Last Hit(22)
Instead, I spend the extra time in the kitchen, baking. I bake cookies, since they are easy to package and hide in pockets. Chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies, and snickerdoodles. I’ll send the extra ones down to my father . . . later. And Nick will eat some of them.
The rest, I wrap carefully in Saran Wrap and will take with me to classes today. It’s part sympathy for Christine, and part bribery. I intend to find out what is making her so frightened . . . so Nick and I can fix it.
Nick saved me from my misery. Together, with his help, I’m sure we can save my new friend, too.
Chapter 8
Nikolai
All morning I watch Daisy flit around the small kitchen. She bakes. And bakes. And bakes. The apartment smells like a pastry shop, and she looks edible. I carry her off between the peanut butter cookie batch and the oatmeal raisin cookies.
“You are dirty.” I swipe a finger down her flour-coated arm. She extends it to the side as if to judge the truth of my statement. I lick my finger and make a new trail, this time around her clavicle and into the valley of her V-neck sweater. I am mesmerized by the shadow that swallows the tip of my finger.
“I like to think I’m wrapped up in my work,” she teases.
“Nyet, you are filthy. Let me clean you.” Her neck tastes salty and sweet and addictive.
“I have two more batches of cookies to make.” Despite her protest, she remains in the circle of my arms, arching her neck to provide easier access. I delve into the cleft of her breasts, stabbing the valley with my tongue. Soon we are ripping at each other’s clothes, and I’m pushing my cock inside her. The smells of the baked goods mixes with the musk of our shared arousal, and I know I will never eat another cookie again without getting hard.
She cries out and clutches me as she comes, and I follow swiftly behind her, spurting my seed inside her tight sex. The quick orgasm depletes me, and while Daisy skips off to clean up and finish her baking, I lie wrecked on the sofa.
The police scanner spits and stutters in the background. I’ve taken to listening to it, waiting to hear my name. Instead it is reports of robberies, domestic violence and the occasional shooting. The cold doesn’t deter any unsavory activities, only sends them inside.
“Nick, why do you suppose we can’t seem to rent out any of these units? This place is close to the university. All the units are renovated and seem nicer than anything I’ve seen advertised. Yet, here we are six months later, and it’s still completely empty except for us.”
“The applicants have not been qualified, kotehok.” The scanner squawks about a GSW or gunshot wound. Single. To the head.
“We don’t need to be so strict. So what if they had a few unpaid parking tickets or a public intoxication violation? It’s college. That’s what college kids do.”
I lean forward and turn up the scanner. Where was it that this shooting happened?
“Those are all signs of danger. Their weaknesses could be used against us.”
She clicks her tongue. “We aren’t in Russia. There are no enemies here, not unless you count the spanglytopgirls.” The last words are jumbled together and I can’t make them out. My attention swings back to her at the word enemies.
“Who are the spanglytopgirls? I will dispose of your enemies.” I stand up and stalk toward her. She waves her spatula at me.
“No nudity in the kitchen. Shoo. Out of here while I’m making cookies.”
Stepping back across the invisible line she has drawn, I wait for her answer. Shaking her head, she sighs. “It’s nothing, Nick. Really. I just liked some of the clothes the girls had at the party and wished I had worn them.”
She won’t say more, and while I leave as she asks, I remain alert. More details are being exchanged on the radio.
Male, 20s to 30s, GSW to forehead. East Lake Street and 16th Ave.
We have a 10-32.
Single shot?
Confirmed. Looks like a pro.
“What it is?” The light hand on my shoulder startles me.
I turn and place a kiss on it. “Execution in South Minneapolis. The 10-32 is a ten code for an assault with a gun. Single gunshot wound to the victim’s head.” Worry and fear for her plagues me. I turn and bring her into the circle of my arms. “This is the third single gunshot wound to the head in the last three weeks. Perhaps you should stay home.”
My suggestion is met with a frown. “This is a city. Shootings happen all the time when it comes to gangs. It’s drugs, you know.” Her eyes darken in pain and sadness. Her mother was killed by a drug addict. That death set off a chain of unfortunate events. Her father went mad, retreating to his house and locking Daisy in with him. She was a prisoner and is now free. I must remember that. In my desire to protect her, I cannot imprison her or I am no better than her worst fear. Forcing myself to loosen my grip, I give her a pained smile.