“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.