My hands slide over my face in embarrassment despite the darkness of my room. Regan is hav**g s*x with Mike, who stays over quite often, as Reagan had said. He’s here more nights than he’s not, and they have loud, noisy sex every time they get a chance. It’s embarrassing and a bit startling for me.
I’ve been incredibly sheltered, my only exposure to sex what I’ve read in romance novels. Somehow, I never pictured it sounding so very…carnal.
A moment later, music turns on, and it drowns out Regan’s cries for more, which is a welcome relief. Now I just hear strains of heavy metal. Not that this is easier to sleep to, but it’s less disturbing to hear. The whole interlude makes me more on edge, though.
I know I’m uneasy and out of sorts because of more than just the view outside my window. I think other people would adjust to the change in lifestyle quite well, but I’m just timid Daisy, afraid of her own shadow. This new place is completely foreign, and it feels like I’m in a different country instead of just a different city and state.
It’s weird, but I feel lonely despite my happiness.
There are so many people around me now. More than ever. I smile at everyone—the postman, the bus driver, the people at the grocery store. I can’t stop smiling. There is a giddy happiness to me, and I think I will never be able to frown again. I love life too much. The world feels so open and full of opportunity.
But at the same time, I think of my father. Does he feel betrayed? Guilt gnaws at me, and I push the thought away. I left him behind because I wanted to be someone new. Someone different and vibrant.
Yet I still feel like the same, scared little Daisy. Despite being here a week, I feel like I’m adrift. I only know Regan and her boyfriend. I haven’t gone out with Regan’s friends yet, mindful of my money.
I’m changing, but it’s not enough. I need more.
I think of the duo in the other room, hav**g s*x. And I think of my romance novel. For some reason, this combination makes my body flush, and the tension I feel takes on a whole new aspect.
My hand slides down my belly, to my new, pink lacy panties. Fingers dip into the sweet warmth between my legs and I gasp at the sensation. My fingertips brush over my clitoris, and I think of a man doing this to me. I rub teasing circles around my clitoris, imagining him. His hands on my body. His fingers where mine are. Him kissing me sweetly on the brow and pressing my body against his. I rub harder, arching with need.
My dreamy hero leans in and I can almost see his face…
Almost.
My fingers stop. Burgeoning desire dissipates like a soap bubble.
I lay back, utterly still.
Utterly frustrated.
All this freedom, and yet I’m still no different than I was before. I can’t visualize a man touching me when I haven’t even been kissed. My guilt for leaving my father turns into a momentary flash of hatred. He’s made me this sheltered freak. Who will date a twenty-one year old woman who has never kissed a man? Never seen sex, not even on TV? Only read about it?
For a moment, I want to sneak into Regan’s room and watch her and Mike, just so I know, just so I understand.
If I can’t experience it myself, the next best thing is watching, right?
I want to clutch at my new life with tight hands, but I don’t even know where to begin.
So I sigh, slide my fingers to my panties, and try again.
NIKOLAI
I watch her through my bathroom window. I've placed one of my four rented chairs in here for that express purpose. I tell myself it is not creepy, as the American girls would say, because I watch everyone. But really I watch only her.
I cannot see everything. I've never seen her nude. I've never seen inside her shower. Smartly there is no window there. But I can see her bedroom and her living room and beyond that, with my scope, her kitchen. I know her schedule. When she gets up in the morning, when she returns to her apartment. If she were a mark, I could've killed her a dozen times over by now and been in the wind.
She throws her bag onto her bed and then lies down next to it. It takes many muscles to smile, more to frown, but only a few to pull the trigger. I peer down the scope and place my crosshairs over her forehead. Puff, dead.
She has a roommate. Tall, blonde, who brings home one man regularly. He is bad in bed. I can see the roommate masturbating after the man falls asleep. I place the crosshairs over his heart. It would be a mercy killing. A man who goes to sleep without satisfying his woman deserves punishment. He sleeps through her self-pleasure? Death is too kind.
The roommate is not my business, though, and I swing my scope back to my girl's room. She is still lying on her back. Through my magnified glass, I can see furrows on her brow. I had toyed with the idea of planting listening devices in her apartment but I stopped myself because, stupidly, I thought it would be too invasive. She is not the mark, I remind myself but scowl at my lack of audio.
I should know what is causing her to frown so that I can make the cause go away. I watch her until she gets up and leaves the room. She does not reappear in either the living room or her roommate's bedroom. I assume she is using the bathroom. I flip open the foam case at my feet and survey the contents. There are several different devices that I could use. No, Nikolai, I tell myself. This is wrong.
Then I let out a humorless laugh. Why am I preaching morality, even to myself? I gave up that right many years ago. Before I was a grown man. Perhaps it happened in the womb. I was born a killer, my teeth bared, and I claimed my first victim almost before I had taken my first breath. But that is Ukraine. A boy on the streets without a gun is prey. I have never been prey. Always the hunter.
