Last Hit(19)

The girl’s hunger wins out over her unstated concern, and we move toward the cafe. I maneuver Daisy under one arm and turn to Christine, but I find that she’s walked around and to Daisy’s side.

Daisy and I exchange a glance.

She is a danger, I telegraph.

She’s in trouble. I think she needs my help.

I frown. Nyet, stay away from her.

Daisy matches my grim look with a disappointed one and then turns to Christine.

“What’re you doing after lunch?”

Before I can interrupt I feel a pinch at my side. Shutting my mouth, I resign myself to discussing personal safety issues with Daisy at home. When we are alone and she is naked, I may be able to convince her of my way of thinking.

“I’ll need to go home. My boyfriend gets off work around three and I need to be there.”

“Need to?” Daisy asks the question that I am thinking.

The girl does not look up at Daisy, only ahead now. “Yeah, I mean he doesn’t want me to be at campus alone.”

“You could come over to our apartment,” Daisy offers. “We could do some more studying.” She turns to me in explanation. “It’s so loud in the commons, and the study hall in the building always has a couple of jerks who come in and throw their stuff around. They take up both of the long tables and talk really loud.”

“I can take care of that for you,” I say. I’ve seen these boys. I watch them through the window but I did not realize they annoyed Daisy. A small talk with them as they leave would ameliorate this problem for her.

“No, Nick, it’s fine.” She rolls her eyes and then turns back to Christine. “What do you think?”

The girl shivers when a gust of wind hits us as we reach the sidewalk and are no longer protected by the tall brick buildings. The Village Bean is down two blocks, and the snow and biting wind are penetrating even my coat. Whatever danger she is to Daisy, I cannot tolerate seeing the young girl tremble like an orphan on the street. Carefully so she does not see, I extract the gun from the interior of my pocket and slip it into the side pocket of Daisy’s coat. She looks down at the new bulge and shakes her head in rueful dismay.

Shrugging off my coat, I gesture for the girl to place it around her shoulders. “Here.” I walk toward her. “I’m from Russia. I was born in the cold.”

Christine holds up her hands in a defensive crouch and stumbles backward. Daisy reaches for her and they both slip. I grab Daisy and with a rough tug, haul them both upright. Christine looks at the both of us, eyes darting between Daisy and me, and then she turns on her heel and runs off, leaving Daisy openmouthed and me with the jacket in my hand.

“I do not like the look of that girl,” I warn.

“She was afraid,” Daisy responds, still staring down the street watching Christine’s form getting smaller as the distance between us grows. “Of everything.”

“Da, and people who are afraid have fearful things at home.” I pull on my coat and then remove the gun from Daisy’s pocket, placing it once more inside my interior pocket.

“Don’t you feel anything for her?” she asks, her eyes full of questioning.

Fear spikes. I feel nothing for anyone but Daisy. Is that not enough? But I cannot lie to her. “You are my heart. If I would lose you, then death is the only mercy I would find.”

I rub my chest as if I could feel the lettering that is inked on my skin.

“She’s not a danger to me,” Daisy insists.

“Her, no. What she fears? Yes.”





Chapter 7


Daisy

I watch Christine retreat with a mixture of concern and frustration. She’s fleeing us as if we’d invited her to . . . to . . . I struggle to think of something horrible enough. To her own murder¸ perhaps. But that seems ridiculous and dire. We’re college students. We should be worrying about nothing more than what our next grade is going to be, right?

So why do I feel such despair at the sight of Christine’s retreat?

People who are afraid have fearful things at home.

A flash of memories crowds through my mind, all of them unpleasant. I remember my father’s control over me when I lived under his roof. His constant checking of my wardrobe—am I dressing to draw attention? Am I wearing makeup that will make boys notice me? His harsh responses if I disobeyed. The slap he gave my face when I wore lip gloss because my mouth was chapped. The constant, furtive feeling of hiding, of being scared even when I wasn’t disobedient. His shoving a gun into my hand at one in the morning and demanding I help him “defend” our home because he heard a noise outside.

My father was abusive. Even though it was all designed to keep me safe because I was the only thing he had left that he cared for, it was still abuse. I still remember years of living under his thumb, afraid to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. Afraid to set off my father and endure weeks of his paranoia.