy towels waiting on the corner of the bed, and a lovely view of the city from the balcony. The bathroom’s bigger than my old apartment.

As we enter the room, Daniel locks and chains the door behind us, moves a dresser in front of the door, and then pulls the curtains closed. Then, he turns to look at me.

“So,” he says. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Daniel

REGAN TURNS AWAY , HER FACE flushing with . . . embarrassment? Shame? I’m not sure. She doesn’t need to feel either. I’m damn confused. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m trying to understand so I don’t make the same mistake again.” I watch as she wanders around the room, opening doors and drawers to look for something. Or at least not to look at me. I dump our packs on the floor and head to the minibar. Inside I find a bottle of vodka. Perfect. Picking up the bag from the pharmacy with the superglue that we stopped at before hitting the hotel, I set up shop in the bathroom.

“What’re you doing?”

“Making a mess,” I joke, pouring the bottle of alcohol over the open wound that is now bleeding again. “Fuck that hurts.”

“Here let me help you.” She pushes my hand away. Handing her the bottle of vodka, I pull off my shirt and lean against the sink, watching her in the mirror. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth as she pulls slightly at the skin to open the wound. “Looks bad,” she comments.

“Looks worse than it actually is.” I gesture toward the bottle. “Pour that on and then glue me up.”

“Is this really safe?”

“Yup. Did it all the time in combat.” Truthfully we had Dermabond, a medical-grade glue, over there, but the only real difference is that the Dermabond burned less and was stronger. Superglue will do fine.

“Okay.” She grits her teeth as if she’s the one getting burning alcohol poured all over her open wound, but I’ve suffered worse so I tip my head back and bite the inside of my cheek as she sets my side on fire. Then cool air hits my side, causing me to glance down. Regan’s kneeling beside me blowing little puffs of cool relief onto my wound. The sight of her down so close to my groin is setting something else afire. I grab for some tissue and start dabbing at the wound so we can glue it up and she can get off her knees before I make an inappropriate suggestion.

She leans back on her haunches while I dry myself off. “Want to glue me shut?” I waggle the bottle at her. Nodding, she pulls the cap off. “Dab a thin line on both sides of the wound, and we’ll be good to go.”

Carefully, she spreads the glue in place and then I squeeze the flesh together, hissing a little as glue stings. I slap a gauze strip over it and hand her the tape. As she winds the tape around my waist, her breasts touch my back and that—combined with the touch of her soft hands—is enough to give me a semi. Worse, on the third pass, her arm brushes a little too close to my crotch and the semi grows into full wood.

“Sorry,” I say through gritted teeth. “Delayed adrenaline.” A total lie but given that Regan freaked out before in the alleyway, I’m working extra hard not to provide more fodder for her nightmares. “Let me finish up,” I offer to take the tape from her.

“No, I’ve got it,” she says, but on the next two passes she makes sure she’s well away from my lower region. It doesn’t matter. Just her nearness is making me dizzy with arousal and want. “How’s that?” she asks finally.

“Good,” I say and then nearly run to get out of the bathroom. I flop down on the sofa wishing I had at least a couple of those bottles of vodka down my throat instead of on my side. I’m going to need something so I don’t think about having sex with Regan every five seconds.

She follows behind and suddenly the big bedroom that I booked for us is way too small. I would’ve gotten two rooms if that had been safe, but I couldn’t protect her if she wasn’t within eye sight. Maybe she’s worried that we have to sleep in the same bed. “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “This sofa has a pull-out. You can have the bed.”

Absently she nods and then sits on the side of the bed, bouncing a little as if she’s not sure if she wants to sit or pace. Rather than worry about that, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion of the past few days roll over me.

“Tell me about your sister,” she says.

I’d rather make puppets with my socks because Naomi’s story will give Regan a legitimate reason to hate me but she probably deserves to hear all of it. “She’s seven years younger than me and a fucking genius. Like, when she was in elementary school, she could think circles around me. I went to her for math help, not the other way around. She skipped all kinds of grades. Graduated high school when she was fourteen and then started taking college classes. Not sure if she’s really autistic or whether her lack of socialization with kids her age hurt her, but she’s really socially awkward. Has a hard time relating to people, but she’s so damn sweet, Regan,” my voice grows pained as I think of what happened next. “I wanted her to have some fun, you know?”

“You can’t feel like what happened to her is your fault,” Regan protests.

“Really? Maybe you should reserve judgment until I finish the story,” I say shortly. Surging to my feet, I lunge at the minibar. I need some alcohol to finish this story. There are six more bottles of liquor inside. I take out the Jack Daniel’s and swallow the bottle in one gulp. In my absence, Regan has moved to the sofa and is patting the cushion. With a sigh, I head back and crack open the bottle of rum. Rolling the small bottle between my hands, I finish the story “So I’m telling her to get out and do some normal stuff. She’s studying at MIT, some kind of string theory shit that is more complicated than how the F16 is constructed. During one of our Skype calls, she tells me that some classmates of hers are going on spring break to Cancun, and I encourage her to go. No.” I stop and drink down the bottle, tossing the empty container on the coffee table. There’s not ever going to be enough alcohol to make the pain of this memory go away. “I force her to go. I tell her that she’s wasting her life in school; that the real world is passing her by—she’s gotta get out and live it.” Those last words come out with so much bitterness and self-hatred that even Regan leans away.