Last Hit (Hitman #1)(18)
Author: Jessica Clare

"Would you say yes if he did?"

"Yes," I say, and this time I’m unflinching.

She looks surprised at my answer. "Really?"

"Really," I agree. I am fascinated with Nick, but I also want to know what sex is like.

Now that I am free from my father’s prison, I want to do everything I can to live my life. And if that means having irresponsible sex with an impossible-to-understand man? I will do so. I touch my mouth, thinking of Nick’s lips on my own. I wanted that kiss to go on forever. Is it because of Nick or because I want to be kissed more?

I think it’s because of Nick, but I can’t be sure. I don’t have any other experience to back it up with.

"He’s that sexy, huh?" Regan gets all dreamy-eyed. "Man, I want to get a good look at him. The next time he asks you out, invite him in."

I don’t know if he’ll ask me out again, though. I stare into my cup awkwardly and try to think of a question that will for sure distract Regan from thoughts of Nick. "Never have I ever…owned a car."

Regan snorts and doesn’t drink. She simply shakes her cup at me, and I drink that time. "You’re not even trying," she protests. "Never have I ever had a man give me oral."

My eyes widen again. Regan and Mike have sex all the time. "I thought everyone did that." Not that I am an expert, but in the books I’ve been reading, the men always give oral to their women and love it. "So…Mike…?"

"Not drinking on that one? Man, you are innocent." She tips her cup back and sighs after she drinks. "And not everyone does that. Mike for sure doesn’t."

I feel like I’m learning all kinds of things about Regan right now, and her happy, carefree life seems to have a little tarnish on it. "Never have I ever…kissed a man I don’t love?"

"You can’t ask that unless you have done the same," she points out even as she drinks.

I think. I’ve only kissed two men: my father, who I do love even though I also hate him, and Nick. I don’t know how I feel about Nick. I’ve only known him for days. It’s too early for me to be in love with him, but what I feel for him is as intense as it is bewildering and maddening. I don’t want to confess this all to Regan, though, so I shrug and take a drink anyhow.

"Never have I ever…" Regan slurs her words and then thinks. "Given a bl*w j*b in public."

I give her an exasperated look. "Is that all you think about is sex?"

"Sometimes," she says. "But those are the fun questions to ask."

"Well, I can’t answer any of them," I tell her. "I haven’t done anything."

"Anything at all, Pollyanna?" Regan looks skeptical.

I stare down at my cup. The liquor is starting to feel too strong, and my stomach is upset. I feel anxious. It’s not just the alcohol, it’s the feeling that I’m not fitting in with my new friend. "I…my father was very controlling. He didn’t let me do much. That’s why I left."

It’s a start, but it’s not enough. I want to confess that my father is terrified of being outside of the house. That he’s not left it for the last thirteen years. That even when I was little, I had to go to the grocery store by myself and get things because he couldn’t leave. That he controlled what I wore, what I ate, what I read, what I watched.

That I felt smothered and trapped with him.

And that I miss him and feel guilty when I think about him.

But I can’t say all this to cheery, sex-obsessed Regan. So I simply shrug and stare down at my still too-full cup.

"Wanna prank call him?" Regan asks. "Kinda childish, but who cares?"

"Prank call?"

"Yeah, you know. Pretend to be a pizza place and call him just to mess with him. Total passive-aggressive revenge on the parental units for messing you up as a kid."

I’m drunk and so this sounds like a good idea to me. I grin and nod. Regan pulls out her smartphone and hits the speaker button and then places it in front of me. I dial as we chortle and drink.

The phone rings once, and I realize I don’t want to call my father. I don’t want to pretend to call him, because if I hear his voice, I’m going to be sad. I’ve abandoned him. I’ve given up on him, and I feel like the worst daughter possible.

I hit the button to hang up.

"Aw, man," Regan says, and she tips her cup back to drink.

But I am frozen in place. I’ve just hung up on my father. That’s our phone code. One ring, hang up, and then call back immediately. That’s how he knows it’s me and not a stranger. That’s how he knows it’s safe to answer.

He’ll be waiting for a call.

Guilt twists my gut. I have to call back. It seems cruel not to. I hit the big redial button on her phone screen and wait.

My father answers immediately. "Daisy?"

His voice is hoarse. I can hear the unhappiness, the strain in it. My own voice freezes in my throat. I can’t say anything.

"It’s okay, Daisy," my father says, and he sounds so, so sad. "I just…I want you to know I’m sorry." He takes a ragged breath. "I didn’t realize how unfair I was being to you. I know you had to run away. And I’m sorry. If you want to come home, you can. I’m not mad."

And he quiets.

My eyes are wide and I stare at the phone with a mixture of terror and longing. Longing, because going back home to my father means a return to the familiar. It will make him happy to have me back under his thumb again. All will be right in his world.

All of this terrifies me because it is the last thing I want. "I’m sorry, Father," I say and hang up the phone.