This girl in Room 224 is unprotected, but she is innocent and sweet. I envy her. When she first walked into her apartment, she did not notice the cracked and peeling paint, the cheapness of the mattress on the floor, or the chipped countertops. It all looked wonderful to her. I could see her wide-eyed amazement even through my scope. She is so unaware and so…joyful. There is no other word for it. Her every expression is one of anticipation, as if life is just an ongoing present.
I wonder what she would think of me—I am not unlike her apartment. I am cracked and peeling inside. She treats this slum of hers like a palace and every activity within it is a delight, from cooking her own meals to sleeping in her ratty bedroom.
I would like to lie down in her bedroom, pull down her long brown hair around me and caress my hands over her very adult-like curves. My eyes drift shut as I think about what kind of look she’d give me. The wide-eyed innocent stare? The newly-awakened one? The satisfied one? I want them all. My hand strays downward toward the ache that has developed between my legs.
A sharp piercing note fills the room. The phone. A distinct ring tone tells me it is business. Walking out of the bathroom, I move into the second bedroom. It is completely empty except for one table, also rented. I flick a switch and a light hum sounds in the room. No listening devices will be useful here; the frequency released by my sound machine will kill it. I smile grimly, thinking of the painful reverb that anyone who is listening in might suffer.
"Allo." I answer. A series of clicks sound off as my caller attempts to make his call untraceable. No matter, I record the trail anyway. No one is untraceable. Not today.
"Bonjour, monsieur. I call on behalf of Neuchâtel."
"Oui," I switch from Russian to French to match my caller. Neuchâtel is a town in Switzerland. This call is on behalf of the Watchmakers. Hence the reference to Neuchâtel, a town renowned for its custom, hand-assembled watches, which take months to complete and sell for six figures. I received one as a gift in addition to payment after a job well done. Either the Watchmakers had no respect for me or were trying to trap me. I threw it into the River Doubs, a waterway that marked the border between Switzerland and France.
"Neuchâtel requires your services. Information will be placed on the Emperor’s Palace at 2100."
"Convenu," I say. Agreed. The Emperor’s Palace is a marketplace on the Deep Web, buried so far down that no ordinary search engine can find it. These transactions are said to be not allowed but, couched right, everything from flesh to drugs are traded anonymously.
"You will do the job then?" the voice asks. He is either testing me or is new. Either way, my response is the same.
"Je ne sais pas." I do not know. I always research my targets first. Although killing has been my life since I was old enough to form memories, when I left the Petrovich Bratva at age fifteen, I found I could not kill without reasons. Even if they were bad reasons. Each job left its own mark, and while I knew my time here on Earth was short, I bargained with myself. This man, I would say, needs killing. The inscription on my chest aches. I bring mercy to those around the targets. This is the lie I use so that I can sleep at night and be able to look at myself in the mirror. I must convince myself that the world is a better place with the target dead.
Only the heaving breath of my caller can be heard as he digests my conditions. I wait. The assassin’s most powerful weapon is patience. The second, improvisation.
"D'accord, ça me va," Okay, fine, he agrees.
I hang up and set an alarm on my watch for 2095. As I exit the second bedroom, a motion through the bathroom window catches my eye. She has returned. I place my eye against the scope. Her bed is cleared of her bag and her back is resting against the headboard.
Her lithe body is clothed in a thin t-shirt. I can see the faint, dark outline of nipple beneath the cloth. My eyes dip lower. The shadow of her pubic hair is also visible. I can feel my heart rate pick up as I map her body with my eyes.
I feel restless and think perhaps I should review the information I have compiled for the mark or perhaps look at the routing pattern left by the caller from Neuchâtel. I do neither. As I begin to draw back from the scope, her motions arrest me. Her small hand, with the pink-tipped nails, is moving over her belly. One finger traces the tiny lace adorning the top band of her panties. My breath is suspended. Time is suspended.
I have never seen this before. She has never touched herself. Never brought a man home with her. I’d have shot him, maybe. No, I would’ve caused some disturbance. Something. I thought her maybe an innocent and fantasized about awakening her. But now her small fingers are delving beneath the cotton. I can see the bumps of her knuckles as they press against the pale, pink fabric. She is moving her fingers in circles.
I imagine my own fingers, much larger, dark and rough, pressing down upon hers. My fingers flex involuntarily at the thought of her p**sy beneath my touch. I’d stroke her lightly and in circles as that is what she appears to like. I’d move my fingers lower, beyond her cl*t to her hot cunt. It would be wet, dripping wet. My fingers would be soaked, and I would pause so that I could lick her sweet honey off each digit.
My c*ck is so hard I fear that it will break against the denim of my jeans. I draw a hand over my chest and pinch my own nipple hard, imagining it is her tiny white teeth tugging on it. I’ve broken out in a light sweat.
Her legs tense, and her hand motions become more frantic. I can see her chest rise and fall rapidly. Her whole body is strained, but when her release comes it is truncated. The look on her face is one of frustration rather than satisfaction. She wets her plump lips and closes her eyes. She begins again, but again she is unfulfilled.