Read Online Last Hit (Hitman) by Jessica Clare, Jen Frederick - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Clare, Jen Frederick
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want."
Everything? I want all the pretty things in the store. I finger a pair of lacy, pink garter belts that match the bra and panties I’ve selected. "I’m not sure it’s appropriate for him to be buying me this stuff."
"Are you kidding?" the saleswoman asks with a laugh. "Guys come in here and do this for their girlfriends all the time."
I’m not Nick’s girlfriend, and I’m still not entirely sure it’s right, but I’m weakening at the sight of all the pretty things around me. As if sensing my hesitation, the woman puts the garter belts in the pile.
And I don’t tell her no.
I move to the next rack. It has a yellow, floral pattern. It’s sweet and pretty, and it makes me happy to see it. When I pause over it, the woman adds the bra and matching panties to my stack. I wonder if Nick told her to be aggressive.
By the time I say “enough," her arms are full of colorful, beautiful undergarments in a rainbow of colors and soft, pleasing fabrics. There is nothing plain or ordinary—or even serviceable-looking—in the stack. They are all soft, sultry things.
And even though I shouldn’t let a man buy them for me, I’m giddy at the thought of owning them.
The saleswoman is having fun dressing me. She takes me to some of the racks at the front of the store after we’ve picked out piles of lingerie, and she adds sweaters and skirts and a few blouses to my overflowing arms. When I protest, she looks over at Nick, who nods approval, and she then takes me to the jeans counter, where we go through the same routine. Protest, look to Nick, pile onto my arms.
When we head to the counter, I hesitate. "It’s too much."
"
Nyet,
it is not," Nick says. "You deserve beautiful things." And his hand touches my back and rubs my shoulder blades.
I like that touch. I want more, but I don’t ask for more. I glance around as the saleswoman rings us up. There is a couple nearby, and they’re holding hands as the woman browses through a rack. I look at their clasped hands with a bit of envy. Would Nick hold my hand like that if I asked him to?
The total the woman calls out startles me. It is more money than I brought with me during my escape. "No," I protest, but Nick simply pulls out his wallet, and I watch as those tattooed fingers unfold several hundred-dollar bills. I spy more of them tucked into the billfold.
I’m shocked. He’s not poor.
I don’t know why I feel so momentarily betrayed by this information, but I am. I feel like Nick has lied to me. Our building is old, run down. Why is he living there if he casually carries around so much money? I want to ask him, but it seems rude.
Instead of feeling scandalous that I let this exciting, strange man buy me panties, I feel…like a charity case. It’s no longer fun and a daring whim. Now I’m just sad.
Does he do this for everyone? Find women in need and purchase them things? He might. He has a hard exterior, but I sense a kind, lonely heart underneath. I thought he and I had our poverty in common.
Seeing all that money makes me realize he is nothing like me, and I feel smaller.
The woman stuffs the receipt in the bag, and I take the handles before Nick can. I’ll keep that receipt and return all the pretty things, and then I’ll give the money back to Nick. Based on Nick’s behavior in the store, it’s either throw a big argument now or simply allow him to think that he’s getting his way and come back another time. I’ve decided.
It’s silly because now that I know he’s not poor like me, I feel alone all over again.
I bend my head as we leave the store, staring at the shiny marble flooring of the mall. Nick’s hand is on my shoulders, guiding me. A friendly hand.
Nothing more.
I’m so stupid. Here I am, caught up in fantasies and daydreams, thinking this man might like me when he is simply a rich man who is being polite.
We walk a few steps outside of the store, and Nick halts. I barely notice until his hands are on my shoulders, and he’s
Everything? I want all the pretty things in the store. I finger a pair of lacy, pink garter belts that match the bra and panties I’ve selected. "I’m not sure it’s appropriate for him to be buying me this stuff."
"Are you kidding?" the saleswoman asks with a laugh. "Guys come in here and do this for their girlfriends all the time."
I’m not Nick’s girlfriend, and I’m still not entirely sure it’s right, but I’m weakening at the sight of all the pretty things around me. As if sensing my hesitation, the woman puts the garter belts in the pile.
And I don’t tell her no.
I move to the next rack. It has a yellow, floral pattern. It’s sweet and pretty, and it makes me happy to see it. When I pause over it, the woman adds the bra and matching panties to my stack. I wonder if Nick told her to be aggressive.
By the time I say “enough," her arms are full of colorful, beautiful undergarments in a rainbow of colors and soft, pleasing fabrics. There is nothing plain or ordinary—or even serviceable-looking—in the stack. They are all soft, sultry things.
And even though I shouldn’t let a man buy them for me, I’m giddy at the thought of owning them.
The saleswoman is having fun dressing me. She takes me to some of the racks at the front of the store after we’ve picked out piles of lingerie, and she adds sweaters and skirts and a few blouses to my overflowing arms. When I protest, she looks over at Nick, who nods approval, and she then takes me to the jeans counter, where we go through the same routine. Protest, look to Nick, pile onto my arms.
When we head to the counter, I hesitate. "It’s too much."
"
Nyet,
it is not," Nick says. "You deserve beautiful things." And his hand touches my back and rubs my shoulder blades.
I like that touch. I want more, but I don’t ask for more. I glance around as the saleswoman rings us up. There is a couple nearby, and they’re holding hands as the woman browses through a rack. I look at their clasped hands with a bit of envy. Would Nick hold my hand like that if I asked him to?
The total the woman calls out startles me. It is more money than I brought with me during my escape. "No," I protest, but Nick simply pulls out his wallet, and I watch as those tattooed fingers unfold several hundred-dollar bills. I spy more of them tucked into the billfold.
I’m shocked. He’s not poor.
I don’t know why I feel so momentarily betrayed by this information, but I am. I feel like Nick has lied to me. Our building is old, run down. Why is he living there if he casually carries around so much money? I want to ask him, but it seems rude.
Instead of feeling scandalous that I let this exciting, strange man buy me panties, I feel…like a charity case. It’s no longer fun and a daring whim. Now I’m just sad.
Does he do this for everyone? Find women in need and purchase them things? He might. He has a hard exterior, but I sense a kind, lonely heart underneath. I thought he and I had our poverty in common.
Seeing all that money makes me realize he is nothing like me, and I feel smaller.
The woman stuffs the receipt in the bag, and I take the handles before Nick can. I’ll keep that receipt and return all the pretty things, and then I’ll give the money back to Nick. Based on Nick’s behavior in the store, it’s either throw a big argument now or simply allow him to think that he’s getting his way and come back another time. I’ve decided.
It’s silly because now that I know he’s not poor like me, I feel alone all over again.
I bend my head as we leave the store, staring at the shiny marble flooring of the mall. Nick’s hand is on my shoulders, guiding me. A friendly hand.
Nothing more.
I’m so stupid. Here I am, caught up in fantasies and daydreams, thinking this man might like me when he is simply a rich man who is being polite.
We walk a few steps outside of the store, and Nick halts. I barely notice until his hands are on my shoulders, and he’s
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