Last Hit(3)

“Just a lot of homework,” I tell him, and lean in to inhale his scent. I never get tired of anything Nick. Ever. I could bask in his attention all day. Even his presence here is like a balm to me. “How was your class?”

“Good,” he tells me. His classes are always “good.” Later, he might show me his artwork, but not here.

When we get outside, Nick immediately pulls out an umbrella and holds it over me. I try to take it from him, but he insists on holding it. “Are you not mine to care for?” he says, a smile on his mouth.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tease him back, when I notice a huddled group under the building awning, hiding from the rain. It’s Joanne and Maggie, two girls I was friendly with last semester. They see me with Nick and immediately start whispering, even as he holds the umbrella over me like I’m some sort of princess.

I want to make a silly joke about it. About how Nick is a sweetheart and just an over-protective fiancé with reasons for worrying about my safety.

But the words stick like glue in my throat, and I remain silent as we head to the parking lot and Nick’s car.

***

After dinner, Nick and I work on our homework together. Normally we also try to do a bit of handiwork around the apartment, but I plead a reprieve tonight, feigning a headache. I don’t have it in me to grout tile or paint walls or hold screwdrivers while Nick cusses at the wiring.

Instead, we snuggle on the couch, and Nick traces the lines of my hand with his fingers. He’s got such long, strong fingers that I could study them for hours. They’re the hands of an artist and an assassin, and it’s a fascinating dichotomy to me. He is so many things, and I am just weird Daisy. Weird, useless Daisy.

I make a frustrated sound in my throat.

Lazily, Nick looks over at me, his expression full of contentment. “Hmm?”

“Nick, do you think I’m weird? Be honest.”





Chapter 2


Nikolai

“Weird?” I cup her beautiful face in my hands. There is nothing strange about her other than that she loves me. That is the true oddity. “You are beautiful and unique blossom, and every morning that I awake and you are slumbering in my arms, I am astonished anew by my good fortune. You are antithesis of weird.”

I press my lips upon her before she can respond. When she opens her mouth, my tongue sweeps in and I swallow her protests. Does she not know how precious she is? In this world of cynicism and indifference, her bright interest and joy in all things is a rare and glorious thing. Another woman would not have welcomed me into her heart.

Yes, there are those who look upon me with sexual intent. They see my strong body, my tattoos, and believe that I can deliver to them an experience that they have not yet encountered. But few of those who gaze at me with lust in their eyes would love me as my own sacred Daisy.

I have many marks on my body. There are temporary ones that I wish were etched into my skin with a laser. Those are the ones made by the hand of my Daisy. The small crescent gouges, bite marks, and scratches are treasured signs of her possession of me. I wear these with pride. If anyone should ask about the bruise on my neck, I would smugly reply it is the brand of my woman.

The permanent ones I regret.

Once I reveled in the fear generated by the sight of the crude needle and homemade ink tattoos on my hands, my neck, and my arms. For so long I had lived by the motto inscribed on my chest. Death is a mercy.

There are those in this world who need killing, and many died at my hands. I told them—and myself—that the ending of their life was a benevolent act.

My life is different now and, as I can see by the unhappy face beside me, it is the same for Daisy. Her distress is palpable. I could give it shape with a pencil and chalk. Like all my paintings, it would be dark with hard edges.

My advisor at our school remarks that I need more variance in my images. I cannot, he criticizes, express only one emotion.

He is wrong if he believes I have only one. I am racing along the spectrum of ebullience to misery which, I have perceived from my short studies, is the emotional archetype of every successful artist throughout history. Maudlin sentiment followed by rages of passion are common traits in the greats.

It is merely that I am new to these responses. Before Daisy, I was detached. It was out of necessity and then habit. When one killed for a living, not knowing who the next mark would be, creating connections to others was unwise.

It has taken me a while to recognize that the heat generated by one text from Daisy is pleasure rather than apprehension. That my art is one-dimensional is unfortunate, but perhaps moroseness will be the signature of a Nikolai Andrushko work.

No, Nick Anders.

I am now Nick Anders, not the child ubitsya who was trained by the warrior of the Petrovich Bratva nor the killer who hired out to eliminate threats and avenge wrongs. I no longer view life down the scope of my rifle, identifying target after target.