Chance
I’ve never had a goddamn soft spot, never since I was a kid, and yet as I carry the girl from the warehouse I find myself glad I didn’t kill her. I know it would’ve been for the best, but I can’t keep goin’ over and over that in my head. I’ve made my decision. I’m pissed, though, as I carry her through the autumn cold to my car, that tonight’s gone so fuckin’ terribly. It was meant to be a routine job: get in, fuck up some gangbangers, get some info on Julian, get out. I think about callin’ the boss, but decide against it. If he wants me, he’ll contact me. It won’t be hard to find me, not where I’m going.
I put Becky in the backseat, laying her down flat and covering her with a blanket I sometimes use when I working on the underside of the car. It’s oil-stained and reeks, but it’s all I’ve got so it’ll have to do. I cover her and go to the front seat, start the car, and cruise through Brooklyn toward a mob-owned motel that runs around the clock as a safe house for the Family. I don’t hear sirens, which is a good sign, but that don’t mean sirens won’t come screaming down when I’m out of hearing range. The girl stirs a few times in the back, mumbling and whispering in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake. The city is alive, people hanging about on the street, drinkin’ from brown paper bags and shouting and hollering.
After around twenty minutes of cruising, I reach the motel, which is a squat, ugly place with a neon sign which should spell out The Restful Inn but which spells out The Resin instead. I pull up to the toll-booth-type entrance, where a security guard sits readin’ a porno mag. A gruff man, one I vaguely recognize, a Family man with a teardrop tattoo under his eye. “Passcode?” the man says.
“Rat bait,” I mutter. “’Cause that’s all some of these bastards are. Fucks.” I recite all this careful, making sure I don’t miss a word. The gruff man nods—gruffly—and then opens the gate.
I park the car around the back, out of sight, and go and collect my key. Returning, part of me hopes that the girl would’ve woken and decided to run. It’s a fuckin’ mess. And yet, I’ve gotta admit, when I see that she’s still there, part of me is glad. It’s a confusion of purpose that doesn’t usually happen to me. I swallow, forcing down whatever it is, and carry the girl to the motel room. She wriggles in my grip, nuzzling into my chest, but she doesn’t wake up. The motel room is surprisingly okay, with heating, an en-suite shower, a flat-screen TV, but there’s only a single bed. I think about going back and askin’ for another, but that’d mean explaining about the girl, and I don’t reckon I’ve got the energy for that right now.
I drop her onto the bed and lock the door behind me. I keep expecting for sirens to surge all around the motel room, for boys in blue wearing masks and bulletproof vests to bash through the door shoving guns in my face. But it doesn’t happen. I’m just bein’ paranoid, which it’s always better to be in this life. DNA, DNA, DNA…it echoes around my goddamn head…Prints, prints, prints…Should’a worn gloves all the time, fuckin’ stupid mistake. I sit on the edge of the bed, the girl moaning and rolling over behind me, massaging my temples and tryin’ to let the events of tonight drift away. There ain’t shit I can do about it now apart from rest up and be ready for the next fight. I never usually have a problem with that. Usually, I can just distance myself from whatever shit went down and forget all about it, just like flipping a switch for lights out, but tonight it’s damn hard. I glance at the clock and see that it’s eleven o’clock. Glance again and see half an hour has gone by with me just sittin’ here thinkin’ about how fucked I might be.
I go into the shower, blast myself with water washing away the blood and the grit, and then take a T-shirt and shorts from the dresser in the corner. It’s stocked full of men’s and women’s clothes in all sizes, one of the benefits of a mob-owned safe house where the visitors’ clothes are more often than not covered in blood. By the time I’ve changed, Becky is a bit more awake, but she’s still lolling her head. She seems drunk. I reckon it’s tiredness and shock and maybe whatever drugs they gave her all rolled into one. She sure did seem fuckin’ freaked by all those dead bodies, which shocked me for a second. I’ve been lookin’ at dead bodies so long they’re just like a piece of furniture to me, but most folks ain’t like that. Most folks aren’t soulless.
“I’m dreaming,” Becky tells me, lying on her back, eyelids flitting open and closed. “All of this is a dream.”
“We need to get you cleaned up,” I say, standing over her.
I’ve been tryin’ to distract myself from the warehouse all night, but nothin’ does it like lookin’ down at this sweet piece of ass. Goddamn. Small, pert breasts, the straps of her pink bra visible where her dress is torn, long, skinny, well-defined legs, flat belly, pale skin, cute elfin face with a button nose. Goddamn, but it’s making me horny just lookin’ at her. I can see why Julian wanted her now. Who wouldn’t want this sweet piece?