I stare down at it, panting. I am so anxious and unhappy at hearing my father’s misery that I feel as if I’ve taken it all into myself. How selfish of me to run away. My father isn’t well. I know this, but I can’t help myself. I have to get away. I have to.

"Well, that was…depressing," Regan says, and she tips her cup back to finish her drink.

I put mine down. "I think I need to throw up." It’s more than the too-strong schnapps. It’s my father’s unhappiness and my own sense of failing at being my own person. I’m too boring to play fun games with Regan. My job sucks. I’ve been sheltered from everything, and I don’t know how to fit in. And the worst of it all? A gorgeous, sexy man asked me on a date, and I somehow ruined it.

I make it to the toilet before I puke my guts up. At least the world is kind to me in that aspect.

I’m moping at work the next day.

It’s not a hangover. I didn’t drink enough to make myself ill, not like Regan, who hung out in a dark room all day and complained about her head.

I am sick at heart. I’m an awful person. I’ve abandoned my father, knowing his fears, to selfishly chase after my own life. And where has it gotten me? I am not making enough money to go to college. I am sitting alone in a gas station at ten o’clock at night, handing out cigarettes to customers.

This doesn’t seem like the life I’d dreamed of when I lay in bed every night, praying that I could escape my father. I wanted a life and freedom, and now I feel more trapped by my guilt than ever. I have spent all night crying, and my eyes are red and puffy and aching.

My choices weigh me down as the night drags on. I can’t concentrate on Regan’s borrowed textbook, my normal reading. I’m too focused on the what ifs.

What if I am doing the wrong thing?

What if my father is alone and something happens to him?

What if Nick never calls me again? He’s been silent since our date two nights ago.

I am an awful person, because it is the last item that obsesses me most. I check my silly disposable cellphone at least once an hour, hoping for a missed text, but there is nothing.

It’s foolish of me to obsess over one date and one kiss, but I can’t help it. I want more. Maybe I’m the only one. Maybe Nick didn’t like the way I kissed and picked a fight simply to end the date.

The door to the gas station opens, the chime alerting me. I look up from another fruitless check of my phone to see Nick walk in, dressed in dark clothing, a somber expression on his face. It’s as if my thoughts have conjured him.

I don’t know what to say. I stare at him mutely as he comes to the counter as if he wants to purchase something, but I know he doesn’t. Nick doesn’t seem to ever need anything, even me. He’s always prepared, always independent. I wish for a moment that he was as shaken at the sight of me as I am of him.

I wish I’d worn makeup. I wish I wasn’t wearing this stupid work polo, and that I’d done something special with my hair. It lays flat on my shoulders, unattractive. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Can I…can I help you?"

"You know I come to see you, Daisy." His accent is thick today, his voice soft. His hands flatten on the counter, those tattoos catching my eye. They’re inches away from where mine rest, but he makes no move to touch me.

I wish he would. If he touches me, then I know everything is okay. That he wants me.

"It’s nice to see you," I say after a moment. I try to smile brightly at him. I’m not sure how to act after a failed date. I can’t be mad at him. I want him to want me too badly. "How are you?"

He studies my face for a long moment. "Something is wrong. You are sad."

I try to shake my head to deny it, but I feel my face crumple even as I do. A loud sniff escapes me. "It’s nothing."

The chill in his icy eyes intensifies, and his hand brushes mine on the counter. "Who has hurt you? Say their name. I will handle it. They will never bother you again."

For some reason, I find this declaration incredibly sweet. It only makes my eyes stream tears even harder. I swipe them away. "It’s n-nothing." My voice has such a childish warble in it. I can’t believe I’m crying in front of him. I’m a wreck, though. It’s my father, and my guilt, and the fact that I know he’s here to dump me.

"It is not nothing," he says thickly. Through the stream of my tears, I notice his hand lifts from mine. A second later, he is coming behind the counter, and he envelops me in a warm, delicious hug, pulling my body against him, my face brushing against his coat.

I am lost.

I burrow against him, letting the tears go. For the first time in years, I am being held and comforted by someone. It feels amazing. I didn’t know what I was missing until Nick put his arms around me.

I’ve been so lonely. I’m trying to be so strong, and it’s so hard. I feel completely out of my depth.

And I desperately, desperately want him to like me despite the fact that I am an awful woman who has abandoned her mentally ill father.

His hand strokes my back. "Shhh," he comforts me. "I will make it better for you. Tell me what I can do. Tell me who has upset you."

I huddle closer, not speaking. I want to stay in his arms forever. He’s strong, and warm, and so comforting. After a few moments of weeping, I realize how uncomfortable this must be for him. He probably came here to let me down easy, and found himself comforting me instead. I reluctantly pull away, wiping my eyes and then smoothing a hand down the front of his expensive jacket. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this."

He bares his teeth as if he would snarl. "Let them fire you."

I blink up at him in surprise. "I…no. I mean, I shouldn’t be crying on you. I’m sure you came here to break up with me—"

Nick’s fingers brush my cheek in a tender caress. "No, kotehok. Break up with you? Is this why you cry?"