Jessica Clare - Last Breath

Luiz nods and takes the photo with tweezers. I can tell by his meticulousness that our papers will be flawless.

“It will be two weeks.”

Regan, silent the whole exchange, finally speaks up. “Two weeks?”

“Tomorrow,” I say implacably and pull out a wad of cash to sweeten my demand.

Luiz shakes his head. “Detailed work takes time.”

Regan makes a distressed sound, and I shove the cash at Luiz. “Tomorrow.” At his hesitation, I draw a gun and everyone ducks, but I aim it toward the crystal sculpture of Sugar Loaf Mountain sitting in the middle of the showroom. “Tomorrow,” I repeat.

Luiz looks at me, the heavy bags at my back, and then the cash. “Tomorrow then.” He gestures for Regan to stand against one empty space of white wall and takes her picture.

I holster my gun and shove the cash in his hand. Gesturing toward the door with my head, I urge Regan out.

“Why not now?” She looks like she doesn’t want to leave without the papers, but I don’t want to piss off Luiz anymore. I drag her out of forger's office and into the street. She looks unhappy, and I miss her sunshine-like smile from earlier this morning.

“Let’s go get our stuff and then check into a better hotel. I feel like I need another shower after lying in those sheets.”

“Who’s the girl?” she says.

“The girl?” I’m not sure I follow her. What girl? She’s the only girl I’m with.

“The other girl. The one with her picture in your wallet? Who is it?”

“My sister.”

Regan

HIS SISTER.

A few things click into place, my brain suddenly making sense of things. He’s got a sister—a young, pretty blonde who was sold into slavery, like me. That’s why he’s hunting blondes. That’s why he’s in and out of brothels in the slums and knows people like Luiz and Pereya.

That’s why he was so giddy when we got the information from the snitch.

I want to laugh with relief. I’ve been trying not to think about the other mysterious blonde he’s so excited at the thought of finding. I’ve been having flares of jealousy, quickly tamped down again. What right do I have to be jealous of anyone or anything Daniel does? He’s not mine. He’s my rescuer that I’m forcing to stick with me.

But . . . I’m still glad it’s his sister and not a rival for his attention.

We leave Luiz’s art gallery and head onto the streets of Ipanema, mingling with the crowd. I look over at Daniel and he’s full of barely-leashed energy. If an assassin could be giddy, that would be Daniel. I wonder if it’s because he’s close to getting his sister . . . or close to getting rid of me? Or both?

I’m not sure how that makes me feel. The conversation at breakfast has left me a bit at odds with myself. I don’t know how I’m going to slide back into my old life and pretend like nothing has happened. I’m a scholarship student, and the company I’m slated to go work for has paid for a large chunk of my schooling. It’s one of the reasons I went into accounting as a major: a guaranteed job at the end of college and someone was willing to pay for most of the classes, provided I keep my GPA up. Of course, it’s mid-semester right now, and I’ve missed two months, which means I’ve now flunked out of all my courses unless I drop them. Either way, I’m screwed.

But I’m alive, as Daniel has pointed out. I should be grateful instead of anticipating problems.

As we head back into the rougher part of the city, the streets clear out a bit. There’s not as many people strolling the shopping districts, and there are a few people loitering in doorways of nearby rundown shops. We’re walking the streets of Ipanema, heading back to the hotel, when Daniel grabs my ass. “Damn, baby doll. I can’t get over how fine this is.” His voice is loud, his Texas drawl thick.

I’m startled, and I jump at his touch, scurrying away a few feet. What the hell? “What are you doing?” His touch, so callous and out of the blue, has made me jittery, and bad memories start creeping up in my mind.

“I don’t think I can wait to tap that again,” he says, and his arms go around me again. Before I can protest, he drags me over a few feet into the alley and pushes me up against the wall. His mouth presses down over mine.

A deluge of bad memories sweeps over me as his tongue presses into my mouth. This aggressiveness isn’t like Daniel. He’s always let me take the lead before, and the difference in his touch is like night and day. I’ve craved more of his touch and wanted to explore . . . until now. Now, I want him to get off of me before I suffocate under the thoughts crowding my mind. Memories of men with guns and sweaty bodies, forcing my mouth open, pushing me down on a dirty mattress . . .

I whimper and push vainly at Daniel’s chest, but he’s got me pressed against the wall of the building. I’m trapped against his body as he grabs my leg and pulls it to his hip, practically wrapping me around him even as I struggle.

“We’re being watched,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Quit fighting.” And then he goes back to kissing me.

My fists stop beating him on the chest as I realize this is all an act. My eyes open, and I look at Daniel’s hard face. His eyes are slits, and he’s watching a nearby doorway even as his mouth crushes against mine again.

I’m not responding. I can’t. This is too much like the times in the brothel. There’s no delicate lead for me to take. I need to sit quietly and accept. I need to trust Daniel.

But I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks—or the saliva from pooling in my mouth. I’m going to throw up if this continues for too much longer. Wait it out, I tell myself. It’s not like before. It’s not. But even as I tell myself this, I remember the gun pressed to my head and the awful feeling of futility as I dropped to my knees in front of the man who’d bought me.

“Shit,” Daniel says against my mouth. “So fucking sorry, fighter. Just hang on for me.” He hitches my leg against his hip again and grinds his pelvis against mine. Even as he does, I feel something jostle, and I realize he’s pulled a gun free of its holster and holds it against my leg.