I reach down and start undressing her, partly ’cause I need to since there’s blood all over her, even under her clothes where it’s seeped through, and partly ’cause I wanna see those pert tits and get a look at her cunt. She lies there, giggling, as I strip the clothes off her. “You’re a bad boy,” she whispers, but she’s not even close to be fully awake. I remove her dress, and then pull her underwear down, which is flecked with blood, and then remove her bra by flipping her over. When she’s naked, I help her to her feet and lead her into the shower. Her breasts are so sweet and fresh that they don’t sag even one bit, nipples even paler than her skin, and her cunt is shaved and cute, with the lips tucked neatly away.
“You’re covered in blood,” I tell her, gettin’ the shower running. She’s twisting here and there in my grip, but she manages to stay standing. Once the water’s heated up enough, I help her into the shower and blast her with the water.
“Ooh!” she squeals, waking up a little more, but her eyes still closed most of the time. Blood swirls down the drain, her skin washing clean, turning her back into a sweet, young girl. But girl…she was old enough to get given away to pay off some debts, and she’s sweet to look at. The kind of girl whores wish they could look like, and spend plenty of years trying to pretend they are. Lookin’ at her naked, tight body is gettin’ me damned hard anyway, so I lean forward, take the shower gel, and get my hands lathered up. “Ah, Chance…”
I rub my hands over her breasts, rubbin’ the shower gel in. Her breasts are fuckin’ fine to the touch, fleshy and juicy and pert as fuck. I keep rubbin’ ’em, watching as her mouth makes a cute O. Don’t know if she’s makin’ that face at what I’m doin’ or somethin’ she’s dreamin’ about, and truth be told, I don’t give a damn. I push her tits together, and then rub the gel over the rest of her body, paying special attention to her ass. I lean her forward a little, so her ass sticks out. It’s a fine ass, an ass made for spankin’, the sort of ass I could imagine drilling into as she moans like she’s bought and paid for. Once I’ve covered her, I turn her back around—she mumbles, but follows my movements—and then I reach down and cup her cunt. She makes another moanin’ sound at this, and even rocks in my grasp a little, pressing her clit into my hand. I rub it for a few minutes, likin’ the way it makes her arch her back and gasp, but mostly just likin’ how tight and fresh it feels, a proper tight cunt. I think what’d be like to thrust into a cunt like that.
Finally, I take my hands away and let the shower wash the lather away. When the last of the blood is gone, I help her from the shower.
“You’re naughty,” she murmurs. “That…ooh…you’re bad.”
I towel her off, makin’ her giggle some more when I rub her tits and her ass, and then take her into the bedroom. She’s conscious, but still sleepy, still lolling in my arms. I find a baggy T-shirt and some sweatpants for her, pull ’em on, and then sit her on the edge of the bed. Maybe the gentlemanly thing to do would be to give the woman the bed, but when you live the hitman’s life, you’ve always gotta be thinkin’ of the practical thing, not the gentlemanly thing. And the practical thing here is that I need the rest that comes with the bed. If someone bashes through that door, I’ve gotta be as well-rested as I can so I can defend us. If there’s killin’ to be done in the morning, I don’t wanna be all achy and shit from the floor. So I go to the drawers and pull out all the blankets, making her a pallet on the floor, and then toss a pillow from the bed down there.
I help her to it, lay her down, and then place her head on the pillow. All through this, she moves with sleepy motion, but she keeps murmuring nonsense at me.
When she’s settled, I go to the window, take my pistol, and sit on the sill glancing out of the curtains. I’ve never been one for protecting a woman. I usually meet some whore, fuck her until I’m drained, and then discard her before even learning her name. But with Becky, I don’t know, it’s like I wanna do both. Fuck her brains out like a whore and protect her. I don’t fuckin’ know why. Maybe it’s just thinkin’ of her in that warehouse with those crazy fucks. Maybe it’s ’cause I’ve never had to kill a woman. The woman thing is a funny one. I never gave it any thought before tonight, never made any special big deal about it, but now I think on it, I must’ve always had somethin’ in me that was against the idea. There’s been a couple’a times when one of my marks’ whores saw me clip him, and by rights I should’ve killed her, and yet all I did was say some scary shit and leave, reckoning she wouldn’t say a word. I never told any of the Family about it, so I must’ve known it was wrong.
Is there somethin’ in this cold dead black place I used to call a heart? Is there really somethin’ left in there? Or is just that she’s got a cute face, a cute ass, cute tits and a cute cunt? I really have no goddamn idea.
When it’s two o’clock in the morning and no one’s attacked us, I take the bed, glad I made her sleep on the floor.
I need the rest.