Jessica Clare - Last Breath

Nick, in a rare fit of insightfulness, invites me to the rooftop. In theory it’s a good idea. Go outside and get a fresh perspective. The reality involves standing out in sub-zero temperatures, which sends my balls inside my body for warmth. I hope the boys come out when we see Regan again. Nick is Ukrainian so apparently he’s impervious to the cold because he’s standing in a thin cotton shirt looking like he’s enjoying the Arctic breeze. I’m drinking my Shiner Bock as fast as possible to get some heat into my veins.

Nick doesn’t speak, merely stares out impassively into the distance. I wonder if he misses Russia or how he feels about the current situation in the Ukraine, but we don’t have that kind of relationship so instead I admire the night landscape. The night is cloudless and the slice of moon brightens up the sky enough so that you can make out the dark blues and black in the atmosphere. It’s strange to see Nick without a gun, though. He was an exacting, methodical, and successful hit man. If he took your job, your mark was dead. The only project he didn’t complete was his last one because he had to run off to rescue Daisy in Russia. Now he’s an art student and a landlord. The world has turned upside down.

“You are to meet the parents?” Nick asks pensively, as if he is worried for me.

“Tomorrow, first thing,” I answer and then frown. No mid-morning sex then. Maybe we’ll have sex first thing when we wake up, and I can eat her out in the shower. That might hold me over until I can have her again around lunchtime. “Why? Did you have issues with Daddy Miller?”

Nick nods. “He does not like people.”

“You two should be besties then, because you aren't a people person either,” I point out.

“ Da , this is true.” Of course Nick takes me seriously. While I appreciate his concern, I have no worries about meeting Regan’s parents. My biggest issue is what I’m going to do with myself now that I’m not focused on running down my next lead in search of my sister. Fortunately, I don’t have to decide that today or tomorrow or even next week. I drain my bottle and reach for another. One positive thing about the frigid temps is sticking your bottles in the snow keeps the beer nice and chill. About four minutes of silence later, after I've completely forgotten about the subject, Nick asks, "Besties?"

“Best friends,” I explain. It never fails to surprise me how inept Nick is at social interaction—but given that he spent most of his time killing people, I suppose it made sense to erect emotional barriers. The army is full of people who kill, but it’s a family of some sort. A sniper is never without his spotter and even the recon teams are made up of four to five members. Suddenly I realize that part of the emotional toll the last eighteen months had taken on me is due to the fact that I was alone for most of the time. During my stint as a mercenary, I tried to create connections with others like Nick because I’d missed my team so much, and now I am missing my family. Regan talks about how I can never leave her, but it’s me that can’t live without Regan. If she were to leave me, I’d be nothing. Might as well shoot me in the head because her walking away from me would mean I was already dead from heart failure.

“Vasily Petrovich has your sister,” Nick muses.

“Yup. I threatened to rat him out to the Bratva if he harms her.”

“Or we could go kill him,” Nick offers as nonchalantly as if he’s asking if I want a cigarette. But I guess if you’re raised to kill before you can feed yourself, then that’s how you act. Who was I to talk? I killed Nick’s last mark—the trauma surgeon in Seattle who was harvesting diseased organs and selling them on the black market—so Nick could get out of the business. It was a wedding gift for him and Daisy, although they haven’t gotten married yet.

“For some reason I actually trust him. Besides you aren’t allowed to go back to Eastern Europe, remember?”

Nick shrugs. “To kill Petrovich, may be worth it.”

I sit, kick out my legs and drain my second beer, but I don’t pop open another. I have plans for Regan tonight that require sobriety. “I’m tired of it, Nick. Tired of killing people, falling asleep with my gun on my chest, not sure if I’ll have to wake up shooting. I’m tired of closing my eyes and seeing blood splatter. I want to go to sleep in the same bed every night and wake up in the morning. I want to make love to Regan on a real mattress with soft sheets.” Up on the roof I can see the skyline of Minneapolis to the north and the outlines of planes taking off from the airport to the south. I get why Nick has picked this place. Subtle signs of gentrification are everywhere. In a couple of years this place will be worth a fortune, but living in the city, responding to a hundred daily complaints or painting pictures, even ones with a lot of black and red paint, doesn’t interest me. I want to go home, show Regan the land that my great-great-grandfather settled. Have her watch the foals being born and the bluebonnets poke their heads out of the earth. Turning to look at Nick to see if he gets it, I say, “I’m done with death.”

“ Da , I am too.” He lifts a bottle of vodka. “But what will you do now?”

“Don’t know, man. Have any advice for me?” It’s a joke, a reference to when Nick asked me dating advice when he was stalking Daisy. But Nick doesn’t know how to joke, so he gives it some serious thought—which he washes down with a quarter of the vodka.

“It is easier to decide whether to pull the trigger or use a garrote to take down a mark than know what will bring happiness in the future,” Nick finally declares.

“I know Regan makes me happy. I’m going to stick with that. For now, though, why don’t you let me take a look at some of your honey-do list.”

Regan

NOW THAT WE ’RE BACK IN Minneapolis, I have a laundry list of things to do. I go to the doctor and get a birth control shot so Daniel and I can continue to have gloriously, deliciously intense sex. I also get checked for diseases again, because I’m paranoid. I turn up clean of everything, including pregnancy. I’m actually a little sad about that, but now’s not the time to start a family.

I also sign up for counseling because I still have panic attacks when Daniel leaves the room for any length of time, and I still have nightmares. I know I’m not totally right in the head. The psychologist understands, though, and she’s supportive. Daniel goes with me to counseling, and it’s good. It’s a step in the right direction.

I want to go back to college and jump right back into my career path, but the psychologist doesn’t think it’s a good idea, and I’m surprised when Daniel agrees. They want me to take time off and get used to normal again. Normal without so many people, that is, since people still make me anxious. It’s weird to think about, but I try to submerge myself back into “normal.” I watch a lot of horror movies with Daniel, and we paint our apartment for something to do.

I visit my parents, and it’s as tear-filled and awkward as I thought it would be.

I don’t tell them that I’ve spent two months on my back in a brothel. I think that would break them almost as much as it came close to breaking me. We come up with a lame cover story instead. I took an impromptu vacation with my roomie Daisy to Cancun, hit my head while cliff diving, and Daisy thought I’d drowned. I woke up in a hospital with amnesia and just now got better. And Daniel was in the bed next to me with a tropical disease, and we fell in love.

It’s all very Days of Our Lives , and I’m not entirely sure they buy it, but it’s a nicer story than the truth.