When I think I can’t bear this any longer, he lifts his mouth from mine and scans the street, tilting his head. I swallow hard and wipe the back of my hand against my mouth surreptitiously, trying to scrub away the feelings.

“I don’t see the gunman anymore, but I don’t want to take chances,” Daniel says. He gives me a quick, apologetic kiss on the forehead. “Come on. We’re going this way.” He drops my leg and gestures that I should head down the alley.

Shivering, I do so, trotting a few steps ahead of him as he watches carefully behind us. My earlier buoyancy has been entirely deflated. I was feeling so good this morning, so normal. And now, poof, it’s gone again.

I want to curl up and cry, my go-to after I’ve been violated, but we don’t have time for that. We’re in danger—I can tell from the tense set of Daniel’s shoulders and the way his mouth is in a firm, angry line—so I choke back the feelings and let Daniel lead me on.

Eventually, he points ahead and leads me through an alley door. We’re back at the hotel, but the back entrance, where fresh laundry is delivered and food trucks bring in packages.

We head through the back halls of the hotel, up the fire escape stairs, and eventually make it back to our room. The hallways are empty, but Daniel presses himself against the wall next to the door, carefully pushing me behind him. It’s clear from his raised-gun stance that he expects trouble in our room, so I wait for his signal, pulling out the gun I now carry with me at all times. It makes me feel a little better to hold it, knowing there’s an option if a man other than Daniel tries to shove me down against another dirty mattress in the future.

I can always shoot someone, right? Or yourself, my brain reminds me, but that’s not an option. Then again, neither is whoring.

“Wait here,” Daniel says in a low whisper. “I’m going in. Shoot anyone that comes out of this doorway. Even me. If it’s clear, I’ll call you ‘fighter baby’. Got it?”

“Got it,” I choke out in a low voice, even as he heads through the door, gun at the ready.

There’s an incredibly long moment of silence, and I scarcely breathe, waiting to hear something, anything.

A moment later, Daniel says, “All clear, fighter baby. Come on in.”

I release the breath I’ve been holding and enter the room. Immediately, it’s clear to me that the room’s been ransacked. My clothes have been torn apart and strewn across the room, and the bed has been overturned. Thank God Daniel took the bag of guns with us. He refused to let them out of his sight, and I see now he was right to do so.

I swallow hard at the sight. “Good thing we went out for breakfast, huh?” I try not to think what would have happened if they’d have found me in bed with Daniel, rubbing up against him. Both of us could have been killed.

“Looks like your friend hasn’t given up on you yet.” Daniel’s mouth is set into the hard, angry line I’m becoming all too familiar with. “Goddamn it. Least we have most our ammo still on us, but it looks like you’re going to be wearing that outfit for a while.”

“At least there’s that,” I agree faintly.

“You okay?” he asks me.

My lower lip feels like it’s on the verge of trembling, but I nod. “I’m fine.” I’m not, but there’s no point in going into how fucked-up my head is at the moment, because it doesn’t matter.

“Let’s go,” Daniel says. “Pack your things again, and we’ll head to a new hotel. Change of plans. We’re heading for the best hotel money can buy. Figure since they’re going to know where we are anyhow, we might as well hide in plain sight. They’re going to have to work a lot harder to try and steal your ass on Main Street.”

“Okay,” I say in a small voice again.

“You sure you don’t know why Freeze is so hot for you? You great with pony play or something?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Never mind. I’m being a jackass. This shit’s not making sense and I’m getting riled trying to figure it out.” He rakes a hand through his short hair and blows out a heavy breath. “Fuck. Let’s go.”

I pack my things quickly, tuck my gun back into my belt, and try to remain calm while Daniel texts something into his burner. When I’m ready, I nod at him and we leave the room behind. As soon as we get back out into the streets, Daniel hails a cab and puts an arm around my shoulders, like we’re a couple. I don’t shrug him off even though I’m feeling so weird right now. I don’t want to be touched, not at the moment, but I don’t tell Daniel to take his hands off of me.

We get in the cab. Daniel tells the driver an address in Portuguese and then puts his arm over my shoulders again. “Can’t believe we’re finally Mr. and Mrs. Parker,” he says in that drawling fake Texas accent I’m starting to learn is his “let’s pretend” voice.

“That’s right, baby,” I say quickly and press a kiss to his cheek, even though my voice sounds a bit more wobbly than I’d like.

I tune out as Daniel keeps up a steady stream of chatter with both me and the cab driver. He’s playing the role of a young newlywed tourist with great aplomb, occasionally giving me affectionate little touches that keep reminding me of the surprise kiss I reacted so badly to a short time ago. I do my part to keep up the pretense, but I’m sure it’s clear to both Daniel and the cabbie that I’m miles away mentally.

We get to the hotel, check in, and head up to our room—all the while Daniel is yakking in my ear about sightseeing tours and the nude beaches of Brazil, hand at my waist. It rests close to my gun, a reminder that despite the smiling people and pristine appearance of this hotel, we’re no safer than we were before.

The room is gorgeous, though. It has a king-size bed with fresh linens, a stack of fluffy towels waiting on the corner of the bed, and a lovely view of the city from the balcony. The bathroom’s bigger than my old apartment.

As we enter the room, Daniel locks and chains the door behind us, moves a dresser in front of the door, and then pulls the curtains closed. Then, he turns to look at me.

“So,” he says. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Daniel

REGAN TURNS AWAY , HER FACE flushing with . . . embarrassment? Shame? I’m not sure. She doesn’t need to feel either. I’m damn confused. “Sorry,” she mumbles.